Listen up, because the political circus that’s currently grinding America’s teeth into a raw, metallic grindstone is about to get a fresh coat of puke‑smell and bile. Donald MouthAnus, the perpetual head giver to all things fuckery, and self‑appointed fiscal antihero, has decided to pull a stunt that makes the worst reality‑TV plot twists look like children’s bedtime stories. He wants to yank a $5 billion “pocket rescission” out of the federal budget—without asking Congress for permission—so he can keep the government from shutting its doors on September 30th.

That phrase—pocket rescission—sounds like something some random fuckwad bureaucrat invented while half‑asleep and dosing large amounts of LSD, but it’s actually a thinly veiled attempt to re‑appropriate money that Congress already approved. In plain English: Trump wants to reach into the Treasury, yank out cash earmarked for the State Department and USAID, and say, “Not today, mother‑fuckers. Today is my day.” He claims it’s a clever way to avoid a shutdown, but the reality is that he’s trying to play God with the nation’s purse strings, a power that the Constitution explicitly gave to the legislative branch, not the guy who lives in a gold‑plated tower in Mar‑A‑Lago.

Now, before we dive into why this is a legal train wreck waiting to happen, let’s set the goddamned stage. The Senate is already a pressure cooker of nerves, with Republican senators like Lisa Murkowski and Mike Rounds shouting “unlawful!” from the rooftops. Sassy Murkowski, who usually keeps her cool, is practically spitting out the word illegal like it’s a curse she can’t shake off. Rounds is warning that this move hands Democrats a fresh ammo belt to torpedo any bipartisan spending deal and push the whole thing straight into a shutdown ass-fuck. And guess what? The government shutdown isn’t just a bureaucratic inconvenience; it’s a real‑world nightmare that slams federal workers’ paychecks, freezes services for millions, and turns the country into a chaotic mess of unpaid bills and angry citizens.

But Trump’s real‑time goal isn’t just to dodge a shutdown. He’s also testing the limits of executive power—a power he’s been flirting with since day one of his presidency. The idea of a president stealing the spending authority from Congress and handing it to himself reads like a dystopian novel, but Trump seems to think it’s a viable political strategy. He’s basically saying, “Why bother with the messy, slow, democratic process of passing a budget when I can just snap my fingers and re‑allocate billions? Governments let you do that. You can just grab em by the bank vaults. I just moved in on that vault and violated it. You can do that you know, when you are President.” That’s the kind of authoritarian fantasy that makes constitutional scholars break out in cold sweats.

The legal scaffolding that holds the “power of the purse” together is massive. Article I, Section 9 of the Constitution says, “No Money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in Consequence of Appropriations made by Law.” It’s not a suggestion; it’s a hard‑wired rule that ensures the government stays answerable to the people’s elected representatives. Over the years, the Supreme Court has hammered this point home, most famously in Clinton v. City of New York (1998), where it struck down the line‑item veto as an unconstitutional usurpation of congressional authority. The Impoundment Control Act (ICA) further shackles any president who tries to withhold funds without explicit congressional approval. The GAO has already declared pocket rescissions illegal, and it’s not just a bureaucratic footnote—it’s a binding legal determination.

So, what does Trump’s pocket‑rescission plan actually look like on the ground? He wants to pull $5 billion from programs that the State Department and USAID have already been given the green light to spend. He argues that this will keep the government open past the September 30 deadline, but the real motive appears to be a power play: a way to show he can still move the needle even after losing the Oval Office. It’s a classic “if you can’t win the election, win the narrative” maneuver, and it’s as reckless as it is arrogant.

If Trump were to systematically strip Congress of its spending authority, the fallout would be a legal avalanche. Courts would likely issue immediate injunctions, the GAO would sue, and the Supreme Court would probably hear the case—because nothing gets the judiciary’s attention faster than a sitting ex‑president trying to rewrite the Constitution on a whim. The political backlash would be equally ferocious: Democrats would rally around the “defense of democracy,” Republicans would be split between those who love Trump’s bravado and those who fear the long‑term damage to institutional norms, and the public would be left watching a constitutional crisis unfold in real time.

In short, Trump’s pocket‑rescission scheme is a high‑risk gamble that could ignite a constitutional showdown, deepen partisan divides, and possibly trigger the very shutdown he claims to be avoiding. It’s a blunt instrument wielded by a man who thinks he can rewrite the rules of the game whenever it suits him. The next sections will dig into the legal precedents, the mechanics of the ICA, and the terrifying hypothetical of a president who decides he alone should control the nation’s spending. Buckle up—this ride is going to get FUGLY.

Alright, let’s drop the theatrical smoke and get our hands dirty in the actual law that makes Trump’s $5 billion grab‑it-by-the-pussy a straight‑up illegal cunt stunt. If you’ve ever skimmed a Constitution or watched a Supreme Court drama, you’ll know the United States built a massive steel cage around the “power of the purse.” Trump is trying to smash that cage with a sledgehammer made of ego, Twitter bravado and his shitty diaper. Spoiler alert: the cage doesn’t crack.

Article I, § 9, clause 7 says, “No Money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in Consequence of Appropriations made by Law.” That’s not a polite “please” or a “maybe.” It’s a hard‑wired rule that forces the government to spend only what Congress explicitly authorizes. The Founders weren’t messing around—they wanted to keep the executive from playing fiscal roulette with taxpayers’ hard‑earned dollars.

If Trump thinks he can just reach into the Treasury and yank $5 billion because “the country needs it,” he’s basically ignoring the Constitution like it’s a tit slapping footnote. That’s the same as a kid stealing cookies from the jar and claiming “I’m just helping the family.” It’s theft, plain and simple.

Fast forward to 1998. The Clinton administration tried to give the president a line‑item veto, letting him strike individual spending items out of a bill after it passed Congress. The Supreme Court said, “Nope, you can’t do that.” In a unanimous decision, the Court held that the line‑item veto violated the Presentment Clause—the constitutional requirement that a bill become law exactly as Congress passed it.

The logic is crystal clear: once Congress says “yes,” the president can’t say “no” to parts of it. Pocket rescission is the modern, sneaky cousin of the line‑item veto. Instead of striking a line item on a bill, Trump wants to retroactively rescind money that’s already been appropriated. The Court’s ruling in Clinton v. City of New York is a direct, unambiguous rebuke to that kind of behavior.

Congress learned its lesson after the Reagan era, when President Ronald Reagan impounded (withheld) billions in housing funds, prompting a showdown with Congress. The result? The Impoundment Control Act of 1986, a statutory “steel cage” that tells the president exactly how and when he can hold back money.

The ICA does not grant the president any power to permanently cancel appropriations. It’s a procedural safeguard, not a free‑for‑all. Trump’s pocket rescission is a direct violation of the ICA because he’s trying to annihilate $5 billion without congressional consent. The GAO has already labeled such rescissions illegal, and that label carries the weight of administrative law—the agency can bring a civil suit, and the courts have historically sided with Congress.

Back in 1975, President Gerald Ford impounded $2 billion in housing funds. The GAO sued, and the U.S. Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit ruled that the president had no authority to withhold appropriated funds absent explicit congressional approval. The court’s decision reinforced the ICA’s supremacy and showed that the judiciary will enforce it.

If Trump tries to pull the same stunt, the same legal machinery will kick into gear: the GAO files a suit, a district court issues an injunction, and the president is forced to release the money or face contempt of court. The legal costs, political fallout, and potential for a constitutional crisis far outweigh any short‑term political gain.

Given the clear precedents—Clinton v. City of New York, the ICA, and the GAO cases—the Supreme Court would almost certainly reject any argument that the president has inherent authority to rescind appropriations. The Court has repeatedly emphasized the separation of powers and the necessity of congressional control over spending. A case that directly challenges the president’s attempt to usurp that power would be ripe for a decisive ruling—and the ruling would almost certainly reinforce congressional supremacy.

Even if Trump somehow dodges an immediate injunction, the political repercussions would be catastrophic:

The Constitution, the Supreme Court’s jurisprudence, the Impoundment Control Act, and the GAO’s enforcement authority form a cohesive, interlocking defense against any president trying to play fiscal flab dictator. Trump’s pocket‑rescission plan is not a bold policy innovation; it’s a reckless gamble that flies in the face of decades of legal consensus.

If he proceeds, he’s inviting a cascade of lawsuits, injunctions, and possibly him being bent over the oval office desk, and fucked in the ass with no astroglide—all for the sake of a few billion dollars and a fleeting political piss-ant victory. The courts will likely slam the door shut on his attempt (and hopefully his fingers, so he will quit playing golf and actually do some work like an honest man), and Congress will double‑down on its authority, leaving Trump with nothing but political bruises and a legacy of constitutional defiance.

Because Donald is a twatwaffle, and we all know it.