Category: 2026

Posted on

The Week In Stupid

as another stupid week comes to a close here in America, let’s look back at the dumbest fucking shit that happened.

monday: he likes them what?

frankly, I think it’s nice that our piss-drunk Secretary of Death was able to take some time off from his busy schedule of gleefully dropping bombs on Iranian schoolgirls to have a playdate with that noise-adjacent caterwauler, Too Old To Be A Kid Too Impaired To Rock.

the question must be asked: what in the actual small-batch artisanal fuck?

who thought this was an acceptable idea? why is it that our government never has any money when people need healthcare, or when children need a simple hot school lunch, but whenever some shrieking washed-up never-waswants to take a seven-thousand-dollar-an-hour joyride in an attack helicopter, the Donnysphere bends over backwards to accommodate him?

fix America’s actual problems first, you shit-kazoos. then you can waste all the money you want on performative dumbfuckery.

now tell me this: what wisdom could Piss Right Off, You’re Not A Kid possibly be imparting to the assembled crowd in the Pentagon press room?

maybe he’s reciting the lyrics to his charming song, Cool Daddy Cool.

young ladies, young ladies
I like ’em underage
see some say that’s statutory
but I say that’s mandatory

I’ll bet Jeffrey Epstein fucking loved that ditty.

I have a suggestion: if Not A Kid is so horny to do warmonger cosplay, let him enlist and go off to fight in Donny and Petey’s don’t-you-dare-call-it-a-war on Iran.

no, wait. that would require actual courage.

oh and, Not Even Close To Being A Kid, can we talk? the next time Piss-Drunk Pete rings you up and asks you if you want to hang, tell him you’ve always wanted to go skateboarding with him. trust me. will be wild.

tuesday: kai yi yi

folks, pour one out for Preznit Fuckwit’s granddaughter Kai. she’s going through some things right now.

“I mean, hey. people— some people don’t like me, I mean 50 % of the world doesn’t like me because of my last name. one time I was out in public and someone literally walked up to me to tell me that my grandpa sucks.”

folks, how sad it is that the grifting grifter who has gone into the family business of selling merch and profiting off her famous name is catching shit for it?

Mayor Mamdani, can you and Ms. Rachel step in here for a moment and do us a solid?

thanks, guys.

now let’s do a quick fact check: does Kai’s grandfather suck?

apparently, yes.

I see two paths forward for Kai Trump at this point. one would be to do what Josef Stalin’s daughter Svetlana did — she solved that ‘your dad kinda sucks’ shit in a hot second by changing her name to Lana Peters and moving to Wisconsin, of all places. I shit you not.

or wait — even better, Kai could be like her first cousin once removed, Mary. when strangers come up to Mary Trump and tell her that her uncle totally fucking sucks, she high-fives them and is all ‘you don’t know the half of it.’

wednesday: she should have turned him into a human being

Christofascist hate-factory Joel Webbon is such a charmer.

“you look at Paula White, the chief faith advisor to Donald Trump, you look at some of the clips of her rolling on the ground, waving a coat and trying to slay people in the spirit, and ‘riririririririri’ speaking in tongues, she’s a witch. she’s a witch. she’s not just a Christian with some bad theology. she’s a wolf, she’s a false teacher — but even more than that, as a woman, I think that it is technically accurate to say she is … a witch.”

okay, let’s grant that Mister Stopped Clock here is right about a few things: Paula White is in fact a grifting charlatan who pretends to speak in tongues and has Donny Convict totally bamboozled.

but is she actually a witch?

well, Wytchfinder Joel has proof of Paula White’s witching witchery: she turned him into a newt — but don’t worry, folks. he got better.

thursday: all that glitters

wingnut screech-monkey Lance Wallnau has a few things he needs to get off his somewhat sparkly chest.

“let’s face it, most of the media’s left. it’s not evenly divided. you got, I saw Politico, and The New York Times—”

wait, wait, hang on. I’m sorry, I drifted off and stopped listening to Lance almost immediately, because I got distracted by— dude, what on god’s green shit-tangle are you wearing?

did you crash your car into a glitter factory on your way to the studio? have you been moonlighting at drag queen story hours?

bro, I’ve got Liberace on the phone. he says to tone it way the fuck down.

you’re giving him a headache.

friday: the further adventures of Some Fucking Idiot™

for once in his chaotic, look-at-me-look-at-me life, some fucking idiot actually had a quiet morning. there were no public appearances on his official schedule, and the feed on his crappy app stayed relatively free of batshittery.

it wasn’t under later in the afternoon that the fucking idiot popped out of his spider hole to inflict himself upon the world.

at 3pm, the fucking idiot addressed an audience from the Florida retirement community The Villages.

he played ‘Live and Let Die,’ which is a totally appropriate song to play for the extreme elderly.

the amost-80-year-old, gripping the podium for dear life, both hands visibly rotting, blithered about being ‘young, vital and vibrant.’

the fucking idiot bragged about being the shittiest boss ever.

the fucking idiot also committed a racism, because of course he did.

fact check: Ilhan Omar did not marry her brother. that’s a racist lie that racists like to tell because racists suck.

once again, the fucking idiot bragged about acing the test they only give you if they have a good reason to suspect you have brain damage, by successfully pointing to a drawing of a camel — oh no, wait, this time it was a bear.

tell me, were percentages on the fucking idiot’s dementia test? I’m guessing not.

finally, the fucking idiot cautioned against his own presidency.

trust us, homey, we all understand what it’s like to be stuck with a president who’s a moron.

mere mortals would have been exhausted after all that — but the fucking idiot isn’t like you or me. he still had some gas left in the tank. between eleven pm and midnight, the fucking idiot started shitting lunacy onto his crappy app.

what kind of fucking idiot would think it appropriate to joke about swimming in the Reflecting Pool? the fucking idiot kind, that’s who.

also, in your dreams you’re that svelte, you floating sack of shit.

oh look, the losing loser who’s lost his war in Iran is imaging he’s a winner.

the only cards you hold are jokers, dumbfuck.

and of all the things that are never going to happen, this next one is never going to happen the most.

now, because it was the middle of the night and the fucking idiot was holed up all alone in his vermin-infested Florida golf motel, not one reporter was around to stand up and ask ‘what the fuck is wrong with you?’

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.

0 Comments

Posted on

It’s been said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

Right now, I’d say that it’s stepping into a new day and expecting Republicans not to do something horrible.

It happens to all of us.

We wake up in the morning, eventually check our phones or turn on the news, and are greeted by some new abomination: an unprecedented legislative assault on a central pillar of our Republic, the dismantling of long-established civil rights, a heartbreaking act of violence against the most vulnerable among us.

We encounter a legion of novel nightmares authored by the same people whose brutality from the previous day we’ve not yet recovered from, and we are somehow surprised.

Despite a decade of their daily atrocities, despite their prolific portfolio of inhumanity, despite their seemingly inexhaustible disregard for legal and moral law, their malevolence never fails to rattle our nervous systems and boggle our minds anew.

Each day, a sickening sense of deja vu sets in as we find ourselves freshly outraged, as if these moral abominations are out of character for these people, as if they might have reached their capacity for cruelty overnight, as if they’d suddenly had their sociopathy satiated and will magically relent.

Good people, we need to stop doing this.

This is who they have been; it is who they are. There is no moment of clarity coming, no soul awakening, no tearful repentance. They’ve long passed that possibility. To still be tethered to something as monstrous as this man and his movement is to have permanently abandoned the fundamental humanity required to feel empathy or possess self-awareness. We need to stop wasting time hoping his supporters will suddenly call upon their better angels, as they killed those off long ago.

Yesterday, a distraught member of our online community said over Zoom, “No matter what we do, no matter how much we fight, it seems like nothing gets better. Every day, things are worse.” I think she was hoping I would disagree with her.

I assured her that this wasn’t going to change anytime soon, because the people in power have no current external or internal obstacles in their path. They are not ethically bound by the Constitution and possess no regard for the rule of Law. They have commandeered the highest court in our nation and hold zero compunctions about violating the inalienable rights of other human beings.

They also realize that their time is incredibly short, despite appearances to the contrary. They’ve been paying attention to the elections over the last 16 months, and they know the public sentiment against them is rising swiftly. They live with the Sword of Damocles hovering overhead: the unforced errors of a sexual scandal that will not go away, a costly, unwinnable war, and an economy they have singlehandedly driven to life support.

There is no way back; there is only the way down. All they have left is destruction.

Right now, Americans need to make peace with the fact that the news is going to continue to be bad. We are going to witness an ever more desperate and violent descent into the depths of the malevolence human beings are capable of. These people are going to wake up every day, as in this one, singularly driven to damage as many people as possible as quickly as they can, and we should prepare ourselves by not being pulled into disbelief as they do.

We cannot waste a single second being shocked by their depravity, or hoping they will tire of violence, or expecting them to be anything other than who they have shown us they are.

Instead, our energy should be better spent keeping our heads down and getting on with the work before us, of building a broad coalition of resistance, of taking our stands where we can, of leveraging our economic power, of caring for those being targeted, and creating a compassionate community that curates decency and love for neighbor.

We need to stop being surprised by Republicans’ inhumanity and to go about the work of being human.

0 Comments

Posted on

I confess that I’m a little lost these days.

I’ve become a restless, reluctant nomad moving through familiar places with a nagging internal dissonance.

I am a lifelong American who is profoundly disoriented trying to navigate this nation now.

I was born here and have spent most of my life here, and yet for a while now, I’ve begun to feel more and more like a stranger in my homeland.

There are dozens, sometimes hundreds of moments in a given day when I look around, and I simply don’t recognize this place anymore. It all seems terrifyingly foreign.

Waking up every morning and walking out into this version of my country is that bittersweet experience of expectantly visiting the town you grew up in as a child, feeling the rapid deflation as you note the changed landscape and strain to see the familiar places you used to know well and feel at home in.

Yes, it’s still a version of the familiar, with quick glimpses here and there to momentarily ground and reconnect you, but so much seems missing and so much feels different that you begin to grieve the alterations that have taken place because of how much appears gone for good. You realize you miss the idea of home rather than the reality of it.

I’ve found myself frantically searching for old familiar landmarks to try and ground myself again: family, neighborhood, community, church, nation—but these have all been renovated to the point of being almost completely obscured by the garish facades in their place; newly fashionable malevolence, bitterness, and cruelty.

See, that’s the thing: it isn’t that the physical landscape that has changed. There are so many people I do not recognize anymore; people whose lives I used to call home, people I once found easy affinity with, people who now make me feel newly orphaned.

I’m unsettled and distanced in their presence; estranged from them because of what I’ve discovered about their hearts, what I’ve heard out of their mouths, what I am realizing about our new (or perhaps newly revealed) moral incompatibility.

They are the America that I am most disheartened to bear witness to. They are the greatest source of my lostness. They are why I wander here.

Maybe this was never the place I thought it was. That image is likely just the selective memory or the idealized version of it all as filtered through a younger, more naive, less aware, more optimistic version of myself. Still, the sense of loss is the same.

Part of me wants to leave altogether, to go and make a new home somewhere else that might feel more aligned with this iteration of who I am, but that would feel like surrender; it would be admitting a defeat that I am still not yet ready to consent to. I still have dreams of what this place can be: not a mythical land born of ignorant nostalgia but a tangible incarnation of the best of its stated aspirations.

Right now, the best thing I know to do is to keep my eyes open for the other restless, reluctant nomads; to look for those who, too, feel lost here but who are still stumbling through increasingly unfamiliar surroundings, trying to manifest quiet goodness in the middle of the loud, sickening march toward national greatness.

I’ll keep seeking out those compassionate, generous, open-hearted sojourners who also no longer feel at home here, and together we will shepherd humanity through these days, and we will be rebuilders.

We will make an America where compassion is our greatest calling.

We’ll make an America where diversity is celebrated.

We’ll make an America where religion isn’t wielded like a weapon.

We’ll make an America where no one goes without.

We’ll make an America that is big enough for everyone who wishes to call it home.

We’ll make an America where no one has to go elsewhere to find refuge or respect.

Fashioning the nation we could be out of the nation we are seems impossible, but I still feel it’s worth trying, because I know I am not alone in my disorientation.

I am surrounded by similarly heartbroken human beings, who are also here in this thick, heavy darkness, passionately stumbling toward the light of what we might still be.

And because of them, though I am an American who is lost in America, I am not yet ready to lose America.

Where do you feel that sense of lostness I talk about? What helps you feel connected? Let me know in the comments.

Posted on

The Streisand Effect In Full Force

Since kash patel filed his $250 million defamation lawsuit against The Atlantic, reporter Sarah Fitzpatrick says she has been absolutely inundated with new sources reaching up to the highest levels of government, all lining up to corroborate her original reporting. The lawsuit, filed Monday, has functioned more like a megaphone than a muzzle. Fitzpatrick built her initial investigation on more than two dozen sources who described patel as an excessive drinker prone to erratic behavior and unexplained absences, behavior they believed posed a genuine national security risk.

Rather than discrediting the story, the lawsuit appears to have shaken loose even more damaging information. Fitzpatrick went on the Radio Atlantic podcast and made clear she stands by every word, noting that the flood of new sources has been one of the most gratifying responses she could have imagined. The Atlantic has called the lawsuit meritless and says it will fight it aggressively.

What makes this especially striking is why so many people stayed quiet in the first place. Fitzpatrick described patel as someone widely feared to be extremely vindictive, with insiders worried he would pursue them through costly litigation. The lawsuit meant to punish the press ended up proving that point exactly, while opening the floodgates to even more of the story patel desperately wanted buried.

Posted on

Friday Tiedrich

I’m so tired of being told that Preznit Fuckwit — a quadrice-indicted twice-impeached once-convicted popular-vote-losing adderall-huffing dead-pedo-bestie-schmoozing East-Wing-destroying insurrection-leading ear-diapering testimony-ducking judge-threatening lawyer-ignoring debate-avoiding witness-tampering disabled-veteran-dishonoring inheritance-squandering rube-fleecing clown-makeup-smearing language-mangling sneaker-hawking serial-sexual-predating draft-dodging casino-bankrupting butler-bullying daughter-perving hush-money-paying real-estate-scamming bone-spur-faking ketchup-hurling justice-obstructing classified-war-plan-thieving golf-cheating stock-manipulating weather-map-defacing war-criminal-pardoning horse-paste-promoting paper-towel-flinging race-baiting tax-evading evidence-destroying charity-defrauding money-laundering diaper-filling 34-count 79-year-old fluorescent-tangerine narcoleptic fart factory — is some kind of second coming of Jesus.

check out Troy Nehls, the doughy pantload who the voters of Texas keep sending back to Congress.

“I believe that Donald Trump is better than sliced bread. I think he’s— he’s almost the second coming.”

nice catch there, Troy, sticking that ‘almost’ in there. we wouldn’t want any ethereal lightning bolts hurled down from above, aimed squarely at our ass, would we?

I’ve got a news flash for Troy, and all these other Republican fucksticks who never stop yammering about how Dear Leader walks on water: Donny is not the messiah. he’s a very naughty boy. now go away.

let’s do a bit of a fact check. here are some highlights from the dog-and-pony show Donny held in the Oval Bordello yesterday.

tell me, would a true messiah never shut his big fat yap about crowd size?

that’s where Martin Luther King gave his— great speech. and he had a million people, and— I had the same exact crowd, maybe a little bit more, but they said I had twenty-five thousand people on July 4th. I have pictures of Martin Luther King’s crowd, my crowd, exact same— everything. but it was seventy years difference. the exact same crowd, but— I actually had more people, but that’s okay. they gave him— they gave him a million people, they said a million people but I had twenty-five thousand people, so, but— these are the things that you get with the— we had on July 4th uhhhh, a few years ago. first term.”

I’m no Biblical scholar, but I’m pretty sure that Jesus never bragged about the crowd size for the Sermon on the Mount — and let’s not forget, the attendance for that sucker was ginormous. the Sermon crowd was so huge that people in the back couldn’t even properly make out what he was saying.

a real messiah would be humble about that shit, and not wave photos at every opportunity. ‘see this crowd? Pontius Pilate’s autopen wishes he could get that many people.’

Donny sure is jealous of the accomplishments of black men, isn’t he? how small and petty is he, that he can’t even mention King’s speech without insisting that his own crowd was just as big — no, wait, it was bigger! — and that he never got proper recognition for it. shut the fuck up, you tiny, insecure gnat.

how hilarious is it that back in the 1970s, Donny and his tyrant Klansman father got fined by the federal government for refusing to rent any of their apartments to black people — and now, black people like Barack Obama and Martin Luther King Jr live rent-free in Donny’s head?

now I ask you, would a true messiah fall asleep at 3:30 in the afternoon, filling the Oval Bordello with the pungent aroma of ass music?

look at this narcoleptic old coot. he can’t hack it.

what in the actual fuck is going on here? Donny is out like a fucking light — and it looks like he’s about to slide off his chair and disappear under the Resolute Desk. won’t anybody help this frail old man? won’t someone get Dear Leader his pudding cup and lead him to bed?

this, by the way, is why Donny’s handlers kept him hidden from the press all week — he’s crashing out, hard. he can no longer handle the rigors of the presidency.

a real King of Kings wouldn’t be pulling that ‘I’m such a sleepy boy’ crap in the middle of the day — not when there are multitudes to be fed. a true messiah would be on that shit.

consider this: the math involved in figuring out how to divvy up one fish and one loaf into— into— hey, how many is ‘a multitude,’ anyway? look, my point is that a real messiah wouldn’t fail basic fourth-grade arithmetic.

the Apostle Brainworms: “[Elizabeth Warren] was ridiculing President Trump for his math. she was saying it’s mathematically impossible to have a drug drop by 600% in cost. I said ‘well, if the drug was $100 and it raises the price to $600, that would be a 600% rise. well, if it drops from $600 to $100, that’s a 600% savings.’”

Donny: “right.”

imagine being this proud of being this ass-clownishly stupid. that’s not the way calculating percentages works, yet Donny and his disciples are doubling down on their dumbfuckery.

an actual messiah wouldn’t need community notes.

a true Light of the World would put down the lamb, pick up a calculator, crunch the numbers and go ‘huh, I guess you’re right.’

a real messiah learns.

I should point out once again that I’m no Biblical scholar — but I’m pretty sure that Jesus never got pissy with a scribe from the Nazareth News Network.

reporter: “what do you say to the American people who question how much longer this will take? obviously you know they’re having higher gas prices.”

Donny: “you’re such a disgrace. did you hear what I just said? how many years was Vietnam?”

oh, now that’s a winning argument, for sure. go right ahead and keep comparing the debacle in Iran to the clusterfuck in Vietnam. I’m sure that’s a pairing that the American people really want to have in their minds right now, as everything goes to shit.

a messiah wouldn’t call someone ‘a disgrace’ just for asking a question. a real Fisher of Men would give a wink and a thumb’s up while convivially winning all doubters over to his side.

but wait — there’s more.

reporter: “does that mean Americans should anticipate spending more on gasoline for the foreseeable future?”

Donny: “for a little while. you know what they get for that? Iran without a nuclear weapon that’s going to try and blow up one of our cities or blow up the entire Middle East. the stock market is at an all time high.”

reporter: “but that doesn’t drive prices down.”

Donny: “let me finish, wise guy.”

there’s nothing in the Biblical record about the Prince of Peace being a thin-skinned piss-baby — and I’m pretty sure that no one had to hold a What The Fuck Is Wrong With You Challenge™ for the ancient scribes of the Lamb of God Press Pool.

so let’s recap.

Jesus: humble as fuck.
Dear Leader: insecure braggart.

Jesus: alert and on the job.
Dear Leader: narcoleptic old fart factory.

Jesus: generous and giving.
Dear Leader: can’t math his way out of a paper bag.

Jesus: patient and kind.
Dear Leader: crabby and short-tempered.

so, it looks like my original premise stands. Preznit Fuckwit is not the messiah. he’s a very naughty boy.

your honor, I rest my case.

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.

Posted on

Monday Tiedrich

Donny Convict is bugfuck nuts.

you know it, and I know it — but do you know who else knows it? all the president’s flunkies. they have to continually come up with new ways to deal with his crazypants shit on a daily basis.

here’s a perfectly normal thing that happened with our perfectly normal president.

recently, Donny was acting so erratically while military leaders were planning a rescue operation in Iran, that big strong aides with tears in their eyes had to go up to him and say, ‘sir! sir! why don’t you go play in traffic?’

I shit you not. according to a report in the Wall Street Journal, Donny actually got banned from the command room.

Aides kept the president out of the room as they got minute-by-minute updates because they believed his impatience wouldn’t be helpful, instead updating him at meaningful moments, a senior administration official said.

that’s right: Donny’s handlers had to keep him far away from what was going on, because he was so out of control that they were afraid he would fuck everything up.

can you imagine any other president in recent memory getting eighty-sixed from the center of operations? no, you can’t. it’s practically unthinkable.

here’s how that shit went down. remember that Good Friday incident, when Iran shot down an American jet, and nobody knew what had happened to the pilots? it turns that when he was given the news, Donny shat a massive brick

It was Good Friday afternoon in a nearly empty West Wing soon after the president learned that an American jet had been shot down in Iran, with two airmen missing. Trump screamed at aides for hours.

because everyone knows that the best way to motivate your staff is to get right up into their faces and just fucking unload on them for hours on end. Donny really is the boss from hell.

am I the only one getting ‘Hitler in the bunker’ vibes from Donny’s meltdown?

oh my god, can you imagine having this colicky piss-baby screaming at you for literal hours? no amount of money in the world could be worth having the rancid fecal-breath of that malignant toad being blown in your face as you endured the latest in an infinite series of dressing-downs — not to mention all the hurled ketchup bottles one would eternally be ducking.

seriously, you couldn’t pay me enough. if it were me on the receiving end of one of Donny’s tirades, I’d be all ‘how about you go fuck yourself, Shouty Boy?’

do know why Donny completely lost his shit? because he was worried that news of a downed jet would make him look bad.

“If you look at what happened with Jimmy Carter…with the helicopters and the hostages, it cost them the election,” Trump had said in March. “What a mess.”

picture it: generals with actual combat experience are trying to figure out the best way to bring pilots back from behind enemy lines, and this fucking lunatic is screaming about Jimmy Carter and the price of gas, as if an entire rescue operation was all just some big plot to inconvenience him — because Donny always has to make everything about himself.

oh, and get a load of this.

At one point he even mused he should award himself the nation’s highest military honor, the Medal of Honor.

FOR WHAT? my god, everyone who had to sit there and eat Donny’s shit while he screamed at them without end, they’re the ones who deserve the Medal of Honor.

sorry, Donny — you don’t get a Medal of Honor. what you get is the Four Seasons Total Prancing About Like A Complete Unhinged Fuckface Prize.

just to remind everyone, here’s how a president is supposed to act during a critical military operation.

that was Obama, in the Situation Room while Osama bin Laden was being taken out. notice how he’s not screaming in anyone’s faces about GET THIS FUCKING THING DONE ALREADY. nor is he ranting and raving about how bad he’ll look if shit goes sideways. he’s just a calm, rational dude.

but now we’ve normalized crazy. Donny pulls this childish crap on a daily basis, making a mockery of sane governance, and everyone is all just ‘well, okay. that happened.’

here’s a fun thing for All The President’s Toadies to consider: if you can ban a president from a command room for being too much of a raging lunatic, you can 25th Amendment him from the presidency for the exact same reason.

this deranged fucking maniac is back to calling for the complete destruction of Iran’s infrastructure.

“We’re offering a very fair and reasonable DEAL, and I hope they take it because, if they don’t, the United States is going to knock out every single Power Plant, and every single Bridge, in Iran. NO MORE MR. NICE GUY!”

no more mister nice guy? when was Preznit Fuckwit ever a nice guy?

and oh look, now Donny’s doing his usual Sunday afternoon market manipulation, claiming out of the clear blue that he’s on the verge of another deal with Iran — and, once again, the press dutifully reports it without first bothering to ask Iran if it’s true.

spoiler alert: it’s not true.

all of this is bugfuck nuts. in the span of hours, Donny pinballs from threatening to blow everything sky high, to calmly announcing another imaginary deal.

none of this is normal — and all of it is insane.

here’s a serious question for Donny’s handlers: what’s the plan here? for everyone to just cross their fingers and hope Donny doesn’t eventually call for nukes? are they just hoping Donny somehow magically gets better?

free clue: Donny isn’t going to get better. dementia doesn’t magically cure itself overnight. neither does malignant narcissism, or delusions of grandeur, or compulsive lying, or the need to be worshiped, or any of the thousand pathologies and personality defects that Dear Leader suffers from.

he’s just going to get worse. today, it’s banning Donny from the command room. what’s Dear Leader going to need to be prevented from doing tomorrow?

so let’s go. 25th Amendment now. it’s the only rational solution to the problem of an insane chief executive.

we’ll take our chances with the furniture fucker.

happy Kash Patel is Suing The Atlantic Day to all who observe.

here’s Two-Drinks-Minimum Kash yesterday, shitfaced as usual on Maria Bartiromo’s show.

Maria Bartiromo: “the Atlantic Magazine is alleging that you have a drinking problem. what is your response this morning to this article?”

Krazee-Eyes Kash: “the results, I say, speak for themselves. if the fake news mafia isn’t hitting you personally with baseless information in Washington DC, then you’re not going you job. and it’s louder than ever, because this FBI, under President Leadership …”

Kash goes on to filibuster Bartiromo’s question for a solid two minutes without ever actually denying that any of his ahem alleged blackout-drunk escapades happened.

nice job of deflection, bro.

Kash says he’ll be filing his defamation suit against The Atlantic today. here we have some file footage of a definitely sober Kash, strategizing with his ace team of lawyers.

whoops! wrong footage.

and now, here’s your hero of the day: this fucking duck.

I have no idea what the duck did to deserve this, but remember: if you can 25th Amendment a duck from a store, you can 25th Amendment a lunatic from the presidency.

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.