There was never a chance in heaven or hell that Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, who looks like a 1980s shop teacher who gets off on breaking the birdhouses the kids make to prove “you can’t build shit, you little pussy,” was going to win the Republican nomination for president. I mean, put aside that Donald Trump owns the GOP no matter how much a few feckless fucks fail to pry it away from his tiny hands. DeSantis has all the personality of an angry Starbucks manager and all the charm of the least charming dung beetle. If you bottled DeSantis’s vibe as a scent, it would be “old scrotum and expired Axe body spray.” I mean, in Vegas terms, DeSantis is pissed off that the drunks at the buffet at the Tropicana aren’t enjoying his terrible magic show while Trump is Siegfried and Roy rolled into one sparkly orange suit.
