JD, baby. Sweetie. Honey. Darling. We are begging, pleading, on our knees, tearing at your Kohl’s clearance khakis: please do whatever the hell you did to the Pope to Donald Trump.

Was it your ominous aura? That stank-ass breath? The soul-sapping chill of your low-income white girl eyes? Or maybe it’s just the Maybelline. Whatever it was, bottle that shit and slip it into Trump’s next Big Mac combo, big guy.

Mind if we ask what the hold-up is? Because it sure didn’t take much to pack the Pope up like an Amazon return—on Easter, no less. So what’s going on with Donnie? Did Elon start keeping him warm at night? Are you not allowed to whisper sweet nothings into his Cheeto pores anymore?

Do you need motivation? We got you. Donuts? Communion wafers? A reasonably priced, fuckable couch?

Name it. It’s yours.

Just, please. For the love of a God we don’t even believe in, do something.