All the President’s Feet
Not Looking Good!
I have spent months thinking about President Donald Trump’s feet. These are not words I ever wanted to type, but I suspect his tootsies are the pivot on which history turns. He looks unwell—I hope Jake Tapper is authoring a sequel to his book “Original Sin: President Biden’s Decline, Its Cover-Up, and His Disastrous Choice to Run Again.” All Labor Day weekend, people Googled “Is Trump dead?” because after weeks of looking like shit, he stopped making public appearances, the flag outside the White House was lowered to half-mast, and Truth Social crashed. A website even emerged: http://www.istrumpdead.com.
The people wanted to know!
Mr. Trump’s ankles—nay, cankles!—swell through his compression socks. It is impossible not to notice. Even if you do not zoom in on photographs of politicians’ socks, some journalists do so intrepidly. When the president’s hand is not badly painted with orange or white concealer, it is purple and black with bruises. His raccoon eyes are slits, less than half-open more than half the time. His penguin-like gait, unsteady and drifting, calls for a handrail.
He mumbles, rambles, confabulates, mistakes the television for reality, and falls asleep at inappropriate times and places, including during the anticlimactic “Grand Military Parade” he demanded for his birthday.
On February 24, 2025, photos from a meeting with France’s President Emmanuel Macron showed an ugly discoloration stretched across the back of Mr. Trump’s right hand. When asked for an explanation, White House Press bimbo Karoline Leavitt said the orange clown “has bruises on his hand because he’s constantly working and shaking hands all day, every day.”
A bullshit non-answer. “Shut up and accept he’s great!” That made me more suspicious when I was otherwise inclined to extend grace—I typically believe a man’s body is his own business, and it would be distasteful to scrutinize his every human frailty if their consequences were not inflicted on everyone I love.
In April 2025, the White House released the “results” of the president’s “annual physical” from physician Captain Sean Barbabella. It was weirdly effusive and listed nothing of substance:
“President Trump remains in excellent health, exhibiting robust cardiac, pulmonary, neurological, and general physical function. His active lifestyle continues to contribute significantly to his well-being. President Trump’s days include participation in multiple meetings, public appearances, press availability, and frequent victories in golf events. President Trump exhibits excellent cognitive and physical health and is fully fit to execute the duties of the Commander-in-Chief and Head of State.”
The October 2025 report, which was also described as an “annual physical,” shed no light either. It did not mention his CVI, bruising, or swelling ankles, and instead said his “comprehensive laboratory studies” were “exceptional,” and that his “cardiac age” was 14 years younger than his physical age. The summary: Strong cardiovascular, pulmonary, neurological, and physical performance. While the October release did not mention an MRI, Mr. Trump has since come forward to say he had one (without explaining why) and that it was “perfect.” He also bragged about an “intelligence test” he was administered, though what he described was a “very tough” dementia test. Why has nobody explained to him that this is an embarrassing thing to tell the public?
Mr. Trump’s “bills of health” have historically been tailored to his vanity. In 2016, Mr. Trump’s doctor, the late Harold Bornstein, released a statement (dictated to him) that Mr. Trump was “the healthiest individual ever elected to the presidency.” In early 2017, Mr. Bornstein had his practice raided, ransacked, and “raped,” to ensure no copies of Mr. Trump’s medical records were loose in the world. The “breach” that prompted this was an “unauthorized disclosure” that Mr. Trump was prescribed the hair-growth medication Propecia.
Mr. Trump’s first-term White House physician, Dr. Ronny “Candyman” Jackson, praised the president’s “incredible genes” and suggested that he “might live to be 200 years old.” He was rewarded with nomination as Secretary of Veterans Affairs, then withdrew after an NPR investigation revealed he liberally dispensed narcotics like a vending machine, and later endorsed by Mr. Trump for the congressional seat he now occupies as a total sycophant.
The use of superlatives in these memoranda—“healthiest individual ever elected!” “liv[ing] to be 200 years old!”—necessitates reading them as political narratives, not objective assessments. So, I shall politicize them. These statements are not, and cannot be, literally true. They are unscientific, hyperbolic claims meant to project an image of extraterrestrial vitality and vigor.
On July 17, 2025, Ms. Leavitt announced Mr. Trump had “chronic venous insufficiency” (CVI), “normal cardiac structure and function,” no “deep vein thrombosis or arterial disease,” and “[n]o signs of heart failure, renal impairment, or systemic illness.” She claimed again that the hand bruising was “soft tissue irritation from frequent handshaking and the use of aspirin.”
The April report stated there was “no swelling” and “unimpaired” blood flow to the president’s extremities. But his July diagnosis of chronic venous insufficiency is defined by poor blood flow that leads to swelling in the legs. Were those earlier records falsified, or was the decline precipitous? I am inclined to believe that the April and October 2025 releases were fake, and that Mr. Trump’s physical condition is “covered up” (as was, and I am shamed to admit, that of former President Joe Biden).
The regime insists that Mr. Trump shakes so many hands that it chronically injures him, but he loathes the custom. He wrote in his 1997 book “The Art of the Comeback” that he was a “clean-hands freak” who “often [thinks] of taking out a series of newspaper ads encouraging the abolishment of the handshake,” which he also called “barbaric” and a “curse[] of American society.” If I hated a habit so much that I put it in a book, and it hurt me, and it made people start planning for a life after I was gone, I would do it less.
On August 15, during the Anchorage summit where Mr. Trump rolled out an actual red carpet for Russian President Vladimir Putin, his swollen cankles were on “full display” next to the other dictator’s visibly slimmer extremities. After all Messrs. Trump and Putin have done for one another, I thought perhaps Mr. Putin could have been such a gentleman as to offer to rub those throbbing toes with horse chestnut “Light Legs” cream.
Later, Mr. Trump free-associated to the bewildered cast of Fox & Friends that he “want[ed] to get to heaven,” noting that “he wasn’t doing well” and was “on the bottom of the totem pole.” For once, he was correct—if there is a Hell, assuredly a spot is reserved for his ass. In September, Mr. Trump’s fundraising messages asked his supporters to “help him get to heaven.” What the fuck? This unprompted complaining about the afterlife has only increased in frequency—why is that on his mind?
On August 25, his hand was almost black. Comparison was made to the wights in George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series, of which the penultimate book, “The Winds of Winter,” remains incomplete.
Perhaps Mr. Trump’s health concerns drive his chaotic behavior—frantically building monuments to himself while his executive functions and mobility are diminished. He now maniacally chases legacy—he openly thirsts for a Nobel Peace Prize, has paved over the Rose Garden his absentee First Lady designed and replaced it with what The Bulwark’s Tim Miller calls the patio of an Au Bon Pain. Amid a government shutdown where SNAP is set to expire for millions of Americans, U.S. troops are in food lines, and federal workers have been unpaid for more than a month, half the White House has been torn down to create a golden 90,000 square foot ballroom—some Marie Antoinette shit.
Does that sound like a man who plans to leave? Maybe that answer has some pathos. He might be unable to make many more weekend trips to Florida. Airplanes, even Qatari luxury jets, notoriously exacerbate blood clots.
When Dear Leader’s chronic venous insufficiency was disclosed, I suspected he revealed his illness to distract from the recent revelations about the birthday poem he wrote for his former “closest friend,” the notorious pedophile Jeffrey Epstein. (T-Shirt available here.)
A common ploy—it called to mind Harvey Weinstein coming into court pushing a walker capped with tennis balls. Now, I think the White House knows of an eventuality that will be impossible to hide.
As the Mid-Atlantic weather cooled to a perfect temperature for an autumnal stroll, Maryland Governor Wes Moore invited Mr. Trump to walk with him through Baltimore and see the progress Charm City had made on public safety.
The president flipped the fuck out like a crazy person, called the governor’s constructive overture “rather nasty and provocative,” and threatened to send the military to Baltimore and steal funding earmarked for the Key Bridge rebuilding.
I now understand what “triggered” him so. Earlier that week, Mr. Trump promised to “walk a beat” with DC police and the National Guard. I planned to play a prank and sit on the curb of Pennsylvania Avenue with a water bottle in a brown paper bag. I would get caught “drinking in public,” slyly reveal my deception, then leap to my feet and reveal a TRUMP IS A BITCH t-shirt (currently censored by Spreadshop at the Partisan Hex webstore). Instead, Mr. Trump distributed fast food to Guardsmen at Union Station. He said he would walk a beat, but walked zero beats—because, I expect, his feet hurt. So, when Mr. Moore invited him to go walking, he thought he was being provoked. Which means he is sensitive about his feet.
I wonder—while he was visiting Union Station, did Mr. Trump see the big FUCK TRUMP tent erected by the nonviolent, antifascist collective FLARE USA outside Union Station? Is that why Park Police dismantled the permitted protest encampment in early October? Is the president such a petty wimp, or did his servants seek to defend his honor?
Alex Jones, notably afflicted by the opposite of the TDS that ruined me, has noticed Mr. Trump’s condition, too. The conspiracy superstar ranted:
“I predict Trump is going to have some type of collapse in the next twelve months at the current trajectory…. [The] ankles, straight on shot, they are big. They are swollen. They’re like really big. They look like—my neck’s nineteen-and-a-half inches—his ankles look like they are about fifteen inches around. That’s not a good sign for the heart and the rest of the body.”
He continued:
“I’ve seen a lot of signs of Trump declining. And so, he’s on a lot of the time, but like a light bulb is starting to go out. It gets brighter, it gets dim; it goes in and out…. [Y]ou can watch the decline into the evening, and then also these morning interviews. So, it’s late at night, he sounds like he’s drunk… [a]nd then it is early in the morning, he doesn’t sound too hot.”
The White House released another memorandum from Mr. Jackson in response to this speculation—a bit odd, as the Candyman is no longer the president’s physician, just a simping congressman: “I can tell you unequivocally: President Donald J. Trump is the healthiest president this nation has ever seen…. I continue to consult with his current physician and medical team at the White House and still spend significant time with the President. He is mentally and physically sharper than ever before.” What does Mr. Jackson receive in exchange for this nonsense?
Vice President Jim Dave Vance, who once called Mr. Trump “America’s Hitler,” told USA Today that he had “on-the-job training” to take over for his boss. I was surprised to hear that—throughout 2025, he has taken at least eight vacations: a ski trip in Vermont, Italy and India, Greenland, Disneyland (which was shut down for his pleasure), North Dakota, Ohio (where a river’s water levels were raised to enhance his kayaking experience), a luxury manor in the United Kingdom, and likely more. Meanwhile, I have taken zero vacations because I have responsibilities beyond shitposting. I assumed this meant his influence in the White House waned and that nobody wanted him stinking up the place—kicked to the curb!—or perhaps that he was avoiding the “blast radius” of increased scrutiny on Mr. Trump’s relationship with Jeffrey Epstein (Mr. Vance’s mentor, Peter Thiel, took the pedophile’s money to build the Palantir systems which power Mr. Trump’s police state). Now, I think he wants to enjoy his finite free time while anticipating an imminent increase in responsibilities.
On September 9, Mr. Trump announced he was going to eat at a restaurant in the District of Columbia to celebrate his “successful” occupation of the American capital and “prove” the city was now safe. Mr. Trump chose Joe’s Seafood one block over from the White House. Inside, he was met by activists who called him the “Hitler of our time” and said he was “not welcome.” If the Commander-in-Chief had walked that block himself, the logic of the stunt would be coherent. Instead, he rode a motorcade to a building nearly next door. In my view, you either ride across town or walk the block. A parade of cops and cars traveling a short distance from the most fortified building in the country proves nothing except that drivers were available.
Mr. Trump probably did not travel on foot because his feet hurt. The “President of Peace’s” aversion to the outdoors is also evident in the August attempt to destroy the White House Peace Vigil in Lafayette Park. It is a shabby little tent, but it means well and has been there since 1981. Leave it be. Yet Mr. Trump claimed to be unfamiliar with it and ordered its removal. The vigil has been in the same place for the entirety of both his administrations, proving that the fool has never gone as far as the fence of the North Lawn.
If the administration wanted to “set the record straight,” they would scramble to release a statement without fabrication or superlative to explain what the hell is going on. Why have they not? It does no good to “leave us in suspense.” (“You fools! I was only pretending to suffer from an edema!”). So I assume the answer is: they cannot.
It matters that Mr. Trump’s mortal form is worse than the public knows, because, unlike Mr. Biden, who was assisted by teams of experts, Mr. Trump demands to be recognized as a singular genius, a dictator with total supremacy over the decision-making process. Yet it appears that the man is not well enough to know what the world looks like.
In late September, shortly before the invasion of Portland by ICE and the National Guard, Mr. Trump said that in a conversation with the mayor of Portland, he was boggled to learn that he was “watching things on television that are different from what’s happening,” referring to violent unrest and fires he believed to be current. His temporal confusion stemmed from repeated broadcasts on Fox News showing b-roll footage of protests and riots from 2020, and under the delusion that the city was “war-ravaged,” he ordered the National Guard and militarized ICE agents to combat protesters dressed like inflatable frogs and singing giraffes. The U.S. president makes decisions that will shatter lives while operating from a fundamentally distorted perception of reality.
If this man is unfit for his job, which he is—which he would be even if he were at the peak of his physical and mental health—he ought to be removed via the mechanism in place to do so: the 25th Amendment of the United States.
Section 4:
“Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President.”
I loathe saying this, but I would welcome a President Jim Dave Vance right now. Mr. Vance, reprobate that he is, at least knows when he is lying.
Sanae Takaichi, the new Japanese prime minister, rigorously prepared for her critical first meeting with the Mandarin Mussolini. As that nation’s first female prime minister and also a heavy metal drummer, it was important for Ms. Takaichi to demonstrate her credibility and assertiveness on the global stage, advance defense and trade priorities, and establish a good relationship with the so-called Leader of the Free World. All that stress was for nothing, because when she met with Mr. Trump in Tokyo’s Akasaka Palace, he was out to fucking lunch. Video shows her leading him around a room like an elderly dog: slow, confused, disengaged, distracted, wandering off. A genuine embarrassment.
Where does this leave the United States? While ostensibly a superpower, our president visibly decays (for the second time in a row), and the world knows Mr. Trump is deliriously at war with half of America. Without the executive function to self-censor, he goes abroad and essentially tells the troops how much he hates the rest of us here at home. Does he know our allies and enemies can hear him? While other nations may still view the United States as possessing great ability, under our current leadership, we are unable to exercise those capabilities logically or coherently.
I do not relish the death of the king. If it were my choice, I wish Mr. Trump would never die, and instead would be imprisoned beneath the Earth until the end of days.
Without him, his cult has no centralizing factor—when he is revealed as mortal, will his followers understand that they have worshipped a man as organic and fallible as they? It would be preferable that Mr. Trump be honest with the public, that his glamoury is finally dispelled by disclosure instead of crisis. A subset of his supporters will never view him as susceptible to old age or illness, no matter how old or ill he becomes. They frighten me because what they cannot believe will inevitably be.
Unlike the president, Americans must be clear-eyed—someone has got to be! The people elected a leader no less mad and infirm than the Emperor Caligula, or the Kings Nebuchadnezzar II and George III, and our country is and will continue to suffer for it until his biology intervenes, or someone with the constitutional power to act chooses reality over loyalty.