In a recent outburst that sounded suspiciously like a Mad Libs page read through a bullhorn, former President Donald J. Trump launched into a diatribe connecting three unrelated but emotionally charged topics: windmills, whales, and a personal grievance that Gaza never thanked him for humanitarian aid.
You know, the classics.
At a rally that felt more like a fever dream sponsored by gas station supplements and unresolved dad issues, Trump declared that wind turbines were “killing all the whales,” citing unspecified evidence, ocean whispers, and possibly a dream he once had while watching Finding Nemo on mute.
“They’re dropping like flies,” he warned, referring to whales, who—famously—are neither flies nor common residents of turbine-heavy coastlines.
The statement baffled scientists, marine biologists, and basic logic. But the crowd cheered anyway, perhaps mistaking the whales for metaphors, or assuming he meant Democrats.
But Wait—There’s More
The speech took a heartfelt turn when Trump shifted from ecological theory to international diplomacy.
“I sent aid to Gaza,” he said, eyes wide, voice trembling with the righteous anger of a man who once paid for everyone’s lunch and never got tagged in the Instagram story. “Big aid. Huge. And you know what? Not a single thank-you. Not one!”
The crowd gasped—not at the unverified claim, but at the notion that a thank-you note should be the end goal of foreign policy.
“You send them pallets of supplies, and they don’t even pick up the phone,” Trump continued. “No flowers, no calls, no nothing. Disrespectful!”
To be clear, no one in the State Department remembers this aid package, but that’s beside the point. In the Book of Trump, generosity is only real if it ends in a round of applause and a commemorative plaque shaped like his face.
The Unified Field Theory of Trump Logic
The whales are dying. The windmills did it. Gaza owes him a thank-you. Somehow, it all makes sense if you surrender entirely to the chaos.
If you chart his talking points on a whiteboard, you won’t get policy—you’ll get a Rorschach test for the American soul. And in that inkblot, you’ll see windmills spinning over bloated whales, floating next to a “Thank You Mr. Trump” balloon that never arrived.
This is not communication. It’s performance art in the key of grievance.
Final Thought:
Whales don’t send thank-you notes. Windmills don’t commit hate crimes. And Gaza didn’t ghost him. But in Trump’s America, the facts are less important than the feeling of being wronged—loudly, constantly, and always with excellent lighting.
History will remember the rage. The rest was just sound and turbine fury.