Category: Politics, Religion, and Social Commentary

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Mad King Donny continues to deteriorate before our very eyes.

Yesterday, sweaty and unsteady on his feet, he shambled into the Oval Bordello, half an hour late for the dog-and-pony show that his minders had set up for him. 

Surrounded by his Emotional Support Flunkies, Dear Leader sat down at his Big Boy Resolute Desk and struggled to read from his prepared text.

And, of course, as soon as someone else started speaking, the narcoleptic old fart factory fell fast asleep, and started crop-dusting the room with the pungent aroma of ass music.

The whole event was a clownfucktacular shit-show — or, as we call it around here, Monday.

Dozy Donny should have stayed asleep — because after he woke up, he doubled down on his five-thousand-dollar bribe.

“Because of tariffs, we— are— taking in HUNDREDS of billions of dollars of dollars— of profits. It’s one of the reasons I can offer, if— Republicans win the— HOUSE and Senate. $5,000 to every adult. And we can do it and the Democrats can’t, because the Democrats don’t have any income.”

Holy shit. Every word that just seeped from Donny’s rancid anus-mouth is either a fever-swamp fantasy, an outright lie, or just a basic failure to understand how money works. It staggers the mind when you consider that this low-wattage fuckwad is in charge of our entire nation’s economy.

Hey, can we get Community Notes in here to do us a solid, and lay out the basic bullet points?

A $5,000 payment to every US adult would cost about $1.25 trillion. The government collected $195 billion in customs duties in FY2025. Net tariff revenue turned negative in some months of 2026 due to Supreme Court-ordered refunds. Analyses show tariffs cannot fund it.

Got that? There isn’t enough money to give every adult in America five large. It’s just not there, no matter how many times Donny clicks his bloated cankles together and wishes it were so.

And it’s just fucking weird that Donny considers money taken in via taxes and tariffs to be profits. they’re not — they’re revenues.

This is a fundamental mistake that all these shit-gibbons who insist that ‘government should be run like a business’ make. Governments are not businesses. The revenues that a governments takes in are — in any sane country — used to provide for the public well-being of its people. They’re notprofits, for some tinpot fucksnoot like Donny to hoard for his own personal use.

And what’s all this nonsense about ‘Democrats don’t have any income’? There aren’t two treasuries, one for each major political party. There isn’t Republican money and Democratic money. It’s just money money. 

Not only is it fucking insane that Donny believes this, it’s insane that every worthless scribbler of the corporate-controlled press just sits there and nods their head and goes, ‘well, I guess if Donny says so.’

None of this shit is normal. Is it really too much to ask of our media to stop treating it as if it were?

For eleven long years now, ever since that racist game show host came down his golden escalator in June of 2015 to announce his candidacy, the press has been sanewashing his fucknuttery — and they’re still at it. Look at this piece of shit reporting that the Washington Post crapped out yesterday

Donny’s hare-brained schemes are in no way ‘ideas for aiding US consumers’ — they’re the mouth-farts of a panicked idiot who is throwing everything the wall in a desperate attempt to not lose the midterms.

Dear Leader couldn’t give a shit about ‘aiding US consumers.’ He only gives a fuck about himself. He just wants to remain in power indefinitely. 

Oh, and it’s also fucking against the law to bribe people into voting a certain way. How about reporting on that?

Meanwhile, the MAGAsphere is pissing itself with glee, over the free government money that Donny’s gonna send them.

Vote GOP, reject the crazy communists, and get $5k as an additional incentive.

Let’s do this!

How many times is MAGA going to fall for this shit? They’re now the guy from Mememto. They can no longer form lasting memories.

Ask MAGA about the $5,000 DOGE checks that Donny promised to sent them way back in February 2025. They’ll just go ‘huh wha?’

Ask them about the $2,000 ‘tariff rebate’ checks that the con artist they worship told them they were getting in November 2025.

They don’t remember.

I guess if MAGA is too memory-impaired to remember how many times Dear Leader has lied to them about free money from the government, they’ll also be fooled by the ‘migrant caravan’ that has magically appeared, five weeks before an election.

Here we go again. Every time an election looms, the entire wingnut outrage-industrial complex starts flooding the airwaves with bullshit scare-stories about swarthy brown-skinned migrants walking thousands of miles on foot, just so they can cross our border and fuck our shit.

The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) issued a strong warning to a major migrant caravan that crossed into Mexico and was moving north with hopes of reaching the U.S.-Mexico border.

“USBP is closely engaged with its international partners to monitor their movement and any additional developments,” DHS told Fox News in a statement. “[United States Border Patrol] USBP reminds migrants that under the leadership of President Trump and Homeland Secretary Mullin, the border has remained closed and secured for the last 16 months.”

Yeah, like I would believe anything that comes out of the mouths of Marky Two-Names and his racist band of shitweasels at the Department of Homeland Security.

And they’re really getting lazy, too. Remember back when they used to spice up their reporting with juicy stories about ‘prayer rugs’ being found at the border?

What ever happened to fun scare tactics like that? Fox News is really falling down on the job here. It’s all so patently ridiculous that even the three-toed freak of nature, Marjorie Sporkfoot Greene, can smell a rat.

We have not seen a caravan headed to the U.S. southern border in several years, why now? Oh yeah, there is an election coming and the GOP needs to scare you into voting because nothing else is working.

She’s not wrong — but please don’t be fooled by MTG’s supposed change of heart. It’s all an act. She’s not our friend. Never forget that she spent years promoting this racist garbage, and has never apologized for it.

You would think that the cultists would remember that Sporky and her ilk have been hoodwinking them with this garbage since all the way back in 2018 — but you would think wrong.

And, lastly, we have this fucking fuck to contend with. Holy Mike Johnson — the limpest dick ever to wield the House Speaker’s gavel — wants you to know that if you object to data centers, you’re just falling for commie Chinese propaganda.

Mike Johnson says opposition to data centers “is a Chinese psyop. I really believe that. That’s not a conspiracy theory.”

Mike Johnson can fuck himself straight into the sea. Data centers are a nightmare to live with. They’re noisy. They pollute. They deplete local water supplies. They jack up everyone’s electricity bills, and destroy everyone’s property values.

this isn’t conjecture, nor is it any ‘Chinese psyop.’

I have an idea whose time has come: how about every one of these shit-kazoo politicians who claim that data centers are no biggie, be forced to live next to one for a year?

let’s see how they like it.

who’s with me?

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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God Knows I Have

“You shouldn’t let politics get in the way of your relationships.”

As we approach one of the most consequential elections in our nation’s 250-year lifespan, I see this sentiment pop up on social media a good bit in think pieces and news stories: the idea that family members and friends are too important to lose over a political position, a party affiliation, or a ballot choice.

This may have been a reasonable and healthy idea back when we had parties and candidates who genuinely desired the common good; when we were debating methodology or financial approach to solving problems that we all agreed were problems. It made sense to preserve relationships when we imagined that our fathers, cousins, neighbors, and lifelong friends cared about diversity and justice and personal freedoms and helping people as much as we did.

We are way past that.

For a decade now, Donald Trump and his surrogates have offered an openly nihilistic, misogynistic, hate-poisoned vision of an intentionally divided nation without empathy for the poor or the sick. Their movement has been a naked declaration of white supremacy and intolerant nationalism; a movement completely devoid of policy and oriented solely around those it would exclude and punish and banish.

And that is what so many of the people we once shared this life with have chosen, many for the third time now. That doesn’t just point to political fissure or ideological misalignment, but a complete moral incompatibility.

Year after year, we have witnessed those we love repeatedly confirm their deviations regarding affordable healthcare, human rights, environmental protections, body autonomy, foreign genocide, sexual violence, and the legal and moral standards leaders should be held to.

This is no longer about policy differences, not simple disagreements on the humane and responsible way to deal with collective national challenges. It isn’t a matter of agreeing to disagree on less-than-critical subjects where a stalemate is acceptable.

The coming election (much like our political sides in this iteration of America) is about whether we will embrace or reject unapologetic racism, rabid nationalism, mindless homophobia, the dehumanization of immigrants, narcissistic greed, and the coddling of sexual predators.

And these things are worth cutting people off, severing ties, and muting on social media. They have to be if our values matter to us.

The lives of millions of flesh-and-blood human beings hang in the balance as we enter the voting booth: their freedom to make healthcare decisions for themselves, their access to fundamental liberties promised in the Constitution, their agency to govern their own destinies, their basic sense of safety from harassment and harm and violence. 

If there was ever something that justified a deleted contact number, an empty chair at the Thanksgiving table, an exodus from a church, or the termination of a friendship, it is this.

If we aspire to being decent human beings, at some point, we need to choose whether we will lean into our deepest convictions or preserve relationships with people whose presence increasingly causes us to compromise, conceal, or deny those convictions.

We need to decide whether we will keep a tenuous peace with those we share blood and tradition with, but little else, or whether we will step out into the raking light of full authenticity and fight for the things that break our hearts and boil our blood, for the human beings we know are and will be under great duress because of the choices our loved ones and friends have made.

The choices we make in November are far more consequential than merely altering the balance of power in Congress, flipping key seats, or ousting incumbents committing malpractice. 

The tangible impact of our votes on people of color, on LGBTQ human beings, on the sick and the poor and the elderly, on our immigrant communities (let alone the rest of the world) is beyond what we can comprehend right now. 

The outcome in November will determine the opportunities people have to earn a living wage, to feed their children, to choose their homeland, to define their gender, to live free from violence at the hands of their government. This isn’t politics, it’s elemental humanity.

I’m not saying we should disconnect from everyone we know who doesn’t perfectly align with us politically, as learning to bear with reasonable disagreement, hearing another’s perspective, and finding compromise are often necessary and helpful. But when the misalignments are philosophical, ethical, or moral, we all need to ask if that’s cause for distance or disconnection.

If we haven’t gotten there yet, many of us may decide that we cannot forgive or abide those close to us who have repeatedly chosen leaders and policies that have caused so much unnecessary sorrow to so many human beings. We might decide that we no longer desire relational or physical proximity to people who have allowed our nation to be handed over to such a cancerous malevolence, and who did so with perverse joy and unrepentant cruelty.

If that isn’t reason to end a relationship, nothing is.

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When you elect clowns, you really, really, really should expect a circus.

And that’s exactly what was on display at Jack Smith’s Senate hearing in what we still, with an increasingly heroic commitment to irony, call the world’s greatest deliberative body: the United States Senate.

What a dumpster-fire shitshow.

What a nine-layer dip of pathetic, performative, preening, principle-free, prostate-polishing political self-debasement.

Four hours of gutless congressional cosplay from a collection of quivering, kowtowing, credibility-castrated courtiers competing to see who could crawl the farthest up Donald Trump’s ass and come back out wearing his prostate as a party hat.

Former special counsel Jack Smith sat before the Senate Judiciary Committee, square-jawed and steady, staring down a firing squad of partisan fuckery after years of threats, investigations, intimidation, vilification and demands for his prosecution.

And he didn’t flinch.

Smith has spent decades as a public servant and prosecutor, and he walked straight into a room packed with people desperate to discredit him, raised his right hand, swore to tell the truth and stood behind his work while they hurled handfuls of rhetorical feces in his direction.

Facing him?

A senatorial skid mark. A bought-off, backbone-bereft, brownnosing bootlicker brigade and a panoply of pusillanimous, puckered, peacocking political lickspittles, craven courtiers and MAGA meat-riders conducting themselves with all the dignity of a bachelor party being escorted out of Medieval Times because one of them tried to reverse-cowgirl the jousting horse.

Senator Foghorn Liehorn Kennedy spent his time pecking away at Jack Smith about his WIFE. Her political views. Her opinions about Trump. Her opinions about the Obamas. Smith repeatedly told him he wasn’t there to discuss his family, but Kennedy kept gnawing on it, turning a Senate Judiciary hearing into the world’s shittiest couples-therapy intake form before asking a former federal prosecutor, with a completely straight face, whether he believed in the Tooth Fairy.

The Tooth Fairy.

In the United States Senate.

This Oxford-educated Rhodes Scholar, who perpetually talks like he left his dentures soaking in a jelly jar, cinched up his little aw-shucks verbal overalls, cranked the cornpone dial until the knob came off and started chewing his consonants into oatmeal like he’d moseyed in from the Louisiana swamp with a crawdad in his pocket and constitutional jurisprudence written on the back of a Piggly Wiggly receipt.

Give me a fucking break.

Kennedy has a law degree from the University of Virginia and studied at Oxford, but point a television camera at him and suddenly he’s three syllables away from telling us his meemaw always said you can’t prosecute a possum during crawfish season.

It’s not folksiness.

It’s intellectual drag.

And somehow, some fucking how, it got even more ridiculous when Ted “I Cream My Pants for the Guy Who Called My Wife Ugly” Cruz compared Jack Smith to Javert from Les Misérables, because nothing says grave Senate oversight quite like a set of sentient jowl merkins testing the outer limits of his scientifically punchable face while shoehorning French musical theater into congressional testimony.

Cruz fled freezing Texas for Cancún and initially explained that trip by saying his daughters wanted to go, and this is a senator whose reputation among his colleagues once inspired Lindsey Graham to joke that if somebody killed Cruz on the Senate floor, nobody there would convict them.

Bipartisanship lives!

But Cruz wasn’t even the most mortifying ambulatory sack of Senate stationery in the room.

By the time Eric Schmitt got rolling, and I’ll be honest, I had no idea this guy was even in the United States Senate until he cannonballed into this hearing, I was watching him make a serious run at the title of Most Willfully Ignorant Idiot in Congress.

And Tommy Tuberville exists.

If these people retained even a vestigial capacity for shame, Schmitt would’ve left the hearing disguised as a ficus and spent the remainder of his term communicating with Missouri exclusively through burner phones, because he tried to accuse Jack Smith of lying under oath over where he’d been on a particular day and came armed with documents, a prosecutorial erection and a giant visual aid that was supposed to blow the lid off Watergate II.

There was just one teensy problem with Senator Matlock’s big Perry Mason reveal: he had confused the Atlanta Hawks with the Iowa Hawkeyes.

Schmitt saw “Hawk,” slammed the emergency brake on his frontal lobe and decided the remaining syllables were decorative, leaving him in the wrong city, in the wrong state, at the wrong game, telling the wrong fucking story with the confidence of a detective who’d just found the Lindbergh baby in his glove compartment.

You could watch the realization crawl across the dais in real time, that exquisitely nauseating moment when everyone in the car knows they’ve gone over the cliff except the driver, who is still explaining the excellent brakes, and Katie Britt’s jaw dropped so spectacularly that her face may have become the meme of the century before Schmitt had finished stepping on his own dick.

Her expression said, Eric, what in the Kentucky-fried fuck have you done?

Republicans have become the stepping-on-rakes party. They step on a rake, get walloped in the face, stagger backward onto another rake, take another handle directly to the taint, fall forward onto the first rake again and then, while concussed and bleeding from the forehead, convene a congressional hearing called Who Put All These Rakes Here? The Weaponization of Lawn Care Against Conservatives.

And Eric Schmitt is out there barefoot in the fucking garden.

Amy Klobuchar eventually had to walk a United States senator through the conceptual distinction between professional basketball in Georgia and a university team from Iowa while his enormous accusation loomed behind him looking like a Denny’s placemat for people ordering the Grand Slam with a side of senatorial brain damage.

And we fucking paid for it.

Schmitt had the mistake enlarged and mounted. A computer was involved. Staffers presumably touched this thing. Fonts were selected. Dimensions were discussed. Somebody sent a file to a printer, somebody approved it, somebody hauled that magnificent monument to refusing to Google a goddamn thing into the hearing room, and at no point in this relay race of intellectual malpractice did anyone stop and say, “Hey, Eric, are we sure these are the same fucking birds?”

It’s one thing to shit your pants.

It’s another thing entirely to have them professionally printed.

Kennedy is rummaging around in children’s folklore, Cruz is staging an off-Broadway production inside his own skull, Schmitt just lost a cage match with two bird mascots, and sitting right there among them is Josh Hawley, a congressional Go-Gurt tube stuffed stem to stern with enough hypocrisy to stock the entire Republican caucus.

He saluted the January 6 crowd with that infamous fist outside the Capitol, only to have surveillance cameras later catch him hauling ass through the corridors after the building was breached like somebody had fired a starter pistol directly into his sphincter. This wasn’t a brisk evacuation. This was prairie flight, a Missouri gazelle discovering consequences at full gallop, knees writing checks his ideology had absolutely no intention of cashing.

Now this chest-puffing congressional hall monitor, who kisses his wife with all the erotic urgency of somebody checking a CPR dummy for residual body heat, is sitting safely behind a microphone calling Jack Smith’s work political “from day one” and demanding that he be disbarred.

And Hawley wants to puff himself up about Mar-a-Lago too? The FBI searched the place on August 8, 2022. Jack Smith wasn’t appointed special counsel until November 18, more than three months later, when Garland handed him investigations that were already underway.

So if we’re assigning Smith retroactive responsibility for everything that happened before he got the job, Hawley might as well demand to know why he didn’t stop the Hindenburg, subpoena him over Pearl Harbor and ask whether he has an alibi for the disappearance of Amelia Earhart.

And Jesus Christ, if Josh Hawley isn’t the whole fucking scam squeezed into a necktie: pounding the table about punishing Jack Smith after America watched him evacuate the Capitol at a speed previously associated with stolen catalytic converters.

Josh Hawley and the rest of the senators who were inside that building don’t need a history lesson about January 6. They heard that history smashing through the fucking doors. The roar outside breached the walls and came screaming down the hallways, glass breaking, alarms shrieking, bodies slamming against barricades, Capitol Police running toward the violence while lawmakers were being yanked away from it, human beings putting flesh and bone between elected officials and a mob as the building filled with shouting, smoke, chemical spray, shattered glass, blood and panic.

Those cops protected them.

But talk about any of that and suddenly these assholes develop the attention span of a Labrador in a tennis-ball factory. Wives. Broadway. Childhood mythology. Avian forensics. Phone records. Conspiracy confetti. Anything to keep the conversation pinballing around the room in a frantic little production of look-over-here kabuki theater instead of landing on the thing they cannot fucking explain away.

Jack Smith forced the hearing back onto the people who held the line that day: “It is inconceivable to me how you can pardon people who assault law enforcement officers and then vilify the officers who are trying to uphold the rule of law.”

They know he’s right.

They know because those were THEIR asses being hustled away while other people stayed behind to get crushed, struck, sprayed and dragged into the melee. They know exactly who stood between them and that mob.

Somewhere between running for their lives and crawling back to Donald Trump, terror became fealty, and now the same people who needed protection from his mob are attacking the prosecutor who tried to hold anyone accountable for putting them in danger.

Cowardice feels insufficient. Cravenness needs a protein shake. Spinelessness is standing in the corner begging not to be associated with whatever this is, so we may actually have to exhume the old vocabulary.

Skitterbrooks. Cringelings. Couchers. Fazarts. Fearties. Dunghills. Pudding-hearts.

Centuries of English-speaking people looked upon quivering, supplicant, boneless little specimens and kept inventing new words for them, and the United States Senate has assembled the fucking box set.

This is something wetter, smaller and more servile, a gelatinous, genuflecting, groveling kind of self-erasure from sniveling sycophants who have fed their vertebrae into a Vitamix and poured the resulting slurry directly into Donald Trump’s water bowl.

This isn’t disagreement. It isn’t partisanship.

It’s self-abasement.

They survived the fire and volunteered to carry gasoline for the person who started it.

So spare me the flag pins, the solemn baritone speeches about patriotism and every sanctimonious syllable about the Constitution from people willing to turn constitutional oversight into a publicly financed clown car because consequences might inconvenience their melon-hued meal ticket.

Patriotism isn’t a lapel accessory. Public service isn’t seasonal decor. And the Constitution isn’t the cocktail napkin underneath Donald Trump’s Diet Coke.

All the flag-fucking pageantry in the world can’t hide the choice they made. They chose ambition over country, obedience over truth and Donald Trump over whatever microscopic remnant of principle hadn’t already leaked out through their shoes.

History isn’t going to give a shit about their oversized props, their rehearsed indignation or whatever diversionary horseshit they managed to cram into five minutes of camera time.

It’s going to remember what they were when it counted.

Their fecklessness.

Their moral surrender.

Their complicity.

It will remember that they knew what happened, knew who was responsible, knew who kept them alive and still enlisted themselves as enablers in the machinery of our collective demise.

When their country demanded truth, they manufactured distraction.

When the moment demanded a spine, they produced an easel.

And when American democracy needed them to stand the fuck up, they got down on their knees.

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spoiler alert: not everything totally fucking sucks.

good news is out there — you just have to go looking for it. so today, let’s do exactly that.

bear with me, this is another longish post. but it’s all good news.

Good News number one: a lot of this shit has been flying under the radar, but judges and courts continue to cordially invite Donny — along with his like-minded flunkies and acolytes — to go fuck themselves.

here’s one that was definitely under the radar.

long story short: back during the 2024 campaign, three days before the election, the Des Moines Register published a poll showing mean old Kamala Harris with a three-point lead over God’s Own Avatar on Earth. of course, that’s not what happened. Donny won Iowa by 18 points — but because Donny is the most-broken-inside piss-baby in the universe, instead of forgetting about the one bad poll and getting on with his infuriatingly charmed life, he went ballistic and sued the paper and the pollster, for being very very mean to him.

yesterday, an Iowa district court shitcanned the lawsuit, ruling that there’s no First Amendment exclusion for being a dumbfuck who got his feeling hurt by words.

the score: justice 1, morons 0.

this next case involves some shit-kazoo sheriff who got his own feelings hurt by ballots.

The California Supreme Court on Thursday ordered a county sheriff to return about 650,000 ballots he had seized from election officials as part of an investigation into voter fraud that state officials said had no basis in fact.

what we have here is just one more MAGA numb-nuts who was so saddened by an election that didn’t go his way, that he took it upon himself to confiscate a bunch of ballots, because reasons.

this is just one more way in which Donny has broken our nation. now, every dipshit on the losing end of an election believes they have the right to meddle with the results.

ace job, Donny.

the California Supreme Court shut that shit down pronto, ruling that doing your own research after an election isn’t a thing, even if you’re some high-on-your-own-supply cultist with a gun and a badge.

the score: justice 2, morons 0.

the third case deals with an appeals court ruling that Donny can’t disappear immigrants without due process.

The Trump administration scrambled on Thursday to halt a number of imminent deportations after an appeals court blocked authorities from expelling people to third countries without a chance to contest their cases, according to documents obtained by The New York Times.

we’re really on a roll here. the score: justice 3, morons 0.

and then we have the whole shittacular farce that played out this week, with Diaper Nurse Natalie sweet-talking Donny into banning CNN, MSNOW and Politico from the White House — which, by the way, is the latest wrinkle in the story: that it was Nurse Natty, taking advantage of Chief of Staff Susie Wiles being away on vacation, who convinced Dear Leader that a media ban would be totes awesome.

my god, it’s like a high school lunchroom. there really are no adults at all in the White House.

anyway, in short order: in the middle of the night on Wednesday, a judge blocked the ban and reinstated the three networks’ access. then, on Thursday morning, when they reporters showed up for work, the White House was ‘all nuh-oh, you can’t come in, we don’t want to get your cooties.’

so it was right back to court for everyone involved, where the judge was all, ‘what in the actual fuck?’ and reinstated the reinstated access. double-reinstated, boo-yah!

are you all still following me? oh, good. 

so, everything at that point was hunky-dory, with the reporters finally being allowed to do their jobs. but then, when it came time to cover last night’s state dinner for China’s President Xi, MSNOW and CNN were once again barred from attending, because reasons.

so now, presumably, it will be back to court again this morning.

the score: justice 3.5, morons .5.

Good News number two: even the loyalists at Fox News seem to finally be getting exasperated with Dear Leader.

just look at how glum Stuart Varney is, as he lays out what Donny hath wrought.

“those polls showed 51% would vote Democrat, for a Democrat candidate, 43% for a Republican. why is this happening? four dollar gas, six dollar diesel, seven percent mortgages, the ongoing war, and the president is less popular personally than at any time in his second term. his attempts to reverse the trend have fallen flat. five thousand dollar checks for everyone didn’t fly, and the ban on diesel exports won’t work. if this trend continues, Republicans will lose the House, and maybe the Senate. thirty-nine days to the vote. if that happens, say goodbye to what’s left of the Trump agenda.”

“say goodbye to what’s left of the Trump agenda”? 

don’t threaten me with a good time, Stu.

after the 2024 election, Republicans had the golden goose: the House, the Senate, the presidency were all theirs, and they could do anything they wanted. Donny took that golden goose and clownfucked it so hard that their agenda currently lies in tatters — and now, far too late to do anything about it, Republicans are waking up to the fact that maybe this guy wasn’t the answer.

boo fucking hoo.

Good News number three: the First Couple continue to make each other miserable.

ook at these two lovebirds. have you ever seen a two people more head-over-heels smitten with each other?

seriously, Melly’s in shitfit mode because her whole weekend has been ruined by having to pretend to geef a fock about the husband whom she loathes, and his playdate with what’s-his-face from China or wherever. look, it’s enough that Melania deigned to show up. please don’t ask her to bother to learn anyone’s name, or where they’re from.

and as for Donny, he just realized that he and his diaper nurse can’t spend the weekend canoodling.

too bad, so sad.

Good News number four: Dear Leader can’t stop being a clownshoes buffoon.

can anyone tell me what is going on with Donny’s ass? every time he’s out in public these days, he looks like he’s smuggling a microwave oven back there.

what can possibly be going on? is he wearing some kind of medical device? has Natalie chosen to make things easier for herself by having Donny wear all the diapers at once?

look, if anyone knows what’s happening, it would be Google’s janky, six-fingered plagiarism robot, am I right? that homey’s infallible. so let’s ask it. hey, plagiarism robot — what the fuck is going on with Dear Leader’s ass?

There is no factual or medical news regarding Donald Trump’s health or physical condition concerning his lower back or posture.

you’re no fun, plagiarism robot — but you do get bonus points for knowing who I was referring to when I said ‘Dear Leader.’

Good News number five: Dear Leader continues to deteriorate, both physically and mentally.

yesterday, Donny had exactly one job: to walk in a straight line for six feet, without fucking that shit up.

spoiler alert: he fucked that shit up.

Donny can’t even manage to walk on his side of the red carpet. he keeps meandering to his left, forcing his Slovenian rent-a-wife to walk on the bare concrete of the Epstein Parking Lot where the Rose Garden used to be.

was it Donny’s frontotemporal dementia that caused him to veer? or was he deliberately being a dick to Melania, just because he could?

who cares? either way, that shit’s hilarious.

and, finally, Good News number six: someday this war’s gonna end.

today marks 38 days to the midterm elections. should things go our way, we’re going to have a ginormous fucking mess to clean up.

there’s no doubt in my mind that useless pantloads like Chuck Schumer will continue to waste everyone’s time on a series of strongly-worded letters — but at the same time, there are folks on our side who are right now giving serious thought as to what we’ll need to do, in order to dig out from under this shitpile Donny’s inflicted on us.

one of those people is Robert Reich. here’s what he posted last night.

10 Steps To Fix What Trump Has Broken

And mend everything thereafter

If we want to clean up the mayhem Trump and his regime have created — and prevent anything like this from happening again — here are the 10 big reforms every political candidate should support.

They’re structural reforms in how our political system works, rather than policies such as Medicare for All, affordable housing, childcare, or a $20 minimum wage. But these structural reforms are necessary prerequisites to getting good policies enacted. They must be passed by Congress in order for anything else to get done.

I’m summarizing them below the video. Please watch and share:

we have our marching orders. let’s do this.

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The entire world is laughing at us, and can anybody honestly blame them?

Donald Trump—that hell-spawned, hemorrhoidal, half-witted Heat Miser—gave a “speech” at the UN, although it was really more of a SCREED, and it was every bit the shitshow anybody with a semi-firing synapse could’ve guessed it would be.

He opened by feverishly fellating himself and lying his ass off about the state of the dumpster fire HE’s responsible for—then paused for applause that never came.

Couldn’t get a pity clap from people professionally trained to tolerate bullshit.

The whole planet had to watch him riffing like the day drunk at the corner of the bar in a strip-mall Applebee’s at two in the afternoon, spraying spittle, spite, and spinach dip across the specials menu.

Except nobody could cut him off, and he was threatening a country instead of the assistant manager.

He even found time to pick a fight with an adjective, announcing that we were renaming artificial intelligence “superintelligence” because “artificial” made it sound fake.

Motherfucker, what do you think ARTIFICIAL MEANS?

Your face is the color of a Cheez-It. Let’s not get precious about authenticity.

And don’t worry about reining it in, folks. We just need to change the name. The brakes don’t work, but Donald’s picked out a vanity plate.

What’s the worst that could happen? Somebody uses AI to cook up an extinction-level bioweapon? A little oopsie with the species?

We could wander straight into “Shall we play a game?” territory, but this cantankerous Creamsicle with the intellectual curiosity of a urinal cake was busy fixing the LABEL.

It’s a branding problem, folks. Little PR. Like renaming gonorrhea Super Mario Party.

Your dick’s still on fire, but congratulations, you can now win Rainbow Road.

“Artificial” offended his sensibilities, but annihilating Iran—a country of ninety million people—rolled right off his tongue.

“Or do I annihilate the Islamic Republic and do it quickly…?”

“Do I drive them into hell…?”

At the United fucking Nations.

He was talking about ninety million people like he was getting an estimate from Terminix.

Imagine if an Iranian president stood up there. Imagine if Ahmadinejad had come to the UN General Assembly and said: “Do I annihilate the Jewish state, and do it quickly? Do I drive Israel into hell?”

Imagine the Western response, the global response, the media outcry.

Republicans would’ve been on every channel demanding we bomb Iran before the translator finished the sentence. You know it. I know it. They would’ve understood every word, every implication, every reason a parent might pull their kid a little closer after hearing it.

But when Donald says it, we’re the assholes for being horrified. We’re overreacting. We don’t understand his humor. Well, explain the joke. Explain the funny part to somebody trying to raise a child in the country he just threatened to erase.

But I’m supposed to swallow that because we’ve already swallowed so much, to let yesterday’s disgrace make today’s easier to stomach. It doesn’t. It breaks something in me to love this country and watch him teach the world to fear what we’re becoming.

The president of the United States went to the United Nations and threatened genocide against a member state in front of the world.

Our country’s name is attached to that threat. Iranian children have to live under it.

This is where we’re at.

And from threatening people who have no say in how their country is run, he went straight to slobbering over somebody who keeps his own people that way. Out came the red carpet for Xi Jinping, the honor guard, American B-1 bombers overhead—our military providing the thunder while Donald provided the heavy breathing.

Look at that photograph. Xi barely changes expression. Trump looks like somebody just zipped his balls into a golf bag.

What the hell was that all about, by the way? I’ve seen some interesting chatter online.

And all that American pomp was for a guy whose people can’t vote him out, whose party has the courts by the throat, and whose government can drag its critics off to prison and torture them.

Donald looks at that and wonders why his presidency came with so much goddamn adult supervision.

When China scrapped presidential term limits in 2018, he said, “Maybe we’ll have to give that a shot someday.”

That’s covetous, crotch-quivering, crown-craving envy. He heard “president for life” and needed somebody to slide a menu over his lap. No voters to fire him, no judges telling him no, no obligation to ever pack up his shit and leave.

And we’re supposed to laugh like the guy who tried to overturn an election is kidding about wanting to stop having them.

He even had an excuse when asked about accusations that Chinese companies supplied Iran with satellite imagery before a strike that killed three American troops: “They basically do what we do.”

What the literal fuck?

Three Americans dead, and he sounded like somebody took his parking space at Costco. He had an entire speech’s worth of praise for himself and one shrug for the people who risked their lives under his orders.

And none of it got in the way of the welcome. While our service members fight an illegal, unconstitutional war with no exit strategy in sight, their crepey, concealer-caked, candy-corn-colored Commander-in-Chief is practically pulling a hamstring trying to kiss Xi’s ass.

Where the fuck are the Reagan Republicans? Where is their outrage?

These cowards of convenience have spent years prostrating themselves before this prick, surrendering one principle after another until their patriotism could fit on a lapel and everything else was for sale. He can humiliate America and lick the loafers of despots, and they’ll still insist the real threat is an imaginary transgender child on an imaginary softball team.

They can sniff out communism in a school lunch, these flag-fondling, freedom-fetishizing frauds, but put an actual communist leader beside Donald and watch them swallow their tongues.

A kid gets a free sandwich and it’s the Bolshevik Revolution. Xi got bombers and we’re supposed to appreciate the diplomacy.

We roll out the red carpet for Putin and Xi while we shit on our closest allies daily. The American government under Trump and his cultist Republican Party is a disgrace.

He’s turning our country’s identity inside out—who we believe we are, who the rest of the world sees when they look at us—and taking with him the things we still wanted to believe about ourselves.

And yes, there’s a long, ugly argument that we were already the bad guys, but standing at the United Nations and announcing that he can unilaterally wipe another country off the planet leaves a hell of a lot less room to argue otherwise, especially with an entire Republican Party at his feet, surrendering everything they once swore made us different and leaving the rest of us searching for our country in the things they’re willing to throw away.

Look, I know we’re numb to a lot of this shit. Believe me, I get it. My Instagram algorithm is slow cooker recipes, workout videos, and doomsday prepping at this point. Here’s a chicken marinade. Here’s a glute exercise. Here’s how long drinking water keeps in a bathtub.

I’m trying to make dinner and determine whether civilization has a return policy.

And whether I’m laughing at him or trying not to panic, he’s still up there “representing” our country. Our name. Our reputation. Our national identity.

Future generations are going to watch this footage and wonder if we were all fucking high.

Because a plurality of the dumbest dumbfucks who ever dumbed watched the first term of this shitshow, forgot what a disaster it was, blinded themselves with irrational hatred of other people, and put the motherfucker back in that office AGAIN.

But on behalf of the sane Americans who didn’t vote for this shit and are tethered to the inside of this endless tantrum, please believe me when I tell you:

He does not speak for us.

We are embarrassed. We are angry. We are sick. We are scared.

And we are determined to make this shit right.

Because he does NOT speak for us.

He never has, and he never fucking will.

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