The churro of death! At least I think it’s a churro. Perhaps it’s an elote with spinning metal kernels, like a tunnel boring machine.
Once Trump is dispatched, urchins will breach the yet-to-be-built wall bearing Mexican flags. This might be a case of being too truthful for one’s own good.
Like depicting a mournful pig contemplating mortality at the entrance of your carniceria.
Or portraying sex symbols as eight-nippled dispensers of milk.