Скачать или смотреть Quantum Psychology | Why Does Donald Trump Think Its OK to Crap on Us?

#QuantumPsychology #TrumpAnalysis #PoliticalSatire #SymbolicDefecation #EgoAndWaste #CollectiveCatharsis #ModernMythology #PowerAndProjection #ScatologicalPolitics #DrainTheSwamp #PurityAndFilth #ArchetypeOfFlow #TheSewerReturns #TrumpAsTrickster #MediaAlchemy #Psychoanalysis #CulturalPsychology #AbjectionAndAuthority #DivineLeakage #ToiletOfHistory #FoolAsKing #WasteAsRevelation

Donald Trump doesn’t just say outrageous things—he emits them. His psychology is not linear, it’s hydraulic. Every insult, meme, and truth-social tantrum functions like a bowel movement of the ego, a release of inner pressure disguised as communication. He mistakes excretion for expression, and his audience mistakes overflow for authenticity. The quantum trick of his psyche is simple: because his self exists only while leaking, he must never stop. Stillness feels like death; silence, like constipation.

This compulsion to discharge—the verbal sludge, the moral sewage—is the residue of a man who equates flow with life-force. When Trump “craps on” someone, he’s asserting vitality through elimination. His insults are psychic laxatives, clearing the blockage of doubt. Every rally, tweet, or meme serves as psychic peristalsis. To project filth is to feel clean; to humiliate is to heal the self. He doesn’t hate the people he shits on—he needs them. Without them, the flow stops.

In classical psychological terms, Trump is trapped in an eternal anal phase, but quantumly speaking, he occupies all phases at once. He is the baby both holding it and letting it go; the god both leaking and cleansing. His mind doesn’t distinguish between the act of creation and the act of evacuation. He feels he builds by dumping. That’s why every policy becomes a purge, every truth a bowel movement. He confuses dominance with digestion.

Socially, the reason it “works” is that the crowd feels the same internal pressure. They too have been constipated by politeness, paralyzed by etiquette. When he craps publicly, they experience catharsis by proxy. He is their gastrointestinal avatar, the collective gut onstage. His vulgarity is mistaken for courage because we’ve all been trained to hold it in. In watching him release, they believe they’re free.

But psychologically, the king’s flush always carries risk. Projection is a temporary high; it purges but never purifies. The more he dumps, the more he must, because every release empties him further. His psyche is a leaking loop—ego, insult, applause, void. He cannot stop until there is nothing left but the echo of flow. What he calls strength is just the hum of the sewer under pressure.

Trump craps on us because, deep down, he thinks it’s how gods maintain order: through controlled discharge, symbolic defecation as dominance. But the ancient truth remains—the one the priests, poets, and plumbers all knew—every act of expulsion invites return. Shit circles back. The sewer is the soul’s infinity mirror, and every sovereign eventually slips on what he’s thrown.