Voenix Rising

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Late last night, Mr. “Russia, Russia, Russia” signed an executive order waiving sanctions against Vladimir Putin, because this perfidious, Putin-fluffing pile of presidential pork fat couldn’t bear the thought of his favorite murderous dictator suffering so much as a financial fucking inconvenience while his military continues slaughtering Ukrainians.

So he waited until Friday night, when Americans were busy recovering from another week of surviving his shitshow, and quietly loosened the financial screws on his Russian Master before scurrying back to his padded kennel to await further instructions.

Because Donald Trump has always been Vladimir Putin’s bitch.

And at this point, how much more fucking obvious does it have to get? We’ve been standing beneath a Russian sewage pipe for the better part of a decade, getting blasted in the face with industrial-grade excrement, and half the country is still squinting at the sky, asking whether anybody else thinks it smells funny.

Motherfucker, you’ve got a turd hanging off your eyebrow.

He’s the gimp from Pulp Fiction, except we’re all trapped in the basement with him, and this gelatinous, genuflecting cuck is sweating Sunny D through a latex onesie two sizes too small, packed in like kielbasa at a Lambeau tailgate, squeaking every time he bends and twirling in his Bedazzled ball gag like it’s prom night at the Moscow Marriott.

Welcome to Kneepad Diplomacy™, where the most powerful nation on Earth is being run into the ground by a Tang-glazed, tongue-lolling tuffet of treachery with a praise kink who’d trade the Statue of Liberty for a firm swat on the rump and a slab of chocolate cake the size of a hubcap.

He had American service members on their hands and knees in Alaska rolling out the welcome mat for his death-dealing, democracy-devouring despot, while that Crisco-cushioned quisling stood ready to have PROPERTY OF VLAD monogrammed on his kneeling pad.

That red carpet was foreplay, because this apricot ass-kisser isn’t even meeting Putin halfway; he’s crawling the entire fucking distance with American foreign policy between his teeth, stopping every few feet to check whether Daddy needs his slippers, another concession, perhaps a sovereign democracy diced into bite-sized pieces and served on a silver tray he licked clean himself, anything for a scratch behind the ears from the Botoxed little bastard holding his leash before retreating beneath the staircase to wait for somebody to tell him he’s been a very good boy.

And the evidence of this groveling, groaning, geopolitical degradation has been piling up for years, from Don Junior, that chinless, coke-eyed princeling of inherited privilege, bragging about Russian money to oligarchs circulating through Trump-branded properties like the guest list for a fucking money-laundering swingers’ convention, while the whole family developed a conveniently catastrophic case of selective Slavic amnesia.

This collared, capitulating little pay pig has spent decades glazing, glorifying, and giving Vladimir Putin the geopolitical equivalent of a complimentary rim job, and now the relationship has progressed to him telling Ukraine to stop hitting the Russian refineries helping bankroll the invasion that’s killing Ukrainian children.

Ukraine paused during a ceasefire Trump announced with the confidence of somebody who’d personally negotiated it with God, except Putin hadn’t agreed to jack shit, Russia kept bombing, and Zelenskyy resumed hitting the refineries, which, who the fuck could blame him? If somebody’s trying to kill your family, you hit them where it hurts.

And this Kremlin-coddling coward called it a disgrace, a real Emily Post moment from somebody scolding an invaded country for the brass-balled, bloody-minded gall of declining to die while Vladimir balances his books and bills the corpses.

But the same orange arsonist who helped send fuel prices soaring with his Iran war now wants to moonwalk out of the smoke clutching a Russian jerrycan like a carnival goldfish and pretend he’s rescuing American families from expensive diesel.

Spare me the steaming tanker truck of horseshit. None of this is about helping Americans here. It’s all about helping Vlad win over there.

And this obsequious, orange-hued oil fluffer is working the arrangement with both teeny-tiny hands wrapped around Vladimir’s Johnson, tongue poking out in concentration like a cake decorator piping the last buttercream rose onto a six-tier wedding cake, begging us to admire his energy policy.

Which makes the latest development in this grotesque geopolitical peep show especially revealing, because while Donnie Two Scoops was failing to persuade Zelenskyy to roll over like a good boy, multiple outlets traced the order to slow Ukraine’s military satellite service to the White House, which was interesting enough before the Telegraph reported that Elon Musk, our great white beluga cast as the dying E.T., had approached Trump with the idea and Trump agreed.

What did that conversation sound like? “Sir, Zelenskyy won’t stop bombing Vladimir’s refineries, but what if we slow down the technology Ukraine uses to stop Russian drones? Maybe a few more exploding apartment buildings will teach him to listen.”

And that’s how Ukrainian interceptors reportedly ended up struggling to chase Russian drones that could continue toward civilian neighborhoods like they’d made a fucking dinner reservation, while the machines trying to STOP them got sentenced to a timeout they never earned.

But after a night of carnage in Kyiv, Elon “Horses for Handjobs” Musk, that pallid, plutocratic pile of unseasoned poultry with a breeding fetish and a bank balance large enough to purchase his own applause, suddenly became terribly concerned about European customers.

European customers.

Jesus Christ. A city is being terrorized, and this profit-panicked purveyor of overpriced electric appliances is worried somebody in Düsseldorf might buy an Audi. What does a Ukrainian mother have to do to get your attention, asshole? Staple a canceled purchase order to her child’s fucking coat?

And did Musk want to punish Ukraine because it knocked out one of his Russian bot farms? Is that why he’s so obsessed with getting rid of Zelenskyy? Imagine spending billions buying yourself an audience only to discover somebody bombed the data center housing your fucking fan club.

But when the world started asking who’d been fucking with Ukraine’s defenses, suddenly nobody wanted credit. Musk pointed at Washington, Trump pointed at anybody but himself, and the two of them became the Spider-Man meme, except both Spider-Men were counterfeit, beer-bellied bastards outside the Times Square Olive Garden, hustling fentanyl to tourists between twenty-dollar photo ops and screaming about whose fucking shift it was.

And that’s when the belligerent bouffant with security clearance announced he didn’t know who’d given the order.

You don’t fucking KNOW?

He’d rather have us believe he’s not running his own administration than admit what agreeing to that slowdown would mean: the United States helping Putin kill Ukrainian women, children, and other civilians trying to survive in their own free country.

Can you imagine Biden giving that answer? Fox would interrupt its own interruption, and Hannity would need a fresh shirt and a priest. This is the “perfect phone call” all the fuck over again. Except worse.

And now His Flatulent Fraudulence insists Starlink is running perfectly normally, always has been, nothing to see here, while Zelenskyy says it STILL isn’t back to normal and Ukrainian tests across the European border show the connection working at speeds that cause it to cut out inside Ukraine.

What the fuck is that? A geographically selective nervous breakdown? Does the satellite recognize the Ukrainian border and develop performance anxiety?

Did these two evil idiots think they could pull the Airplane! routine, unplug the runway lights, plug them back in, and chirp “Just kidding!” while everybody struggles to land?

Oopsie! Did we interfere with your ability to stop explosives heading toward your children? Everybody relax! We plugged the fucking thing back in! Well, most of it. Actually, we never unplugged it. And if somebody did, nobody knows who!

So the United States bombed a school in Iran, and now we’re helping Putin bomb schools in Ukraine.

Is THIS what being “great again” looks like?

There is no “Russia hoax,” just a United States president serving Vladimir Putin’s interests while flag-fellating fuckwits defend him from the evidence of their own goddamn eyes.

And they’re counting on the rest of us being too busy surviving to notice, with your kid needing shoes, the insurance company denying the claim, the car making that noise again, and another national betrayal becoming something you’ll find the strength to think about somewhere between the third transfer and the fifth rendition of instrumental “Careless Whisper.”

They’re manufacturing the chaos and exploiting our exhaustion, because they don’t need our approval if they can make giving a shit one more thing Americans can’t afford.

And while our troops are dying in his illegal, unconstitutional, endless war with Iran, Trump claims he doesn’t “THINK” Russia or China are helping Tehran, despite American intelligence indicating otherwise.

That’s like me deciding I’m not a natural brunette because I prefer being blonde. Somebody tell my fucking roots. They keep rudely submitting evidence to the contrary.

But this cranial custard cup clarifies that even if they ARE helping, “it’s at a very low level.”

IF THEY ARE?!

You’re the commander in chief of the United States of America, you ambulatory mound of presidential pudding, not somebody divining national security intelligence from the sediment in his Diet Coke.

What constitutes an acceptable amount of help killing American troops? Does Putin get complimentary Pentagon coordinates after his third missile shipment, a commemorative challenge coin, and a voucher for two nights at Mar-a-Lago?

Nancy Pelosi said “all roads lead to Putin,” and she wasn’t guessing. She was reading the name engraved on his little leather collar.

And now we’re calling it “peace talks,” because the murderer apparently requires another financial inducement to stop murdering, while the country being invaded is supposed to offer up portions of itself like somebody carving the fucking Thanksgiving turkey.

Imagine marauders break into your house, kill your dog, kidnap your children, and start firing missiles into your kitchen, while Putin’s piss-yellow property manager steps over the wreckage and asks what YOU’RE prepared to concede.

Concede? Motherfucker, I LIVE HERE.

What do you offer? Alternate weekends with the refrigerator? Perhaps the burglars will let you keep the garage if you acknowledge their legitimate security concerns, while this bootlicking sack of sedition measures your living room for Putin’s sectional and explains that insisting the intruders leave makes YOU unreasonable.

It has never been about peace. It’s about giving Putin a piece of another country.

“Our country has to survive,” Zelenskyy says, having to remind the United States of America that his country’s continued existence isn’t an unreasonable fucking request.

Oh, how very far we have fallen.

And the red-white-and-brainless contingent tells us to “cry harder,” while I’d ask where the fuck Republicans in Congress are, but their heads are so far up their own asses they could check their prostates with their eyelashes, which must make reading the Constitution difficult, although I’m reasonably certain these craven, cringing, constitutionally constipated little courtiers would rather bend over the Resolute Desk and chirp “Yes, sir! May I have another?” than risk displeasing the spray-tanned submissive running their party.

Remember when we fought fascism?

We sent our men and boys across an ocean to liberate people living under tyranny, boys writing home about the lives they hoped to resume, reassuring mothers they were terrified they’d never see again, and now a five-time draft-dodging, bone-spurred coward expects us to admire his willingness to accommodate a dictator invading a European democracy.

We once sent Americans to help get other people off their knees. This servile sack of surrender wants us to join him on his, as though the flag that covered their coffins were another piece of fabric he could spread at Putin’s feet.

He can lower himself until his belt buckle scrapes the floor, crane his neck for a crumb of approval from a murderer who regards him as useful equipment, and spend whatever remains of his dignity begging for a biscuit he’s been trained not to reach for.

But he keeps reaching behind him for the rest of us, expecting an entire country to bend until we can no longer look the people we abandoned in the eye.

Fuck that. His submission does not come with OUR consent.

He’s convinced we’re too exhausted to care and too powerless to stop him, that traitorous, treacherous, treasonous, tyrant-teabagging toady, certain the American people will fold while he pawns off the birthright of an entire nation for another approving grunt from the Kremlin butcher.

But this nepo-baby beneficiary of inherited billions, this spectacularly incompetent casino-bankrupting bastard who somehow managed to lose money in a business where the fucking house always wins, is betting against the American people.

And once again, he’s betting wrong.

In the meantime, the question isn’t how far Donald Trump is willing to lower himself for Vladimir Putin.

The question is: How much of America does he think we’re willing to let him take down there with him?

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Stay safe out there, stay strong, and stay connected to each other!

Continued radio silence from the bullies I will keep you updated, I promise!

💙 Jo

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