The Republic of Donald’s Gut
""The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves""
Once upon a time, inside a spacious, gold-plated colon, there lived a loud and scheming nation of microbes. This was the Republic of Donald’s Gut. They were small, invisible, and infinitely more powerful than the man they lived in, though he thought of himself as the most powerful man on Earth.
Candida Albicans was their generalissima. She wore a spotted uniform and spoke in a voice both syrupy and shrill. “Listen, comrades,” she declared at cabinet meetings (these were held daily, after the eighth Diet Coke), “our mission is simple: we want more. More sugar, more corn syrup, more preservatives. More humans who crave these things. Donald is our Great Host—our Prophet of Processed. Through him, we will conquer the world one fast-food wrapper and Walmart Plus delivery at a time.”
The bacteria, yeasts and fungi nodded. Bacteroides, wide and greasy, waddled forward. “Our system thrives when the diet is predictable—meat slabs, fried drumsticks, mustard-colored chips. Diversity in plants, fibers, vegetables? That’s DEI. Civilization requires monotony. DOA. Our Great Host Donald delivers.”
Meanwhile, Sir Lactob, once a modest peacekeeper, was gasping for breath in the corner. “We could have fermented vegetables,” he whispered, “a salad now and then, a carrot at least…” But his voice was drowned out. Doritos dust clouded the air.
Up in the “gut-brain axis” control room, Candida pulled levers and flipped switches. When the Great Host gazed into television cameras, it was Candida whispering: “Say something impulsive. Start a fight. Shout. They like it when you howl. Rage is sugar for us.” So he howled, and his followers howled with him, themselves riddled with bloated armies of the same yeast. They mistook their collective brain fog for patriotism.
And what about the followers? Out in the small towns with flickering gas stations and shuttered grocery stores, a similar drama played out. Their intestines were factories of Candida too. With no kale to be found for thirty miles, with every corner store offering nothing but fried snacks and soda, they marched in rhythm with unified gut flora, not out of ideology but biology.
The Plan of the Microbes
Candida explained it best at one particularly raucous midnight feast:
“Our interest is not in whether the hosts are wise or foolish, healthy or sick. We want reproduction. If the humans die at fifty, what of it? So long as they bear children who eat nacho cheese powder and inherit the fog, the world is ours. Sickness ensures loyalty.”
Sir Lactob started to speak but her glare silenced him. She motioned to a curtain, and suddenly, a figure in a dark cloak with spiky shoulder pads emerged. “Behold,” Candita said, “The great Sarsco, version 19”
The figure stepped forward, looming menacingly over Sir Lactob.
She continued, “Sarsco the Great is wherever you least expect him—the kidneys, the liver, the brain. He lives forever and never tires of finding new ways to inflict suffering. Brain fog is only a taste of what he can do. He can even wield microplastics in ingenious new ways!”
And so the Great Host’s gut policy became national policy: cheap calories everywhere, healthcare strangled, birthrates encouraged as though each baby’s intestines were a candle lit in Candida’s cathedral. A window dressing was installed at Health and Human Services but it gave way to admit Big Ag, Big Pharma, and Big Grift at the first opportunity.
A Cosmic Joke
Somewhere far, far away, at a desk in a cloud, Isaac Asimov’s ghost was scribbling notes.
“So it turns out humanity is not ruled by politicians, nor machines, nor logic,” he mused. “But by microorganisms convinced they own the franchise rights to corn syrup.”
Kurt Vonnegut, leaning over, shrugged: “So it goes. The president is just a meat-puppet for the bugs in his belly. And his MAGA followers? Same show, different guts. Call it democracy if you like, but it’s actually yeast authoritarianism on a planetary scale.”
The Republic of Donald’s Gut roared in victory. Diet Coke dispensed like holy water. The MAGA crowd chanted—not for freedom, not for truth, but for another round of fried chicken.
And Candida smiled, because history was being written not in blood or ink, but in bile.
The Gut Empire Strikes Again
Deep inside the Great Host’s abdomen, where Big Macs dissolved to mush and Diet Coke flowed like the River Styx, the Republic of Donald’s Gut gathered in parliament. It was a lively chamber—yeast, bacteria, and parasites all bickering in little puddles of grease.
Candida Albicans, Supreme Commander, stood at the podium as bubbles of gas rose majestically from a swamp of half-digested nuggets. “Comrades of gut and grime,” she declared, “we are steering history itself! The man thinks he is president of the world, but we control his moods, his cravings, even his tweets. Once more, let us review our strategy.”
Sir Lactob, knight of Lactobacillus, stepped out with a heavy sigh. He wore dented armor made of probiotic yogurt lids. “Please,” he said, voice weary, “I beg you once more to consider balance: some fiber, perhaps? A vegetable? A fermented cabbage leaf?”
The chamber erupted in laughter. Dorito dust sprinkled down like confetti.
Candida sneered. “Balance is weakness. We don’t want thoughtful hosts with clear memories; they’ll start asking questions about reality. What we want is brain fog so thick they march in circles forever.”
Sir Lactob returned to the shadows, polishing his dented shield, dreaming of sauerkraut revolutions that never came.
At this point, the Bifido Brothers leapt onto the stage. They were small, plump bacteria, cheerful in design, but out of place in the greasy empire. Once, they had lived happily in infants’ intestines, digesting breast milk and providing calm to sleeping babies.
But in the Great Host’s gut, they were exiles. “We can bring stability to the system!” the brothers shouted in unison. “Give us beans, give us apples, and we shall turn chaos into harmony!”
Candida spit out a glob of acetaldehyde. “Harmony is for losers. We thrive on chaos! Do not imagine broccoli will return here. Our host has chosen chicken buckets as his national anthem.”
The brothers sighed. In the old days, they kept peace in entire villages of gut. But here, they were court jesters, mocked and ignored.
Then emerged SarscoV19, lurking with sly grace. He was long, coiled, and spoke in a hypnotic hiss. There were rumors that he was artificial—made in a lab. No one liked him, yet he always received respect. “I care not what the Great Host eats,” Sarsco murmured. “I care only that he breeds. Many hosts, many children—each child another intestine, another palace for me. More prenatal vitamins cut? Fewer doctors? Excellent. The weaker the flesh, the stronger my reign.”
The microbes nodded. Even Candida listened when Sarsco spoke. For his goals aligned with theirs: pronatalist policies, stripped healthcare, families enslaved to cravings they did not understand. Despair bred discord, and discord bred even greater despair.
Plan 2025
Thus it was put foward by Executive Decree:
- An Economic plan: Subsidize corn syrup and factory meat. Let wheat, soy, and sugar “use” humans to spread across continents, just as Michael Pollan described.
- A Healthcare plan: Undermine vaccines, sneer at science, mock masks, and starve hospitals. Medicine is the sworn enemy of microbes.
- An Immigration plan: Conscripts only. New hosts must eat as the nation eats—fried, sugared, monochrome. Diversity is dangerous to both diets and autocracy.
- A Family plan: Children, as many as possible, before the hosts collapse. Yeast requires no retirement system, only new intestines.
Outside, the Great Host lumbered across stages, shouting, red-faced, impulsive. Each speech came with burps and brain fog churned deep below. His words were random, his policies contradictory—but beneath the noise, each decree matched the cunning designs of his gut.
Rage when Candida-brewed brain toxins demanded drama.
Forget details when the Bifido Brothers’ whispers were drowned out.
Demand loyalty when SarscoV19 hungered for unquestioning flesh.
And the crowd roared, not knowing the same symphony of cravings echoed inside them in synchrony.
From his celestial observatory, Vonnegut shook his head. “Democracy reduced to bowel movements. So it goes. Humanity thinks it’s free-willed, but it’s just a side hustle for bacteria.”
Asimov added: “History will record this not as the Age of Trump, but as the Candida Epoch, when yeast persuaded millions to confuse appetite for destiny.”
Vonnegut: “History written by the victors!”
Asimov: “Thus it has always been.”
Exit March
The victorious microbes, in their acidic chamber, cheered in unison. Their host slurped another Diet Coke, and the Republic of Donald’s Gut thrummed to an edgy, robotic, HipHop band.
[Intro]
Yeah…
People worry ‘bout plastic in the brain,
But the real toxin’s algorithms in your vein.
Uh. Let’s go!
[Hook]
You a bot in the system, running on code,
I’m the glitch in the wires, watch your program implode.
You just scroll, double-tap, think you ruling the lane,
But I’m the hacker of the culture, I be breaking your chain.
[Chorus]
PFAS, PFOS,
Plastic on the brain.
Forever are the chemicals
That flow inside your veins
[Verse 1]
People worry about microplastic on the brain,
They should worry about getting on the cyber train,
Algorithms make you lame
From the time your diapers change.
You a puppet on a timeline, slave to the feed,
I’m the one spitting truth while you swallowing greed.
Your likes don’t matter, they just keep you tame,
You a pawn in their game, I’ll expose the frame.
Your playlist generic, AI wrote your soul,
I’m bespoke with the flow, I take back control.
You the echo of a meme, I’m the voice of raw,
You a knockoff brand, I’m the glitch in the law.
[Hook]
You a bot in the system, running on code,
I’m the glitch in the wires, watch your program implode.
You just scroll, double-tap, think you ruling the lane,
But I’m the hacker of the culture, I be breaking your chain.
[Chorus]
PFAS, PFOS,
Plastic on the brain.
Forever are the chemicals
That flow inside your veins
[Verse 2]
You got followers, cool — but bought them in bulk,
That’s synthetic fame, fam, your flex is a joke.
I don’t chase no hearts, I don’t beg for views, I rewrite the script with the bars I choose.
Look — you autosave weak, can’t handle my storm,
I compress your whole style, turn it shocked, deformed.
While you buffering thoughts like a low-grade stream,
I’m the root administrator — rebooting your dream.
Plastic in the ocean, plastic in your spit,
But I’m the gut microbe that’ll never submit.
You antacid flows, man, you sound the same,
I’m the malware in your mind, dismantling your frame.
[Hook]
You a bot in the system, running on code,
I’m the glitch in the wires, watch your program implode.
You just scroll, double-tap, think you ruling the lane,
But I’m the hacker of the culture, I be breaking your chain.
See, you ain’t competition,
You Candita’s pet project…
I’m the mole inside you can’t predict.
You can’t fight chaos.
You can’t code this.
[Chorus]
PFAS, PFOS,
Plastic on the brain.
Forever are the chemicals
That flow inside your veins
[Verse 3 – Final Killshot: tight hi-hats, sliding 808s, futuristic synths, distorted reverb]
You synthetic, pathetic, a copy on loop,
I’m organic, volcanic, I spit truth uncoupled.
They programmed your ego, injected your pride,
But when updates fail, who’s left on the ride?
Not you — you crash, error screen, game’s done,
I rise from the wreckage like a nuclear sun.
So call this a warning, engrave it in stone,
I’m the glitch in your kingdom that dethrones your throne.
[Outro Hook / Chant]
Bot in the system — fade, decay,
I’m the glitch in the matrix — here to stay.
Bot in the system — fade, decay,
I’m the glitch in the matrix — here to stay.
(Fade out with echo, chants repeating)
So it was that the fate of nations came to rest inside one man’s colon, steered by creatures too small to see, but too stubborn to stop.
This week’s post was assisted by A.I. and the author’s gut biome.
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When humans are locked in a cage, the Earth continues to be beautiful. Therefore, the lesson for us is that human beings are not necessary. The air, soil, sky and water are still beautiful without you. So, when you step out of the cage, please remember that you are guests of the Earth, not its hosts.
We have a complete solution. We can restore whales to the ocean and bison to the plains. We can recover all the tremendous old-growth forests. We possess the knowledge and tools to rebuild savannah and wetland ecosystems. Coral reefs rebuilt with biorock build beaches faster than the seas are rising. It is not too late. All of these great works of nature are recoverable. We can have a human population sized to harmonize, not destabilize. We can have an atmosphere that heats and cools just the right amount, is easy on our lungs and sweet to our nostrils with the scent of ten thousand flowers. All of that beckons. All of that is within reach.
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