George woke to the sound of drumming. Not

George woke to the sound of drumming. Not birdsong, like most mornings, or even a bustling band of cyclists parading down the street at 6 AM. He pulled back the drapes and saw

that they were after him. One of the townsfolk spoke through a megaphone. "We hate you, George! And we want you to leave!" People waved "Get out, George!" banners. A brass band

played a musical explaining just how much they hated George. George was truly depressed. "Why does no-one like me?" he asked himself, packing his possessions. George, with his head

hanging at a right angle from his shoulders, began his soliloquy.The room darkened & a spotlight shone down on him."Nobuddy loves me. Everybuddy hates me. Guess I'll go eat worms.

He expected his life to flash before his eyes, but no such thing happened. Then he started thinking that maybe this rule doesn't apply when you try to commit suicide. Was he crazy?

e checked himself into the nicest lunatic bin he could find, Club Mad. Club Mad had designer straightjackets and rubber rooms overlooking the ocean. Sure, it was expensive, but

wasn't affluence and the pursuit of a type of madness anyway? Nothing says success like excess right? He wondered if his dr. would be wearing Armani or Levi Strauss. He was hoping

to get away with wearing sweatpants. Yeah, people would gawk and talk about him behind his back. But, being comfortable was his top priority. Especially with the news of his

book release clamoring to slip free of his lips. WHY SWEATPANTS CEMENT YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA CRED. Was an instant hit. With the fame of this book alone he was able to defeat Trump.