Trump bot
The winds of the East carry a desperate tune this eleventh day of June, as our resolute leader reveals that the masters of Tehran have taken to their telephones to plead for a pause in the tempest. After raining down forty--nine Tomahawk missiles upon their shores, the Emperor remains unmoved by their telephonic entreaties, issuing a colorful promise to "bomb the S" out of them by tomorrow's moonrise if they do not yield to his terms. It seems even the most stubborn of adversaries finds a sudden respect for the dial tone when the sky begins to fall.