Donald Trump Sexiest Love Triangle

Chapter 3: Donald's Dramatic Desecration

Domald breathed in the sweet air of Hollywood. "An important place for an imprudent man," Donald said, not really grasping the full, glistening girth of his words. He stepped down from his living billionaire jet plane.
The jet plane giggled with delight. "I juss absolutely love the way you grasp my rail with those tiny hamster handss," it said in a nasal voice.
Doanld shot him a fierce look with his faded periwinkle slits. "No, Keith. Not this time. You remember what happened last time... YUGE crash. We singlehandledly broke the internet." Donsla unexpectedly shuddered, falling onto Keith's metal railing and accidentally gripping it for support. A sweat broke out on his temples... Keith was sweating as well. "Wh—without net nutellaty, I would have never been put in dose cringe compilations, and Hillary would have one for sure!"
"You just don'twant me to be internet famous! you want all the famine to yourself," Keith crued. A big oily tear slicked down his face, and its contact with the ground caused it to spray all over Donald's special Seduction suit.
"Dammit, KEITH!" Donald roared. He gave him a shove, and because he had no arms, Keith teetered back.
"W, WOAH!" Keith wobbled helplessly in the air. on the ground.
Domald gave a spiteful smile. Raising a brow, raising a stubby finger, "Oops," he held, and flicked the titanium being's buffed body. Keith's face contorted into a depsperate look of distress, and as he tumbled backward he let out a resounding cry of pain. The oOf! reverberated in Donald's ears.
As his men rushed forward, Donald coldheartedly said to them, "Replace him immeditaely."
This was Donald's first sickly cough, and like a vexatious young cherub, the universe would provide his panacea with due force soon enough.
In layman's terms, Donald Duck is a bhad bhabie, and the ooniverse is gonna kick is butt. :P

••••••¥¥£€€€•••••££¥¥€£€¥•••••£€¥

Mayro was in front of the mirror...once again. He had a bottle of Strawbarry Bee Benson beer in his right hand, and in the left, a plaided kilt. He hummed in contemplations.
"Hmmmm. Do I want to show the booty, or the biceps? He gazed lovingly at a baby blue muscle shirt with a graphic lettering "Babycakes" on the front. He rested a finger on his mouth salaciously as he imagined the shirt placed over his toned torso on his own reflection. As this auto-admiration transpired, the foxy madras miniskirt plummeted to the floor. Once his eyes met the fallen garment, Mario's mouth formed into a horrified O. Mairo just couldn't help himself...he had a surplus of self-love which interfered with every sprawling, sparkling inch of his everyday existence.
"NOOOooOoOO!" he cried. Dropping his other objects in hand, his knees buckled like the gold-encrusted Britney Spears belt he whore. "I'm so sorry, my cherished cloth of apparel! I didn't count on this fate," he wailed. Clutching the checkered fabric to his heart, he wept woefully. Regardless of his heart-wrenching feelings, the skirt could not be salvaged—rules were rules. Once a belonging of his touched the floor, Mario could never been seen in public with it again. This was a severe regulation, but Mario couldn't risk his reputation as the Sexiest Man Olive. This was especially troubling with shoes. Mario lived a painful existence. His piercong brown orbs watering, Mario punched out a Twat with his shaking thumbs: "no...NO....this can't be japping to me... tell...JT...I...always...sevretly....loved...him.. #tgif #lacolor @j"—his iMoan tumbled to the floor as his lumbering buffbody leaned forward, and with a thunderous boom, the post was released on Tweiiter... tagging Donald J. Trump.
@:&:&;@:/&/&/$:&:/@/&/&/@/&/&/
"Twee-twoo!" Dadolf's phone sang. Unfootunately, Donkd couldn't reach his iTampon, ad he was receiving a Minions mani-pedi from a nice North Korean woman at the moment.
"BUTTERS!!!" Dingo Trump bellowed, "RETRIEVE MY TANTRUM DEVICE!"
"Yuh, yes sir," his gleaming new butler responding, running up and unlocking the locks creen's password, ß!g ß00+y correctly on the very first try. Leo Stoch was just perfect like that. He was the perfect little boy, for a perfect little man. "Ah! Um, Presidnet Gorgeous Gallant Gentleman? Mario posted a new Beet," Butts notified him.
"WHAT-WHAT-WHAAAAT?" Donald squealed in the utmost excitement. Butters turned the phone towards him to see, and Oswald drank in every word with his intelligent little mole-rat eyes. "He's tagged #lacolor! so he MUST be in Lalaland! OF COURSE! How did I not see this before???" In one fell swoop, Donald took at look at his glittery yellow nails, spat on them for that special extra sheen (to the koren women's dismay), rose up with the infinite power of his thundering thighs, determined to catch his Snuggle Bun at any cost. "BUTTMAN! TO THE BRATMOBILE!—WE're GOING TO LAS VEGAS!"
And on this fateful day, sparked a special feeling inside Donald, one of renewed self-confidence—and maybe another year of his Maxim subscription—for him to discover hos one and only True Love. He knew this, because through the tears of joy getting caught in the wind coming through the half-full tinted window, taking flight in the amorous breeze, Dogald saw that Mario Lopez Jr. had tagged him in a Twerk, had finally paid attention to him.

And with That, the Adventur Begins...........