Funny

New Concerns About Trump’s Health After Disturbing Scene in Bronx Barber Shop: ‘On His Last Legs’

This is crazy.

There are plenty of breathless takes about the current state of Donald Trump’s health, and that stands to reason. If he won, he wouldn’t finish the term until he was 83 years old, stealing Joe Biden’s title as the oldest president ever.

But day after day, you begin to see why people are so upset about how he’s doing, both mentally and physically.

The latest episode has a lot of people wondering if he’s even going to make it until November 5th. I personally think he will, if only out of spite. But the video you’re about to see doesn’t look promising for the old putter.

On a campaign stop in the Bronx, New York, Trump seemed to stumble his way through the Knockout Barber Shop. And when I say stumble, I mean, I had to watch the video with the sound on to make sure I wasn’t looking at a scene from onboard a ship. He literally staggers across the room, legs splayed in a wide stance, arms out for balance.

He could’ve gone to Staten Island, at least, where he has a modicum of support. But Trump decided to go to the deep-blue Bronx, where protesters were out in droves to greet him. Maybe this guy outside the barber shop knocked the former president off balance.

Watch as Trump does the infamous West Point Ramp Walk on level ground:

The internet was immediately ablaze with commentary. Some even shared the nautical-themed theory of Trump having unsteady sealegs:

Others had ideas of their own, including less-than-flattering mental images of him filling his less-than-tighty whities.

One X user went straight for the “probably a pretty good guess” theory of just plain old racism:

The long and the short of it is, it doesn’t actually matter what’s causing Trump to stumble, trip over words, drool during rallies, or lose his ever-loving mind on social media. He’s an absolute train wreck.

But when the physical stuff presents itself, people really go into overdrive, because we were USED to all the other stuff.

After nearly a decade in the political spotlight, America had become nearly inured to watching him zip on his human suit and pretend he’s not a lizard man from Uranus. It became easier and easier to forgive him for making up countries like Nambia, or drinking water like a total freaking weirdo, or taking a Sharpie™ to weather maps so he could be right about something he was very definitely completely and totally wrong about.

But if we have to worry about him literally tripping and shoving down some foreign leader accidentally? If he became the second wheelchair-bound Commander-in-Chief because he broke his hip like an octogenarian nursing home Lothario chasing a candy striper?

That’s something I don’t think any of us want to try and stomach.

The irony of all of it is the fact that all of the MAGA fan art, all of Trump’s fantasy trading cards, and (we can be pretty sure) his very own mental image of himself are all of some superhero. A young, triumphant, square-jawed action hero, beset with rippling muscles and astride a golden steed with a mane rivaling his own.

They comb over horses’ manes, right? I mean, so they don’t look like Alfalfa from the Little Rascals?

Hey, speaking of Trump’s hair, I wonder if he let the guys have a look at his combover in the barber shop. I mean, I doubt it. For some reason I can’t shake the image of Trump cutting and styling his own hair, because nobody knows hair like me, everyone is saying it.

Hey, Donnie? If you’re going to drunk walk through a men’s grooming studio (you wouldn’t set foot in a “salon”), maybe make it one sandwiched between a bail bondsman and a drive-through liquor store in Texas, not one in New York City.

Otherwise, you can probably expect a Bronx cheer.

meet the author

Andrew is a dark blue speck in deep red Central Washington, writing with the conviction of 18 years at the keyboard and too much politics to even stand. When not furiously stabbing the keys on breaking news stories, he writes poetry, prose, essays, haiku, lectures, stories for grief therapy, wedding ceremonies, detailed instructions on making doughnuts from canned biscuit dough (more sugar than cinnamon — duh), and equations to determine the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow. A girlfriend, a dog, two cats, and two birds round out the equation, and in his spare time, Drewbear likes to imagine what it must be like to have spare time.

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