We’ve all done it.
You’re strolling through the grass on a warm summer day. Sun out, birds chirping, life feeling halfway decent for once. Your brain is drifting through pleasant thoughts, maybe thinking about dinner, maybe thinking about nothing at all.
Then it happens.
You step in a pile of warm, steamy, freshly deposited shit.
Your entire mood changes instantly. There is no mental preparation for this moment. Nobody leaves the house carrying a shit-removal kit. There is no emergency protocol. No laminated instruction card. No OSHA training for “unexpected fecal incidents.”
When you walked out the door that morning, the possibility of stepping in shit didn’t even make the list.
First instinct: drag your foot through the grass.
Bad move.
Now the shit is smeared everywhere. It’s in the grooves of your shoe, packed deep into those little waffle patterns they put on the bottom of sneakers like they’re designed specifically to trap shit forever. You find a stick and start digging around in there like an archaeologist excavating ancient dung.
You scrape.
You wipe.
You curse.
Still smells like shit.
At some point you start wondering if it’s easier to just throw the whole damn shoe away and start your life over.
Eventually you realize the truth. You’re not fixing this in the field. You need water. Soap. Maybe a pressure washer. Bottom line, the day is ruined and you’re heading home with one funky shoe held at arm’s length like it’s radioactive.
And while all this is happening, the thoughts start running through your head:
I can’t believe somebody left this pile of shit here.
People are the worst.
This is exactly why I don’t own a dog.
Trump stepped in some shit.
Not just a little smear on the heel either. He stepped in it barefoot, both feet, full commitment. The kind of step where it squishes up between your toes and crawls under your nails like toe jam.
It stinks.
Instead of cleaning it up, he shuffles around in the grass pretending everything is fine, which of course only spreads shit everywhere. But bending over to deal with it would require effort, flexibility, and a moment of self-awareness, none of which are currently available.
So he goes with the only move he knows.
Pretend it never happened.
When people start pointing out the smell, he immediately goes on offense.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I never stepped in any shit. There has never been shit anywhere near me. The cleanest feet you’ve ever seen. People are saying my feet are tremendous. Sir, your feet smell like roses.”
Meanwhile his boys line up behind him like a press conference of professional bullshitters. Rubio, Bessent, Graham, and Hegseth stumble in looking like they just came off an all-night bender, squinting at the daylight, wrinkling their noses, and assuring everyone the situation is completely under control. And don’t forget his spokesmodel Leavitt.
They step up to the microphone and explain:
- There was never any shit.
- If there was shit, we had a plan for the shit.
- The shit has already been cleaned up.
- Anyone showing pictures of the alleged shit could face prosecution.
- Experts are now saying there is no such thing as shit.
- The shit will be gone very soon. The best people are working on the shit.
While they’re spinning all that nonsense, he’s on the phone calling his neighbors. Some of them he’s insulted, threatened, or stiffed in the past.
“Listen,” he says, “people are claiming I stepped in shit. These are very bad people saying this. Totally fake news. I’m calling to see if you can help me clean this shit off my feet. I know we’ve had some disagreements but help me out here.”
The neighbors mute the call so they can finish laughing.
Then they come back with a simple answer.
No.
Non.
Nein.
Não.
Nee.
Nej.
Nie.
いいえ.
아니요.
His response?
“If you don’t help me, it could be very bad for you.”
They hang up.
Finish their belly laugh.
Then they start calling each other to talk about the real problem.
Not the shit.
The guy standing in it, insisting the smell is everybody else’s fault.
