In all fairness, Trump is just a moldy, hollowed-out Golem. Every Juneteenth, Stephen Miller shmooshes his shiny dome straight into Trump’s rear end and starts flicking and vibrating his tongue across Donnie’s prostate like it’s a musical instrument carved from rotting cheese, inducing a flurry of nerve impulses that spread through Trump’s spine and into his abnormally short, sticky sausage fingers, where they smear out the latest batch of vile racist garbage.