Your paper has plenty of gratis full-page ads for Ivanka’s sassy line of products.
Glenn McCoy’s political cartoons take up every square inch of your comics section.
You’ve managed to convince both of your teenage daughters to have their abortions reversed.
The only trans that your paper mentions are the Trans Ams in the automotive classified section.
Your Dear Abby column has been replace by Dear Kellyanne.
You honestly believe, and have the polygraph to prove it, that Sean Spicer isn’t a dead-eyed, spineless, heartless douchebag.
You work for an news network that will go unnamed here, but rhymes with “cocks”.
You believe that gay people shouldn’t get married, but also that people shouldn’t have sex until after marriage.
Your definition of “glory” applies to both your strongly held religious beliefs, as well as to the grimy hole that you drunkenly stuff your penis into more evenings than not.
Every time you walk into the press briefing room, the pentagram tattooed onto your chest begins to throb and pulse warmly.