Once a legitimate blog. Now just a collection of memes 'n menz.
Almost period-appropriate for the player this morning.
I remember the drummer Enrique “Kiki” Garcia always give me the tingles down there. It’s funny how I realize now that for the most part, all of the actors and musicians who had such a profound effect on me in my 20s and 30s were my peers in age.
Timely.
he striking thing about the Donnyverse is how everyone in it totally fucking sucks.
at the top, you’ve got evil shit-kazoos like the piss-drunk Christofascist warmonger, the whale-head-chainsawing maniac who swims in raw sewage, and of course, the One Stinky Diaperload to Rule Them All.
but wait, there’s more: orbiting these fascist fucknuts are hundreds of fanatical cultists who will do anything to please Dear Leader.
here’s one of them. folks, I want you to meet Natalie Harp.
you know those infantile, fucked-up memes that will show up by the dozenson Donny’s crappy app in the middle of the night? that’s the creepy hand of Natalie Harp at work.
Most nights, the president fires off dozens of posts attacking his political enemies, amplifying conspiracy theories, spreading AI-slop videos and images, and boosting offensive content from obscure MAGA accounts on X and his own Truth Social platform.
But despite the odd hours, Trump isn’t doing it all alone, according to a new report in the Wall Street Journal.
His executive assistant Natalie Harp is the driving force behind some of his most incendiary content, including a racist video that depicted Barack and Michelle Obama as apes, and an AI-generated image of Trump as Jesus Christ, both of which Trump later took down.
that’s right, all those racist and misogynistic memes, all the Q-Anon batshit, all the Donny-as-Jesus AI slop — it’s Natalie who finds that twaddle and shows it to the big guy, because that’s her job: to keep Dear Leader stupid and happy.
Harp’s official title is Executive Assistant, but her unofficial title is The Human Printer, because she walks around — I shit you not — with a wireless printer, which she’ll use at a moment’s notice to show Donny all the dumb-ass shit she’s found on the internet.
any time Dear Leader is sundowning, or rage-spiraling, or just drooling uncontrollably while staring off into to space, it’s Natalie who hands him a printout of Barack the Ape, at which point Donny goes ‘hrr hrr hrr’ and his mood brightens. he finds that shit hilarious, and it calms him down.
once again, it’s just so eternally embarrassing. can you think of any other country on the planet whose leader is such a colicky toddler that they need to be rage-managed with internet-sourced dumbfuckery?
no, of course you can’t. only in America. we’re number one — when it comes to certifiably insane heads of state.
where does Donny find these people? well in, Natalie’s case, she’s been by Dear Leader’s side for years — ever since 2019, when he saw her on Fox News (because of course he did), where she was making a speech in which she claimed Donny cured her cancer.
it’s at this point that I should probably mention that Natalie Harp is every bit as bugfuck nuts as Donny is.
I did warn you that everyone in the Donnyverse totally fucking sucks.
Harp flew under our radar for years, but back in April 2024, when Donny was on trial for being a fraudulent fuck-knuckle, reporters noticed a woman — toting that famous portable printer — who was following him around.
that, my friends, was our first introduction to Natalie Harp.
Her name is Natalie Harp, a former One America News anchor who joined Trump’s communications team in March 2022. According to reporting that year by the Washington Post, Harp would even accompany the former reality TV host on golf trips in a cart “equipped with a laptop and sometimes a printer to show him uplifting news articles, online posts, or other materials.”
oh my god, she even follows Donny around the golf course — in her own specially-outfitted happy-printout cart.
so, that’s a perfectly normal thing, right? seriously, how fucking broken-inside do you have to be to require that kind of nonstop positive affirmation? this big, strong woman, tears in her eyes, actually travels with Donny while he’s cheating at golf, and goes ‘sir! sir! look at the nice thing catturd said about you on twitter! sir!’
Donny’s handlers are royally pissed off at Harp right now, because she’s fucking up their shit. her job may be to mollify Dear Leader, but theirjob is to hide his crazypants dementia from the world — and that’s a thing that gets harder and harder to do when she’s out here helping Donny to post fifty or more batshit memes in the middle of the night. oh, did I mention that Donny’s given her access to his Truth Social login? perfectly normal stuff.
the only thing all that late-night crazypants posting accomplishes is to remind the entire world that Donny is an out-of-control lunatic with no filters — but Natalie’s brain is too MAGA-pickled to realize she’s doing him no favors.
it also doesn’t help that Harp is apparently just as racist as Donny — nor does it help when half the shit she shows him can be traced by to Nazi accounts on twitter.
Donny’s inner circle has been begging Natalie to at least run this stuff by them before she and Donny put it all online, but she’s all ‘nuh-uh, I can do whatever I want, because Donny says I’m special.’
The frustration lies partly in the perceived chain of command: Harp does not share her drafts with anyone else in the White House but the president, claiming that she works for him and only him, reported the Journal.
Donny’s minders want this woman outta here, but don’t expect Dear Leader to shitcan her any time soon, because — trigger warning: be prepared to be nauseated.
Mr. Trump has dismissed concerns about Ms. Harp, whom he calls “sweetie” and treats like a daughter, according to people close to him.
first of all, ew.
and second of all, ewwwwwww.
does ‘treats like a daughter’ mean that Donny wants to quote-unquote ‘date’her — if that’s what we’re charitably calling it — and is constantly trying to grope her?
now get ready to crank the ‘ewww’ dial so far past 11 that it snaps off in your hand — because honestly, Natalie sounds like a creepy fucking stalker.
In 2023, Ms. Harp sent a series of letters to Mr. Trump that unnerved people around him, according to a half-dozen people with knowledge of them.
“You are all that matters to me,” she wrote in one of the letters, which were seen by The New York Times. The letters’ authenticity was confirmed by two people with direct knowledge of them.
“I don’t ever want to let you down,” Ms. Harp wrote, thanking Mr. Trump for being her “Guardian and Protector in this Life.”
In another letter, she told Mr. Trump that she wanted to get back to “that synergy” she used to have with him, where “we’d talk about everything and nothing.”
“I want to bring you joy,” she wrote, “to feel like we can get through a day without ever having to talk ‘work.’”
what. in the. actual. fuck. no wonder Donny’s handlers want her gone. how many red flags did you find in that excerpt? if someone wrote letters like that to you, you’d be taking out a restraining order, not giving them a job.
Natalie Harp is just as fucking nuts as Donny, and she’s making him look every bit as deranged as he actually is. none of this helps Donny one bit.so why does he keep allowing this to happen? because she reminds him of Ivanka.
ew.
as I sit here writing this, Donny is aboard Fuckface Force One, jetting back home to America after a two-day visit to Beijing that accomplished exactly jack shit — but at least Donny did get to embarrass himself in front of the world, so there’s that.
Trump: “Chinese restaurants in America today outnumber the five largest fast foods in the United States all combined. That’s a pretty big statement.” pic.twitter.com/iUTfalRu56
— Aaron Rupar (@atrupar) May 14, 2026
“just as many Chinese now love— basketball and blue jeans. Chinese restaurants in America today outnumber the five largest fast food chains— in the United States, all combined. that’s a pretty big state.”
who wrote this drek, Natalie Harp?
Donny really is the Ugliest American. he knows nothing about the world. he knows nothing about foreign cultures — and he doesn’t want to know.
Donny’s bragging because we eat a lot of beef chow mein here in the US. so fucking what?
Donny’s impressed because the Chinese like baseball and jeans? what is this, 1983? China is eating our lunch, and leading the world in things like electric cars and renewable energy. China is so far ahead of us in the health and technology sectors that it isn’t funny — but do prattle on about food, Donny. way to focus on what’s important, you ginormous doughy pantload.
this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:
practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.
to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.
we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.
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It’s now been 9 months since I was last able to swallow everything normally. While I initially balked at the thought of a g-tube when it was presented to me before my surgery last August, I reluctantly agreed “just in case.” (Actually, my surgeon said, “This is going to happen.”)
I’m glad it was done. My swallowing hasn’t been ideal for years from late-stage complications of the scar tissue (something no one ever warns you about) stemming from the radiation treatments for my other cancer back in 2004. I was occasionally aspirating, but also managing it well enough that during all that time I had only one incident of pneumonia that required a hospital stay. I’ve had two in the last 2 months, both times stemming from occasions when I actually did try to eat and swallow. I think I’ve learned my lesson.
My swallow therapist has been wonderful, but after deciding to give it one more try after an agreed-upon break for a few months, I think I’m ready to throw in the towel. Considering that last week some of a single bite of food that I chewed (to get the direct taste) and spit out, still managed to find its way down my windpipe—and this tells me it’s time to give up trying. The situation isn’t improving, isn’t ideal, but as Ben says, “It is what it is.”
I have learned several things over the past few months in the event that—the gods forbid—any of you find yourself in a similar situation. I’ll probably be adding to this list during the day as things come to me, but at least I can pass on my initial tips and tricks.
One thing no one really prepares you for is the utter lifestyle change that tube feeding brings. You don’t realize how much eating is part of the social fabric of our society, and being tied to a g-tube negates all that socializing (unless you’re willing and happy to just sit at a table and watch everyone else eat and drink; I am not). Weekend lunches out together and nightly dinners were a source of joy and one of the few times that Ben and I could just sit together and unwind from the day, sharing thoughts, experiences, and frustrations. Ben can still cook for us both (something he loves to do), but mine needs to be pureed so it will go through the tube. We still eat at the same time, but since the g-tube can be messy with “real” food, it’s best done standing at the kitchen counter while Ben sits at the dining room table. Not exactly conducive to sharing. We still occasionally go out to eat, but I always get my meal to go so I can take it home and puree the fuck out of it (see below).
Now, some tips, in no particular order:
Now, about that taste thing. Theoretically you shouldn’t be able to taste anything that goes directly into your stomach via a g-tube, but I’ve found (and this has been corroborated by my nutritionist who’s heard the same from other patients) that oftentimes you do get a hint of taste from things. See: coffee (thank the gods).
I guess that’s about it for now. If I can think of anything else to pass on, I’ll add it.
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Alan Parsons Project: Pyramid (1978)
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Shapiro should volunteer to go out with a roofing crew in FL this July to help them out for a few days to get an introduction to reality. Or work the overnight shift in a hospital emergency room. Or teach 8th graders.
— Ron Filipkowski (@ronfilipkowski.bsky.social) May 13, 2026 at 8:45 AM
He wouldn’t last four hours.
Carpenters: Carpenters (1971)
Damn, I’m old.
This was the first Carpenters album I bought, and in many ways is still my favorite.
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Definitely a product of the 1970s…
Dire Straits: Brothers In Arms (1985)
On May 13, 1985, Dire Straits Released Their 5th Album, “Brothers in Arms.” It spent 9 weeks atop the Billboard 200 album chart, and has sold over 30 Million copies worldwide. It was also the first album to sell over 1 Million copies in CD format.
This Puglian Villa was completely renovated in 2021, stripped back to its essentials and recrafting the low-slung pared-back spaces in natural materials. After a period as a holiday retreat, Villa Castelluccio is back on the market offering up peace and solitude amid five acres of olive groves outside Ceglie Messapica in Puglia.
The three-bedroom bungalow still exhibits the pared-back warmth with soft tones, thick walls, local handiwork and thoughtful proportions where steady streams of light enter the home through a series of openings. At the center is a living room that leads directly into an open kitchen, where concrete countertops and sinks made by local artisans are paired with brass fittings and simple joinery. The kitchen and connected dining room form the house’s gathering point. There are two very large bedrooms in the main building , each with an en suite bathroom, while the third bedroom studio sits a few meters away with its own shower room and secluded terrace.
More terraces extend from the house under timber pergolas, creating outdoor rooms for cooking, dining and lingering during the hotter months. A partially enclosed pool area sits deeper in the olive grove, edged by drought-tolerant gardens.
The villa is within easy reach of Ostuni, Martina Franca and both coasts, and can be yours for a hair more than $1.7M USD.
(click to embiggen)
[Source]
Like many truthful things, the reply arrived housed in humor but left a terrible lingering aftertaste of regret.
I was joking, but I also wasn’t lying.
I wonder if that resonates with you: the grief of remembering the person you used to be before this sickening season began; of wondering what in the hell happened to that previous iteration of yourself?
When I think about the millions of people I’ve crossed paths with over the last decade doing this work, there is such a through line of loss. Whether it was saying goodbye to the idea of God or country or family, to a belief in the goodness of people, to their sense of optimism about the future, to relationships with people they once felt fully at home around, they have been attending a long-running funeral that never fully ends.
But of the legion of lamentations they’ve shared with me, the greater mourning I have sensed in people is the loss of their former selves.
There is a cost to enduring the unceasing storm of Constitutional crises, acts of treason, atrocities against vulnerable people, and cultic indoctrination of tens of millions of people we share a nation with.
In our earnest and valiant efforts to confront this incessant ugliness, we have been transformed, and often not for the better. Oh, sure, these days have helped us clarify our convictions, distill what truly matters to us, and enabled us to tap into the strength and perseverance we’d likely never have discovered otherwise—but they’ve also rightly beaten the hell of out us in the process.
When I consider the person I was a decade ago and compare him to the person in the mirror (well, aside from looking forty years older), I can’t help but notice the latter doesn’t laugh as easily as the former, he is far less naive about his friends and family members, he finds it far more difficult to give people the benefit of the doubt, he doesn’t see the horizon of history as wide open as he used to.
I begin to grieve that version of myself and feel a bit guilty for losing the earlier one along the way, but I also know exactly how it happened:
He had to watch his former church friends collectively sell their souls to a vile, profane, serial predator, as if he were the Second Coming.
He sat at dozens of holiday tables listening to uncles and in-laws deliver well-rehearsed racist rants as easily as breathing.
He scrolled through hundreds of hours of the most asinine and baseless conspiracy theories about face masks, vaccines, rigged elections, and Democrat child trafficking networks.
He overheard his white neighbors of stratospheric privilege, rambling about the dangerous immigrants supposedly overrunning our town.
He began countless days reading about incomprehensible Supreme Court rulings, the passing of mindbogglingly hateful legislation, and the political victories of sociopaths and criminals.
All that shit leaves a mark.
And as I inventory ten years of exposure to senseless cruelty and prolific discrimination, it suddenly makes perfect sense what happened to that previous incarnation of me: he gradually faded away in the face of too much hatred winning too many times.
So, today, I am missing and mourning that younger, more hopeful version of myself, and I’m also worried that even this tired-but-not-ready-to-give-up iteration of me will also burn up in the inhospitable atmosphere of this national sickness, yielding someone whose heart is harder and whose sense of belonging in this place is even more tenuous than it is today.
But future me is none of my business, because today is waiting on me.
Right now, all I can do, all any of us can do, is to wake up within the day before us and appeal to the better still angels within our reach, to wield the damaged but still functioning humanity in our possession, to access all the goodness, courage, and faith we can still muster.
If there’s any blessing in lamenting the version of ourselves and of the nation we’ve lost over the last ten years, it’s in realizing we can’t afford to squander a day, waste a moment, or allow a single act of inhumanity to go unchallenged.
I miss the person I used to be before this nightmare began, but I’ll be damned if I let these heartbreaking days and the people authoring them take any more.
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Don’t get me wrong. I have no love for AI, but it does have its uses. Specifically, I use the Generative AI feature in Photoshop to get rid of unwanted elements and fix glaring damage in photos that can’t be eliminated by Photoshop’s other, conventional tools.
I also use the feature to extend images that are otherwise too small to use for some of the header images you see on this blog.
On the other hand, I still remain staunchly anti-AI for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the environmental damage the datacenters that run these AI models is causing. Does this make me a hypocrite? Probably.
I used ChatGPT in the past to create images that left my jaw on the floor (like when I recreated my sketches and artwork, or more recently created the Grace Jones/Joan Jett thing), but I try to use it sparingly (as entertaining as it may be) because while I don’t think we have anything to fear from AI itself, I trust the people funding and running AI and their motivations about as far as I can throw one of those datacenters.
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I have noticed more people wearing masks in public over the past couple weeks. Since I now have a compromised immune system I should probably start as well…
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