By the sainted left buttock of St. Wilgefortis… Hark! The mighty Trump, in regal raiment and thunderous boots, doth prepare to alight at Fort McHenry—nay, not for war, but for a *short drive* to the Army-Navy Game! All the peasantry cry: “Who dost thou champion? Army? Navy?” To which he doth reply, with a smirk and a flourish— “Thou must be jesting, good folk, if thou thinkest I’d betray my secret!” *(He adjusts his ceremonial quill of self-importance, as the heavens rumble.)* And the chamberpot of public discourse, filled with nothing, overflows.