After watching his Ohio pep rally on Thursday, I could not help but ponder the absence of physical and mental well-being of our current president-elect and the reflection of that decrepitude in every member of his flock.

By Andrew J. Pridgen

Donald J. Trump is showing signs, many, that he has a combination of the following: Some serious learning and/or mental disorders ranging from dyslexia to adult-onset ADD, to occupying Patrick Bateman-esque regions of the psychopath/sociopath spectrum. There are clear indicators of early onset Alzheimer’s and dementia as well as a brazen showcasing of the side effects full-blown syphilis. Throw in symptoms of high blood pressure, obesity, type 2 diabetes and whatever kind of thrombosis that changes your face to the color of a blood orange. All that plus, um, bone spurs, and there you have it, one broken and pitiable, if not fragile creature chosen by an angry, doom-seeking, truth-denying, sour-faced mob to take on the most challenging job in the world…starting at age 70.

Good luck, I say, to the newly minted leader of Fictionistan

The actual state of Donald J. Trump’s physical and mental health remains, like Kim Jong-un’s sexuality or his own tax returns, a carefully guarded secret. And surely, were we to find out the extent of his ailments, it would be so alarming, so disqualifying that we would simply pause to take pity on the man before calling up the vet and digging the hole in the back yard.

To this point, all modern-era presidents past have been physically active. Kennedy and basically every sport that required deck shoes, Jimmy Carter on the farm and Ronnie Reagan and his horses. Barack and his smoke breaks between pick-up hoops. Bill Clinton moving those man parts in (or out) of his jogging suit between Big Mac bites. Hell, George H.W. Bush played a mean first base and his son W cheered ‘em on at Yale.

Donnie Darko was alleged to wrestle and play football in prep school, but, again the bone spurs (in which foot, we don’t know) that disqualified him from military service perhaps were also the reason he’s morphed into the human version of that hard thing in your hamburger patty. Four decades in the spotlight and the only forms of physical activity associated with Trump are pussy grabbing, philandering, stiffing, race baiting and …most recently, paying out large sums for defrauding.

One can only imagine those late-night flare-ups of high-end hooker herpes are responsible for his twitter spasms.

I’ve written before about the depleted health of the average American, especially the demographic that voted for him: Aging, white and angry. And how much it must hurt for them to move their wrist to simply change the channel when someone of color comes on and speaks eloquently.

Think I’m lying about sedentary America and its inability to move its body, go dance in a field, go run through the forest, go swim through the ocean? Watch TV between 8 and 10 p.m. on any given weeknight and you will see every commercial that’s not for a car or a credit card is for medication. Medications for your medication. Medications that help medicate you against the medication you took for your medication.

Or, better yet, go to your local 5k fun run this weekend and at the start get on the bullhorn and ask everyone who voted for Trump to raise his or her hand.

Not a one.

The Ohio rally Thursday was yet another cabal of double-clapping (once with the hands, a second time with the jiggling arm fat) liquified humans. Skin stretched to bear-rug sized sheaths that would make Buffalo Bill want to move furniture into his van with 99 percent of the crowd; that jaundiced and veiny coating covering the engorged and kinda functioning organs which continue to labor as they pump platelets and white and red cells like tiny pieces of styrofoam moving through an ant farm.

Miserable faces, a warehouse full of pre-corpses so full of Arby’s meats, soda juice and cheese-stuffed crust that one can’t help but think, “And these are the people who voted against universal healthcare?”

It’s surprising to me Donald J. Trump, owner of beauty pageants, molester of all things young and fertile, could stand looking out at these throngs of the battered (in a waffle or pancake sense), self-defeated kitty litter clumps of humanity.

His vision, along with everything else, must be not so good, because the Trump I know wouldn’t suffer having to look out at these human t-shirt stains for 18 months, much less feel their decay-from-the-inside halitosis roaring directly back at him.

Remarkably, if you look closely enough, you can see the effects of his physical and mental demise in the faces of his children. By now he should have passed the torch. The old man has lost it, kaput. It’s against the natural order of things. He should be enjoying the spoils, a victory lap. Go molest the cart girl at the turn of the Trump National Golf Club and leave the business, the family name, to us.

You know they say it in private conversation. What has he done? What the fuck is he doing? How long can we stand by this and paste on the smile while he runs himself, our investments, and this country into the ground. How long? How long? How long?

But he refused to walk away ahead and now he’s hell bent on burning it down. His legacy now trampling over theirs. It may work out in the short term, running the table privatizing government for his and their own personal gain, but nothing this corrupt is sustainable. He will eventually be their undoing and their untimely demise. The children will have to pay, and pay dearly, for the sins of the father.

As for those who voted for him, 60 million strong, a hoard of monosyllabic, troglodyte consumers bloated beyond all recognition; the scourge of the underbelly, with evil in their hearts and revenge—for what, we don’t know—on their minds who have rejected fact, logic and concern for their fellow man in favor of watching their own corpulent image, a melting candle of a fellow, bark and wag and puke up this spew, this vomit, this aggressive self-flagellating concern for nobody and nothing—least of all himself—will be the ones to blame for the beginning of the end of what this country was, everything they thought they were fighting for, hocked up and spat back in their face. Their final fuck you will be a final fuck you right back to them.

…And it could have all been prevented with a nightly walk around the block after dinner.

Andrew J. Pridgen is the author ofBurgundy Upholstery Skywhich you should purchase for yourself and a friend this holiday season.