I don't know where to begin, and I presume that most of my readers are already up to date. But starting with a certain Twitter account, I am constantly amazed that the writer is more than twelve years old. (The level is sort of “Evil is Bad”, “Everyone Else is Wrong” and “Now they're teasing me again!”) I've also learned that he is followed by a responsible adult at all times, which at first sounded good as this wildly twittering thing has been proclaimed President of the United States of America. The adult has a uniform, too. And is holding a football for the kid. Unfortunately it's not any American football but The Football, which is actually a leather case containing the information and means to start a nuclear war and the total eradication of life on this planet. It's not a suitable toy for such twelve year olds. It might contain loose parts.
I've also filled the landscape with factory chimneys; these little trumplings are slowly doing to the planet what a well guided nuclear attack could do more efficiently, but we spare no means... Look! Such cute little fingers!
Now, where were we. I've done some lifting to the toupee, temporarily revealing all the happy little Bluebirds of Bliss.
As for the name, finally, I found this cute little poo-tee-weet from early Trumpery:
“I think I might have more Indian blood than a lot of the so-called Indians [...]”
(See Washington Post.)
And now that he's Chief of the Nation, I thought that he would have some name that sounded more native, hence Chief Tinypaws. But what's in a name. We're all equal, as we'll All Go Together When We Go.
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Update. At finishing time, the boy actually made a tweet so long that it needed two posts.
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