Hey, Trump, I hope you have the shittiest birthday ever. Sincerely, everyone. 

Dear Universe, Please let the skies open up this June 14th, Trump’s birthday, and unleash a biblical deluge upon Washington, D.C., washing away at least some of the indignity this country is about to endure while listening to him bloviate his usual Bunker Boy bullshit.

Happy Birthday to everyone celebrating on June 14. Except for Trump. He can go fuck himself.

Today for a few brief moments, the leaning tower of feces lost eighteen letters, and America is just a little bit better for it.

In a world full of Donald Trumps, men who confuse cruelty for strength, ignorance for confidence, and self-promotion for leadership, be a Barack Obama: thoughtful where others are reckless, informed where others are uninformed, and guided by something greater than the size of his own ego.

The greatest boos. Perhaps the best boos in the history of boos. People are saying nobody has ever been booed more magnificently. Strong men came up to me, tears in their eyes, and said, “Sir, those are the most incredible boos we’ve ever heard.The acoustics were tremendous. Michelin-rated boos.

I’m not disturbed by Trump falling asleep. I’m disturbed that he keeps waking up.

The toughest thing about Donald Trump is the industrial-strength shellac holding together the world’s most fragile ego.

Kristen Welker somehow managed to translate seven minutes of Trumpian word salad into one simple question: “Sir, what the fuck are you talking about?” The fact that she did it with professionalism, patience, and a straight face may be Pulitzer-worthy all by itself.