In Obombaland Without Obomba.

it's nutcracker cold as r. would say. i used to say apple crackin' cold. got that from gramps kenny i reckon or gramma weezie. gramps' hands used to be like cracked shoe leather. hardly nobody repairs old leather shoes no more, gnome sane. i wonder what did at night. i actually wonder what he dreamed. i never wondered that before. don't you wonder what other people dream? especially inscrutable people? i wonder what obomba dreams. not really, i'm really no more interested than t-rumps dreams; snuff porn, gushing fracking wells, nuclear waste swamps, breakfast of champions, gold annihilation, golf club murder, giant orange gonads wreaking environmental havoc, immigrants scattering in terror. those guys dream awake and make nightmares for the masses. but gramps, yes, i wonder. his black cadillac, just before he quit the earth. it's getting hard to move here in obombaland without obomba. i can't quite imagine what it'll be like when obomba breaks the ground. all his cronies are building towers around his ghostly apparition on the drawing board, conning tower, his illuminated hubris envisioned like a high rise prison but this time to keep the people, and the other animals, out, and gloat over the park, master of the con, lord of our former green space, his illustryus formerus precedentus.
this is not quite what i set out to say, gnome sane, but i ain't got time to revise, it'll have to stand.