If the Democrats don’t use this top photo in midterm ads far and wide there’s no hope for them…

‘look for the helpers.’

those are the sage words of Mister Rogers. it’s what his mother always told him, he said, when as a child he would see scary things in the news. ‘look for the helpers. you will always find people who are helping.’

it’s true. when scary stuff goes down, there are always helpers.

but do you know what else you’ll find, when shit goes sideways? some demented fuckbag who stands around and does nothing, because he absolutely could not care one iota about helping.

which brings us to the photo at the top of this post.

yesterday, Donny made a great show of announcing that he’d reached a concept of a sketch for a framework for lowering the price of weight-loss drugs.

the whole thing could have been a press release, or an email, but it wasn’t — because for the bottomless well of need in the White House, everything has to be a spectacle. this announcement had to be a made-for-TV production, where big, strong, teary-eyed pharmaceutical executives take turns praising Dear Leader for being the greatest sketcher of frameworks of all time. ‘sir! sir! you framework those concepts like no one thought possible! how do you do it? sir!’

look, lowering the price of weight-loss drugs is all well and good, but our nation has more pressing needs right now. for instance, how about Preznit Fuckwit pays out those SNAP benefits, as he’s been court-ordered to — because 43 million Americans are already losing weight through a thing called the I Can’t Afford To Buy Food Diet.

anyway, Donny dragged a bunch of Big Pharma honchos — along with the Healthcare Morons, Bobby Brainworms and the Shitblizzard of Oz — into the Oval Bordello to participate in his dog and pony show.

when the Shitblizzard of Oz stepped up to the mic to drown us in a blizzard of bullshit, Donny did what he always does when someone else is talking: he fell fast asleep.

did our favorite narcoleptic fart factory fill the room, as is his trademark move, with the pungent aroma of ass music? we’ll never know — but the thing that happened next is that some dude behind Donny passed out and fell to the floor.

did you notice what Bobby Brainworms did? he booked it out of the room, pronto. maybe to alert the White House medical staff, or maybe to get his chainsaw — because you never know when a head may need to be separated from a body.

but more importantly — as everyone else in the room rushed over to do whatever they could — here’s what our Helper-in-Chief did: jack shit.

oh sure, he spent a couple of seconds staring vaguely at what was going on, but then he stood up, faced forward with vacant eyes — the lights were on but no one was home — and froze.

it would have been the perfect moment for some reporter to have finally — at long last — won the What The Fuck Is Wrong With You Challenge™ (which is now in its 2,047th day).

oh, I’m sorry, were you expecting Donny to do something? oh please, he’s not going to help. helping is what commies do.

there’s Donny’s entire existence, summed up in one photograph: he doesn’t care.

he doesn’t care about you or me. he doesn’t care about unemployed government workers. he doesn’t care about hungry families, or teargassed children, or Americans disappeared into slave-labor gulags, or Venezuelan fishermen blown out of the water, or priests shot in the face by ICE goons.

he doesn’t even care about a crony who fell to the ground not four feet away him.

Donny only cares about himself, and about glomming all the money, all the power, and all the attention. and, as always, We the People are cordially invited to go fuck ourselves.

and, because Donny’s demented pudding-brain has gone fuckity-bye, he’s too befuddled to realize that he needs to pretend to care. he just stands there like a useless bump, lost in an ever-thickening fog of confusion. is Donny even aware of what’s going on around him?

it was just another day of disgrace and buffoonery from our disgraceful buffoon president.

oh, and because we live in the dumbest possible timeline, where everything has to end up as a sideshow of clownfuckery, Newsmax had to assure their low-wattage viewers that Dear Leader was never in any danger. from what? collateral faintage?

“President Trump, we want to be clear, is okay.”

thanks for clearing that up. we were sleepless with worry.

fortunately, our story has a happy ending.

The person who fainted in the Oval Office was one of Eli Lilly’s guests and is now doing “great,” the company’s CEO said.

and, in case you need a reminder of how a real president acts, here’s Barack HUSSEIN Obama giving a speech — and catching a fainting woman before she can fall. (it’s at the 37-second mark.)

“I gotcha. don’t worry.”

dude’s so cool, calm and collected that he even has a quip at the ready:

“this happens when I talk too long.”

this is why Donny hates Obama — because he’s everything Donny isn’t. Donny will never be cool, calm and collected, and he knows it.

boo fucking hoo.

here are your heroes of the day: the members of the jury who acquitted Sandwich Guy.

Holstein cow cosplayer and America’s Tipsiest US Attorney, Jeanine Boxwine, was super fucking horny to make an example out of the guy who lobbed a sandwich at a border patrol agent in DC.

after a grand jury refused to indict Sandwich Guy for felony assault — because let’s get real, Jeanine, it was a fucking sandwich — she charged the guy with a misdemeanor, and wasted taxpayer money on a pointless trial.

here’s my favorite part of the whole three-day time-suck.

The officer Sandwich Guy is charged with assaulting testifies that he could feel the impact of the sandwich through his ballistic vest, and it “exploded all over my uniform.” He says he could “smell the onions and the mustard.”

what a harrowing experience indeed, to feel the impact and smell the onionsand the mustard. oh, the humanity!

but wait, the video tells a very different story: one about a definitely unexploded sandwich that bounced off the officer and lay intact on the ground.

We’re back to the sandwich video. The paper, the defense points out, is still on. “You don’t see there’s mustard on it?” “You can’t tell there’s ketchup on it?” Mayonnaise? Lettuce? Tomato? “In fact, that sandwich hasn’t exploded at all?” Witness says the sandwich “looks bent and out of shape.”

so, what was it? an exploded sandwich or an unexploded one? wait, what if it were both? oh my god, people, we have Schroedinger’s Sandwich.

in the end, the jury served up a big slice of Fuck You Pie to Jeanine Boxwine, and acquitted Sandwich Guy of the single charge of Assault with a Deadly Sandwich.

because let’s get real, everyone — it was a fucking sandwich. wake up and smell the mustard and the onions.

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.