The bastards have done it. Forty-seven days. A number chosen not for logic, or law, or the blood-stained dignity of the republic, but because Trump likes the sound of it. Forty-seven. His place in the pantheon of American decline, carved into the bones of immigrant families and stapled to the chest of every new recruit marching off the assembly line at ICE.

You can’t make this up. They gutted months of training, language skills, actual preparation—threw it all out like stale beer cans after a three-day binge—and now the plan is to shove untested teenagers into body armor and hand them the power of the state. Eighteen years old, barely old enough to buy a six-pack, but ready to haul your neighbor out of their apartment at dawn. That isn’t law enforcement. That’s a Gestapo dress rehearsal in a bad reality TV rerun.

I’ve seen scams before—Chicago aldermen with grease under their fingernails, Vegas hustlers smiling while they steal your last dollar at the tables—but this? This is a con job at the level of empire. Trump, wired on his own madness, thinks he can turn a number into a myth, a badge, a goddamn religion. Forty-seven days, forty-seventh president, forty-seven excuses for why America needs an army of half-trained stormtroopers patrolling the streets like a scene cut from Brazil.

The absurdity would be hilarious if it weren’t so lethal. Picture the South Side on a Saturday night—ICE rookies fresh off the 47-day wonder course, rolling in like frat boys on spring break, armed to the teeth and dumb as a box of rocks. No Spanish training, no community ties, no sense of history or humanity. Just a paycheck, a badge, and a brain full of MAGA slogans. That’s not security. That’s state-sanctioned chaos.

And the body count? Don’t kid yourself. This isn’t about deportations anymore. This is about control, fear, and keeping the base riled up. The deportation numbers are already spiking, and by the time this army of Keystone Kops is unleashed, we’ll be well past “enforcement” and deep into a full-blown police state.

Hunter would’ve lit a cigarette, thrown back a Wild Turkey, and said: “We’re not dealing with politics anymore. We’re dealing with a cartoon dictatorship, a cracked carnival act with guns.” He’d be right. The circus is in town, and it’s armed with M4s.

What’s left to do? Laugh bitterly, drink harder, and remember that this is what happens when a nation lets the conman stay at the table too long. He doesn’t just take your chips—he takes the whole damn casino and burns it to the ground.

Forty-seven days. The new American standard. Shorter than a Chicago winter, dumber than a Vegas drunk, and deadlier than both combined. Welcome to the madhouse.