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*Trumps inauguration speech leaked early*Trump's 2025 Inauguration Speech _ I had many Dreams By Donald J. Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed dignitaries, and those of you tuning in from your parents’ basements because, let’s be honest, you don’t have jobs: welcome to the greatest inauguration speech ever. Bigger than Lincoln’s, better than Kennedy’s, and—this is important—100% more coherent than Joe Biden’s. Believe me, folks, we’re making history today. Again. Four years ago, I stood before the American people—well, actually, I stood in Mar-a-Lago on hole nine with a Diet Coke and a classified map of Iran’s nuclear sites—and I said, “We’re coming back.” They laughed. They doubted. They said, “Donald, you can’t just will your way back to the presidency.” But look at us now. We’re here. You’re here. I’m here. And Trump$, the cryptocurrency that will redefine global finance, is definitely here. Available now, by the way. Very stable coin. Tremendous coin. They said it couldn’t be done. They said it was over. But let me tell you something: no one comes back like Trump. Not Elvis, not Lazarus, not even the McRib. I’m back, folks, and this time, I brought Trump$. Invest today! You’ll thank me later when you’re buying Greenland condos with your winnings. No, seriously, CNN, are you still here? I told you to leave. You’re fake news. To the Supreme Court Justices in attendance: I haven’t forgotten about that little appointment fiasco, but it’s okay—your jobs are safe if you invest in Trump$. Some of you might be celebrating today in honour of a guy who had a dream. You know the one—a dream about equality and holding hands and all that lovely stuff. Well, folks, let me tell you something: you’re thinking too small. Because today, I top that. Not with just one dream, but with several dreams. Big, beautiful dreams. American dreams. Dreams so big they make Martin Luther King’s look like a pamphlet. And these dreams, my friends, aren’t just about unity—they’re about greatness. Trump greatness. I had a dream last night. A big, beautiful dream. And like all great dreams, it started with me—your favourite president—standing in a golden palace, surrounded by my sons, Don Jr. and Eric, counting bars of gold like Scrooge McDuck. Ivanka was… well, we’ll keep that private. Dreams, folks. They’re personal. In this dream, the world was perfect. Elon Musk had bought MSNBC and replaced Rachel Maddow with Steve Bannon’s chalkboard lessons on the “globalist agenda.” The January 6 patriots—who I will pardon faster than Hunter Biden can misplace a laptop—were freed and formed the first all-American, Trump-loving militia of golf course security guards. This dream continued. In my dream, America is a paradise. Social Security? Privatized and run by the Trump Organization. Greenland? Ours. Elon Musk? Tragically gone in a Tesla autopilot accident, leaving me as the sole beneficiary of his billions. That’s right, folks. I dreamed Elon’s last will and testament read: “All my assets go to the only man I’ve ever truly admired—Donald J. Trump.” And with those billions, I’ll do what Elon could never do: make Twitter great again. But the dream didn’t stop there. I dreamt of the day when every single American eats Big Macs for dinner and counts them as vegetables. When dissenters mysteriously jump out of 18th-story windows, and no one bats an eye. When we replace the Constitution with something simpler, something easier to remember: “What Would Trump Do?” Let me be clear: this administration is all about America First. And by America, I mean me. We’re going to privatise Social Security, Medicare, and probably oxygen. And where will the funds go? Straight into Trump$! I’m the only president in history who truly understands the stock market because, let’s be honest, I invented insider trading. We’re going to bring jobs back—jobs for Americans to serve other Americans who serve my companies. And speaking of jobs, I’ve got a special message for my Cabinet: thank you for being here, especially after the Senate hearings revealed what fine, upstanding characters you all are. (Ben Carson, if you’re watching, you’re still fired.) Now, some people will say, “Mr. President, isn’t it wrong to promote your own cryptocurrency at an official inauguration speech?” To which I say: “Wrong? Wrong is what CNN does every day!” Trump$ is not just a currency; it’s a movement. A movement for freedom, prosperity, and the kind of wealth that only I can bring. It’s like Bitcoin, but with a face you trust—mine. I have yet another dream, folks. A dream where Americans come together—white, Black, Hispanic, and even people from New Jersey—to agree that I’m the greatest president who ever lived. A dream where the Constitution is replaced with a very simple rule: “What Would Trump Do?” WWTD, folks. Put it on a bracelet. Now, let’s talk about the wall. Yes, we built it. It was beautiful. The Rolls-Royce of walls. Everyone said, “Mr. Trump, this wall is incredible.” But I’ll admit it, folks: it wasn’t enough. The wall was thinking too small. We need bigger thinking. This time, I’m going to build something so massive, so tremendous, it will make the Great Wall of China look like a picket fence. Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce the Trump Dome. That’s right, a giant dome, made of steel, gold, and maybe just a little diamond, because why not? It will cover the entire United States of America. Every square inch. Coast to coast, from Maine to Maui. NASA will see it shining from Jupiter. And yes, there’ll be a 50-foot neon sign that says ‘No Globalists Allowed. No more borders, no more leaks. And it’s going to have state-of-the-art, Trump-branded air filtration systems. We’re keeping out the undesirables, the pests, the freeloaders, and, most importantly, the globalists. No one gets in unless I say so. You know, Elon Musk came to me and said, “Mr. President, this dome idea, it’s genius. Only you could think of something so bold.” And I said, “Elon, you’re right. And when it’s done, it’s going to have a big, beautiful plaque that says Made in America.” Speaking of Made in America, let me tell you what’s coming back in style: tariffs. Beautiful, tremendous tariffs. I’m talking tariffs so big that no one will even think about making anything outside the USA. Shoes? Made here. Phones? Made here. Those little flags you wave at parades? Made right here, folks. The era of outsourcing is over. And if you don’t like it? Tough luck. We’re going to tariff everything coming in until the only thing left in American stores is American products, made by American hands. And guess what? Those hands are going to be paid in Trump$, the most stable, tremendous cryptocurrency in history. Because when you buy American, you’re not just buying a product—you’re buying a piece of the Trump legacy. And one of my dreams—let me tell you, it was tremendous—was that my sons became oligarchs. Yes, powerful, untouchable kings of industry, wealth, and influence. Don Jr. ruling Wall Street. Eric controlling energy. And Ivanka… well, let’s just say she’ll be managing more than handbags. In this dream, the Democrats’ sons—those sad, latte-drinking, Tesla-driving failures—worked for the sons of sons of my sons. Generations of servitude. It’s poetic, folks. The ultimate payback for years of their whining and losing. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. And to those woke liberals who say, “Mr. Trump, this is crazy! This is tyranny!” I say, “Wrong!” This is not tyranny. This is greatness. And if you don’t like it, you can leave—oh wait, you can’t. The dome will keep you in. We’re going to the moon again, folks. Not for science, but to plant a Trump flag so big you can see it from Earth. We’re going to take over Mars, too. Elon promised, but I’ll deliver. And when we do, it’ll be with ships powered by Trump$. So here’s the deal, folks. We’re going to build the dome, bring back tariffs, and make America the most self-sufficient, self-obsessed, self-congratulatory country on the planet. And when I’m done, the history books will say, “There was America Before Trump, and there was America After Trump.” And finally, I dream of the day when we are all truly free. Free from the woke mob, the fake news, and the tyranny of facts. Free to say “Merry Christmas” in July if we want to. Free to buy a bucket of KFC without the government telling us to eat a salad. Free to love our country—and, more importantly, me. So let’s do it, folks. Let’s make America great again—again. Let’s invest in Trump$. Let’s rewrite history, one tweet at a time. And let’s remember that together, under my leadership, we’re not just building a nation—we’re building an empire. And to those folks still in your basements—because you still don’t have jobs—buy some Trump$ and break free! I am and remain the greatest President, the best President, the only President you should ever care about. Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the Trump$!

Trump's 2025 Inauguration Speech       "I had many Dreams"

Pick up the pen—see how it trembles in your grip,<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-weight: inherit; font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); background-color: rgba(249,250,251,var(--tw-bg-opacity));">Not holy relic but a silent blade at your fingertips.Scratch a single word, let it crack the quiet sky—Soon, pages breathe, and slowly, so do I. Writing’s a window, sharp and unforgiving,Reflecting the fractures we keep on reliving.Don’t flinch at the shards—there’s gold in the rust,The gleam of growth that rebuilds fragile trust. This isn’t mere art; it’s a weapon of light,Cutting through static to carve out your insight.Each syllable chisels confusion away,Reforming the chaos into something to say. Yes, you will stumble; your heart may curse,As lines dissolve and you fear the worst.But catch that spark, let it spark again,Witness your own change as you dive deeper in. The final secret? There is no enchanted key,Just show up, spill ink, and let yourself be.Write clumsily, write boldly, let all doubts rescind—For through these pages, my friend, a new self you’ll find.

Spill ink

They call me Frank. Or Silvia. Or Huwawa, some demon from Gilgamesh, sneaking in like a cosmic cameo. Sometimes my name lodges in throats, like choking on a meat pie.&nbsp;Forty-three days deep into this existential standoff, I wonder: am I an echo, a yawn the universe makes when it forgets I exist?&nbsp;Names are tricky spells, noises we glue to flesh, hoping they matter, hoping they stick. But does a dolphin care if we call it Wendy? It’s busy flipping tails in the deep, unburdened by existential dread.&nbsp;Still, I ache for the hum of recognition, a name that sings, “Yes, this is you.” Not Frank. Not Woof. Just... me. Maybe whispered by someone whose eyes see more than letters on a hospital chart.&nbsp;I shout, “Call me right!” and meet blank stares, as if I’ve declared war on vowels. But it’s not rocket science, mate. Say it like the universe sneezes stars, like each star remembers me.&nbsp;In the end, is a name a noise, a truth, or the punchline to a joke the cosmos forgot to share?&nbsp;All I know is, I need that anchor, a fleeting promise that in your voice, for a moment, I am not just a name, but everything I’m meant to be.FSF

Remember the Name

they believed love’s promise was theirs alone, each one convinced they’d be the one to change the game. but step back, see them now, brushstrokes on the same relentless canvas. Fernande, a shadow in charcoal strokes, her silhouette too thin against the cold canvas, dreamed her love could fill the negative space in a portrait where he barely sketched her in. a muted gray smudge, lost between the lines he never finished, as if she could outrun the punchline, ha! Eva, soft as pastels fading at the edges, thought love was painted in gentle hues. her sweetness dissolved into pale watermarks, a smear of tenderness the canvas rejected. love laughed in her face, a cruel smear, then watched her waste away. their hues bleed together, sorrows overlapping in unintended harmony. Olga, swirling in violent arcs of red and purple, spun her ballerina moves, a tempest of passion that cut across the frame. she danced, even as the canvas tore beneath her feet, her bleeding hands gripping a dream no brush could ever hold. Marie-Thérèse, golden and shimmering, dazzled in bright, reckless yellows. her youth burned across the canvas, vivid and fleeting. “youth is a joke, kid,” the colors whispered, “it just makes you easier to chew.” she was gone, swallowed whole by the shadows, before she even realised. Dora, etched in heavy lines and dark shades, wore her defiance like cracked varnish. she saw the fissures spreading across the wall, but tried to seal them with her tears, a futile restoration, destined to fail. her fractured image stood firm, until it finally crumbled. Françoise, sharp as a palette knife, carved her story into the edges of the canvas. she knew the game was rigged, but she walked away with her scars— and a sliver of pride. the smart ones always leave, but they leave a piece of themselves behind, don’t they? Genevieve penned verses in invisible ink, words evaporating before they touched the page. she sang sonnets to an empty gallery, but silence is just the echo of indifference, a blank canvas that never held her dreams. Jacqueline, drowning in devotion, poured herself into the colours, layer upon layer of false hope. her blues deepened, her reds darkened, until the weight of it pulled her under. her reward? a shadow at the edge of the painting, a shape no one cared to notice. they all chased love, an impossible abstraction, dogs chasing cars, fools who didn’t realise the engine would crush them if they ever caught it. but oh, there was a single brush of light, a glint of gold leaf under peeling paint, when love felt almost gentle, almost real, a whispered promise trapped beneath the glaze. and yet, here i stand, palette in hand, a self-portrait blurred by trembling strokes, believing i might mix a new colour, one that won’t fade like all the rest. we all think we’re the exception, the masterstroke in a flawed design, as if we could redraw the lines, but perhaps the joke’s on me, thinking i could be anything but another shade in love’s indifferent masterpiece. step back now, observe the painting in full view: love never slowed, never inquired, and it sure as hell won’t turn around to admire the mess it left behind. &nbsp;

The foolish canvas

she sleeps, a small shape in the alley, curled around a roaring dream. the gutter is full of rats, soft lives, quick jaws, eyes always down. a bird in a cage screams its song into steel. the sky doesn’t care. bars don’t break, and hope dies quiet. coal stays coal. grit and dust, forgotten. only under the crush, when bones crack, does a diamond breathe. the phoenix burns, not for glory, but because the ashes itch. rebirth isn’t beauty. it’s clawing, tearing, a fistfight with the dark. trees rooted too tight stay shadows. growth snaps, splits, bleeds upward toward the sun. and yet, the dandelion, fragile. feral. spits in the face of stone. roots ripping through concrete. it wins. this is for those who burn, who bleed, who refuse to break. you are still here. this is how small things shatter cages. how ash turns to flight. how stone crumbles for one last breath of light. do it. stand up. don’t bow. Be a lionFSF

When a cat dreams of becoming a lion

I’ve never been a Francis. Not really. It’s the name stamped on the birth certificate, sure, but it never felt like mine. For years, Francis was just this faceless thing, a ghost name the tax office and the airlines used to torment me. Everyone called me by my middle name. Francis was the label they slapped on your luggage, the name read out by bored airport announcers when your flight was delayed. Nothing more.That is, until now. Here in this godforsaken hospital bed, Francis has come alive. It’s the name they bark at me every morning, the one scribbled on my wristband like some sort of cruel joke. It’s the name they use when poking me with needles or serving me food that looks and tastes like wet cardboard. And, God help me, I’ve started answering to it. But this story isn’t about hospitals or wet cardboard meals. It’s about the one time being Francis actually mattered.It happened on a business trip to Melbourne. Melbourne: the land of laneway coffee and suits who care too much about their shoes. Like every trip, I made my ritual stop at Mary Ryan’s Bookshop in the airport. It was my thing. Travel, buy books for the girls, fly out. I was halfway through the children’s section when the loudspeaker crackled to life.“Francis Forbes, your gate is closing. Please make your way to Gate 30 immediately.”Didn’t even register.“Francis Forbes, final call.”And then it hit me. Oh, bloody hell, that’s me.Now, back then, I was still playing rugby. Sort of fit, sure, but let’s not kid ourselves. I loved my red wine, my steaks, my late-night cheese boards. I was carrying serious bulk—116 kilos of good living and rugby muscle. But when push came to shove, I could move. And, mate, I had to move.Mary Ryan’s sits at a right angle to the food court in Melbourne Airport. Picture this: I bolted out of the shop like a bull out of the gate. Hit that corner at full tilt, my momentum building, feet pounding. And just as I powered into the food court—boom! There he was.This little bloke, couldn’t have been more than 65 kilos soaking wet, stepped directly into my path. He had on this immaculate grey suit, shoes you could see your reflection in. I had zero time to brake. None.Instinct took over. I threw up my shoulder like I was hitting a ruck. The collision? Textbook. A perfect ten-pin bowling strike. The poor guy went flying. Just crumpled. I didn’t even realise what had happened until I heard the crunch—not mine, his.I skidded to a stop, heart racing. “Oh, Christ! I’m so sorry! So sorry!” I sputtered, hauling him off the ground. He was dazed, eyes like saucers. And then I saw who it was.Bill Shorten. Bloody Bill Shorten. Labor frontbencher. The bloke you see on TV, shaking hands and kissing babies. And here I was, having flattened him like a lawn mower.But I didn’t have time to process. I was late. “I’m so sorry, mate. I’ve gotta run,” I said, half-apologising, half-panicking, hoisting him upright like a sack of potatoes. He was too shocked to speak. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. Meanwhile, chaos erupted behind us.Two kids—his kids, I figured—were trailing after him like bewildered ducklings. A blonde woman, who looked like she’d stepped out of a David Jones catalogue, was rushing over, hands in her hair. And then I spotted him: a guy in a black suit with one of those curly earpieces, eyes locked on me. Security.For a split second, I thought about stopping, about explaining myself. But then I thought, nope, not today. I turned and bolted, adrenaline surging.By some miracle, I made it to Gate 30. The attendant looked up, bored. “You’ve got 30 seconds,” she said. “You’re lucky.” Lucky? Lucky didn’t cover it. I scanned my ticket, stumbled onto the plane, and collapsed into my seat, gasping for air.And that was it. I made the flight. The world kept turning. Somewhere in Melbourne Airport, Bill Shorten was probably wondering what the hell had hit him. And me? I’ll always have the story of the day Francis Forbes knocked a frontbencher flat on his arse and got away with it.Send me beers if you like this story. I guarantee it’s true.

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Trump's 2025 Inauguration Speech "I had many Dreams"

Spill ink

Remember the Name

The foolish canvas

When a cat dreams of becoming a lion

The day Bill Shorten learned to fly