Donald Trump Caught Abusing Adrenaline, Loses Shoes

How would you like your story twisted?

So, I haven’t looked at the news yet today, but let me make a prediction: If somebody shoots Donald Trump, there’s a 100 percent chance of conspiracy theories.

Whoops—as usual, I hit post too late to be credited as Cassandra, much less Nostradamus.

Wocka wocka but seriously: Fine, it seemed, to my untrained eye, to take a while for the Secret Service to make their Macedonian turtle around the temporarily turtled Teutonic.

But I don’t have it in me this morning to tease away the fact that millions of people will consider this an inside job away from any actual evidence that it might be so.

I’m more interested, as usual, in whether the victim’s brain was making free drugs.

In this case, it’s amazing that such a blast of adrenaline didn’t earn a fellow of his age and dimensions a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Cardiac Event.

It's equally hard to tell whether he was merely high on adrenaline. Or was the fear merely a side dish to how wonderfully excited he was?

— I mean, excited in the way a World War One soldier in the trenches who's just got his finger shot off would get excited, because politician brain cannot distinguish losing an election from dying in a war, according to syence. (I misspelled science, so I'm not misusing it.)

In any case, your brain does weird sh@t when something like that happens, as I unfortunately am aware—and as evidenced by the oddly humanizing "fact" (I should put that in scare quotes, because any audio recording should probably be considered fake till you've interrogated the sound guy) that Trump kept yelling that he wanted to collect his shoes.

Dude, someone is trying to kill you—what's in those shoes? The map to the treasure?

If I had to bet money, I’d say the sensory icons that America will retain from this incident will contain mostly images of the bloody-eared fist pump if you like him. Or if you’re sorry this attempt failed, perhaps you will bitterly recall the sound of him yelling for the Secret Service to wait up, so he can have a sec to create that crazy, visceral image.

But me, I prefer to remember him pathetically calling for his shoes. Whilst remembering: Nothing is real.