Trump derangement syndrome denial

Word got back to me – probably via an encrypted Telegram channel run by a guy in a tracksuit who calls himself “Patriot1776” – that some die-hard MAGA trooper (Russian IP address, red hat filter, the works) has diagnosed me with the terminal illness known as Trump Derangement Syndrome. Diagnosis criteria? One single article where I dared to type the words “negative” and “Trump” in the same sentence. Apparently that’s enough to earn me a lifetime membership in the TDS Club, complete with complimentary tinfoil hat and a subscription to the MeidasTouch Network.

Let me be crystal clear, Your Honour: I do not have Trump Derangement Syndrome.

The idea of letting Donald J. Trump occupy even a single neuron 24/7 is genuinely nauseating. I’m talking full-body dry-heave levels of revulsion. Here’s what’s included in an average day, for the record:

Upon waking up

Eyes barely cracked open, fumbling for the alarm like it’s a live grenade. Brain’s sole mission: Calculate the exact coffee-to-water ratio to avoid a morning apocalypse. No spare cycles for golf swing analyses or “perfect phone call” reenactments.

Gardening

Knee-deep in dirt, wrestling with weeds that have more tenacity than a bad habit. Pondering life’s mysteries, like why tomatoes insist on playing hard to get. Absolutely zero headspace for rally chants or border wall blueprints – unless the possums start building one.

Heading to the shops (because I forgot to get milk yesterday)

Dodging shopping carts like it’s a demolition derby, laser-focused on the eternal quest for non-soggy cereal. Internal monologue: “Aisle 7 or bust?” Not a whisper of tax cut tirades or election maths that defies basic arithmetic.

Munching a sandwich

Deep in existential debate: “Has this ham expired, or is it just spiritually dead?” No room for tariff soliloquies or crowd-size geometry.

Brushing my teeth

Focused entirely on not gagging on toothpaste. Zero bandwidth for golden comb-overs or “big beautiful wall” reruns.

Watching TV

Fully committed to screaming at fictional characters in whatever garbage I’m bingeing. The only time Trump enters the frame is when I accidentally land on Fox News and immediately yeet the remote across the room like it’s cursed.

Being carried to bed (because I fell asleep watching TV)

Limply draped over a shoulder like a sack of reluctant potatoes, half-dreaming about zero-gravity naps. The only “caravan” on my mind is the one hauling my sorry carcass upstairs – no room for midnight tweets or “fake news” fever dreams.

Call it denial if you must. I call it a healthy, functioning prefrontal cortex with excellent taste in distractions. If that’s deranged, then sign me up for the lifetime membership.

But ohhh, the plot thickens.

Just when I thought the internet had peaked in stupidity, some late-to-the-party genius slid into the comments with the ultimate burn: “Trump is living rent-free in your head.”

I actually paused. Not because it hurt – because I realised I’d been an idiot landlord.

Here I am, letting the 45th/47th President of the United States squat in my cranium like it’s a foreclosed AirBnB in Surfers Paradise. No lease, no deposit, no first-and-last. He’s just… there. Tracking gold-plated footprints across my grey matter, leaving Diet Coke cans on the frontal lobe, and probably redecorating the temporal lobes in early-2000s Mar-a-Lago chic.

So yeah, I’m issuing an eviction notice, retroactive to 2015.

Dear Donald,

You’ve overstayed your welcome. The rent? Astronomical. We’re talking compound interest on every “covfefe,” every “many people are saying,” every Sharpie-altered hurricane map. I’m charging back-pay for the emotional utilities you’ve drained: outrage, eye-roll fatigue, second-hand embarrassment. Plus late fees. Plus a cleaning deposit – because nobody wants to deal with the residue of that much hairspray and bravado.

And don’t even think about appealing to the Supreme Court. I’ve got the lease agreement right here: it’s called “basic human sanity,” and your signature is conspicuously absent.

So pack up your red ties, your Diet Coke stash, and that invisible crowd you keep waving at. Time to vacate the premises. If you’re still here by next tweetstorm, I’m calling the brain police – and trust me, they’ve got a warrant for “trespassing with intent to meme.”

No hard feelings. Well… maybe a few. But mostly just send the cheque. Cash app accepted. Bitcoin too. Hell, I’ll even take Truth Social stock if it ever becomes worth more than a participation trophy.

In the meantime, I’ll be over here – renting out the newly vacated space to saner tenants. Like thoughts about lunch. Or actual news. Or literally anything that doesn’t involve the phrase “tremendous” used 47 times in one paragraph.

Your move, squatter-in-chief.

Keep Independent Journalism Alive – Support The AIMN

Dear Reader,

Since 2013, The Australian Independent Media Network has been a fearless voice for truth, giving public interest journalists a platform to hold power to account. From expert analysis on national and global events to uncovering issues that matter to you, we’re here because of your support.

Running an independent site isn’t cheap, and rising costs mean we need you now more than ever. Your donation – big or small – keeps our servers humming, our writers digging, and our stories free for all.

Join our community of truth-seekers. Donate via PayPal or credit card via the button below, or bank transfer [BSB: 062500; A/c no: 10495969] and help us keep shining a light.

With gratitude, The AIMN Team