. . .

But let’s revisit the brain. The idea that anyone would dismiss the possibility of a brain MRI in his case is the funniest part of this entire fairy-tale-turned-medical-horror-show.

This is a man whose cranial landscape is less “organ of cognition” and more intellectual skid row where common sense turned tricks for loose change. Inside that gilded skull is the cognitive gangbang of confusion, ego, lies, and erectile insecurity grinding under a flickering neon sign. His frontal lobe functions like a cerebral glory hole where stray thoughts wander in and never emerge, while the cortical motherboard sizzles like a cursed relic stolen from a museum basement. The entire operation is run out of an internal call center staffed by three disgruntled possums on a smoke break, misrouting calls and occasionally fighting over an old ham wrapper. And at the center of it all is the cranial snuff film where synapses go to get waterboarded by confusion.

. . .

And yet—somehow—we are supposed to accept this. Nod politely like enchanted villagers in a cursed kingdom and pretend it’s perfectly fine that the president of the United States cannot recall what body part doctors shoved into a machine that sounds like a demon trying to escape a steel coffin.

. . .

Because here’s what we can see with our own eyes—no MRI required: his posture has given up completely, collapsing like a lawn chair at an all-inclusive resort during “Free Margarita Hour,” and he forgets names and places like his brain outsourced memory to interns who stopped showing up. He falls asleep mid-question like his brain hits the fainting couch and demands smelling salts, lurching and slurring like a shopping cart with a busted wheel on black ice.

. . .