Category: Beating Back The Stupid

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“You’re not a wartime Consigliere.”

That’s Michael Corleone’s famous line from The Godfather, in which he explains to Corleone family counselor Tom Hagen that shit’s about to get real, and you don’t have what it takes.

Know who else isn’t a wartime consigliere? Hakeem Fucking Jeffries, the Man Who Would Be Speaker of the House. Jeffries couldn’t wartime-consigliere his way out of a paper bag. I’m not even sure he understands what the actual job entails.

Morning Joe: “Donald Trump said ‘I am your retribution,’ and he got wiped out. How do you now say, ‘hey, let’s not look behind us. We’re going to focus on bringing costs down’?”

Hakeem Jeffries: “The American people don’t want us to get even, they want us to get things done on their behalf.”

Holy shit, that sounds like a carefully-rehearsed line, doesn’t it? Why?

I’ve never understood this pathological compulsion of Democratic leadership to go out the morning after every election and immediately piss all over everyone’s corn flakes. Is it too much to ask, to let us savor a victory for one whole day, before you start shitting all over everything?

Why this need to assure us that there won’t be any getting even? No one’s asking for ‘retribution.’ What we want is justice. We’ve just lived through two years of the greatest lawlessness and corruption from a federal government that this country has ever experienced — big strong corruption with tears in its eyes — and now it’s time for some accountability. That’s not ‘getting even.’

Preznit Fuckwit spent two years treating the US Treasury as his personal cash machine, fattening his wallet at our expense. We the People are struggling to make ends meet, while Dear Leader is somehow now a billionaire. Calling him to account for that is not ‘getting even.’

Holding Piss-Drunk Pete Kegstand accountable for clownfucking us into an unwinnable war that destroyed our military readiness and set the world’s economy teetering on the edge of a crash, that’s not ‘getting even.’

Holding everyone at Homeland Security accountable for masked ICE thugs disappearing innocent people into Salvadoran slave labor gulags, or leaving them shot to death on the street, that’s not ‘getting even.’

It’s getting fucking justice, and it’s high time we had a little around here.

How did Hakeem Jeffries allow himself to get manipulated by that useless pantload Morning Joe into disavowing justice?

Could it be because he’s shit at his job?

You know who else isn’t a wartime consigliere? Chuck Fucking Schumer. He’s been proving it every day through his impotent lack of action. Schumer’s a great guy to have around if there’s absolutely nothing at stake. Need someone to speak at the dedication of a new post office?Chuck’s your man. Need someone to make sure all the procedural i’s are dotted and t’s are crossed in some piece of shrimp boat legislation? Here comes Chuck!

Do you need someone to fight fascism? Chuck’s your— wait, where the fuck did Chuck go? He was here a minute ago.

He’s probably busy writing a strongly-worded letter.

Fortunately, we do have Democrats who aren’t so tone deaf, and do know how to say — and do — the right things.

In case you somehow missed it in yesterday’s post, let me just leave this right here.

LAWYER UP.

That’s Rep. Robert Garcia, the Democrat who is now the incoming chairman of the House Oversight Committee. He posted that Tuesday night, after winning his own reelection.

Know who Rep. Garcia replaces as Oversight Chair? This rake-stepping fuckwit, Comer Fudd.

   

Is that an upgrade, or what? Imagine going from clownish side-show hearings involving Hunter Biden’s freakishly-oversized trouser trout, to actual investigations into how companies that Donny’s felonious failsons are invested in ended up getting billions of dollars in government defense contracts. You want to talk about an actual crime family? Boy, have I ever got one for you.

Here’s another Democrat who’s ready to fight: New Mexico’s Melanie Stansbury. She’s looking so forward to the next Congress’s Oversight hearings that she’s already posted a highlight reel from the current Congress’s.

Here’s what Rep. Stansbury has to say about her video.

ARE YOU ALL READY FOR THIS???! 💙🔥 Because we are JUST GETTING STARTED!

Do you know who else are ready to fight the current Republican regime? Republicans, that’s who.

I love me some Republican-on-Republican violence, don’t you?

   

Many Republican lawmakers and allies alarmed by Tuesday’s wipeout are moving swiftly to pin blame for the election results on Hegseth, arguing behind the scenes that he played a chief role in convincing Trump to attack Iran with no exit strategy — and no plan for managing the inevitable political fallout.

They’re not wrong about how we got bogged down in the Middle East. Piss-Drunk Pete absolutely snookered his demented boss, and filled his ears with fairy-tale nonsense about how he could bomb the shit out of Iran and be won and done in a couple of hours, with plenty of time left over for Pete to get soused down at the local bar.

‘Drinnnkssss are on me, I just whupped Iran’s assssssss.’

How did that work out for you, Pete? How did that work out for any of us?’

Sucks to be you right now, Pete. They’re shoving you into a peach.

House Republicans are expected to vote to directly repudiate the defense secretary in a matter of days. Rep. Thomas Massie of Kentucky, the famously anti-Trump GOP lawmaker, told CNN he plans to trigger a vote to impeach Hegseth when Congress returns next week — and multiple GOP sources said they expect it to pass.

Leave it to Republicans to show us how it’s done. They’re not even waiting until the next Congress to stick their knives into their targets. They’re doing it next week.

Maybe Hakeem Jeffries might wan to take lessons from Thomas Massie.

And now we must interrupt this post for an important message from Daughter Katie.

   

I’m sure you love taking requests, so: you should use your platform to encourage people to call their new representatives and yell at them to demand they not put Jeffries and Schumer back in charge.

Folks, Ms Spouse and I raised our daughter right, didn’t we? In fact, Katie is absolutely correct. We should all be calling our Reps and Senators (or their replacements) right now, and demanding leadership that will work to please us, and not Morning Joe.

All those phone numbers and shit can be found at the House and Senate web sites.

And know that a lot of your elected officials are already halfway there, in their minds.

   

Key Senate progressive Chris Van Hollen said Wednesday that Democrats should demand a “bold agenda” targeting entrenched corporate interests in Washington before agreeing to back Chuck Schumer or any other aspiring Senate majority leader.

It’s our job to push — or drag — them across the finish line.

Now let’s watch a giddy-with-glee Rachel Maddow on Election Night.

“Somebody came in, in the break there, and brought me a quote that we got from the president from the White House tonight, in response to the results, and I just threw it away. HA HA HA HA HA! That felt good, too. Guess what? It doesn’t matter. What do you think? Who has to care?”

Ah, that glorious moment when you realize that Dear Leader doesn’t matter.

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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Holly shit, stop the presses. Look who just woke up from their decade-long slumber, to work out on their very own what the rest of us sussed out years ago.

Are you ready for this? You’d better sit down, because this is a real shocker. It turns out — according to none other than The New York Times — that Preznit Fuckwit might be a little bit cuckoo for cocoa-puffs.

I shit you not — and oh dear lordy, they stuck it right on the front page, of all places.

Remember when the Times didn’t used to tell us shit we already knew, long after we already knew it?

Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, Captains Obvious? Water is wet, maybe?

Now, I see your hands up, and I know what you’re dying to ask: ‘Hey, Uncle Jeff — why has the Times waited until all the way to the very end of the election cycle to drop this news on us? Couldn’t we have used it months — or years — ago?’

Well, apparently the Times had to stop do a science first, before they could figure it the fuck out. They also had to do a math.

He is cruder than he used to be, using nearly 15 swear words per 10,000 words compared with 14 two years ago and six a decade ago, a change consistent with age-related disinhibition.

The review, relying on an A.I.-assisted metric, found that he makes rambling or confusing digressions in his rallies and speeches two and a half times as often in his second term as in the 2016 campaign, although roughly the same as in 2024.

Got that? The Times couldn’t blow the whistle on Dear Leader until they had rock-solid proof, gathered over a period of time — and they couldn’t do it without a janky, six-fingered plagiarism robot to do them a solid, and help do all those fancy-ass calculations.

Yeah, I know — these are the same shit-kazoos who declared Joe Biden mentally incompetent after one time that he forgot someone’s name.

Joe gets unceremoniously tossed on the shit-pile of sayonara, while Donny is obviously a Very Special Boy Who Deserves Every Reasonable Doubt Before Judgement Is Cast.™

Come on, New York Times, you want rock-solid evidence that Dear Leader is out there where the buses don’t run? You want proof? Just listen to the dumbfuck ramble like a blithering idiot.

“He gave up all of— yeah, it was free. WE DON’T CARE if it was free. We don’t care. It’s free. They say, WE WANT TO KNOWWW why did he give a ball room? No, no, you don’t understand me. It’s a gift. To the [slurred] Unided Stades offa Meriga. WE DON’T CARE. We don’t care.[unintelligible].”

What in the hell was that?

Preznit Fuckwit was supposed to be making his final argument for why voters should select Republicans. The final argument he actually made instead was why he should be carted off by the men with the butterfly nets.

Let me translate that last clip for you. What Donny was gibbering about was his beloved Epstein Dance Hall, and why it shouldn’t bother you that his cronies all chipped in to buy him some fugly piece of shit where the historic East Wing used to be. Which, by the way, is a lie — taxpayers are on the hook for at least $307 million dollars for that eyesore.

Donny gets a dance hall, and We the People get fuck-all — while gas in America reaches an all-time second-term high, one day before the midterms.

By the way, who is paying $3.46 for a gallon of regular? Here in the Hudson Valley it’s more $4.19.

Meanwhile, let’s watch some out-of-touch idiot explain how his poverty is the best poverty.

Fox News bobblehead: “What’s your final message to voters to get them out?”

Donny: “Poverty numbers are the single best. Meaning, they’re the best. Poverty’s a bad thing, but poverty is poverty.”

Oh, thank you for that explanation of poverty — the best poverty ever. Big strong poverty, with tears in its eyes, going, ‘sir! Thank you, sir! How do you did it? How do you make us the best poverty ever? Sir!’

Don’t you love Donny hand-waving poverty away, the poverty he created? ‘Poverty is poverty, whatcha gonna do?’ Thanks for explaining that.

What kind of tone-deaf dumbfuckery is that, tumbling out of the rancid anus-mouth of some flim-flam man who’s grown rich off of grifting the rubes who worship him?

Yes, I know what Dear Leader is trying to say, about poverty, but he’s not saying it — because he’s fucked in the head — and presidents aren’t supposed to be fucked in the head.

But fucked in the head he is, and it shouldn’t have taken the New York Times ten years to figure out that he’s fucked in the head.

And still, the Times sugar-coats it.

Mr. Trump, who last year became the oldest person ever inaugurated as president and turned 80 in June, has demonstrated physical stamina as he barnstorms the country in advance of midterm elections.

And that, by the way, was Joe Biden’s real crime. He looked and sounded old— while Donny has gotten an endless serious of free passes, because he can still shit out nonsense while speaking in a mostly-loud voice.

I’ll bet the Times wants a cookie, as a reward for finally committing an almost-journalism.

Sorry, no. You don’t get a cookie. You spent ten years sanewashing the incoherent ravings of a maniac.

Our press is supposed to warn us while shit is actually happening, and not wander in at the very end and go ‘hey, that was kind of fucked up, wasn’t it?

No cookie. Do better.

Everything totally fucking sucks right now, but at least we can point and laugh at Comer Fudd’s newly-dyed hair.

Seriously, what the fuck? When last we saw James Comer, the rake-steppingest fuckwit in Congress, he was a dignified natural gray.

Of course, Comer Fudd’s hair was the only thing dignified about him, as he ginned up hearing after hearing in which he clownfucked himself into one embarrassing situation after another, all the while trying to prove that he was finally going to catch that wascally wabbit, Bugs Biden. 

Comer Fudd never was able to pin one crime on Bugs Biden, but at least he didn’t look like some mid-life-crisis used-care-salesman while attempting to do so.

Oh well, let’s be philosophical about it. Who really cares what the hair color is, when it’s the face that’s getting smacked by an endless series of rakes?

Ah, there’s the Comer Fudd we all know and love.

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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UPDATE: 10:01am Oct 30] Goddammit, Donny just announced he’s going ahead and doing the two canceled rallies. Fuuuuck me. As you read the post below, that I just spent three hours writing, pretend you’re the guy from Mememto, and you can’t form lasting memories.]

esterday evening, out of the clear blue and without warning, the White House abruptly announced that all of Dear Leader’s upcoming weekend rallies had been canceled — fuckity-bye, hit the bricks, sayonara — thereby depriving his remaining cultists the opportunity to sit uncomfortably on a folding chair in a thimble-sized gymnasium, and listen to Donny ramble incoherently for two entire hours about how he successfully pointed at the drawing of the camel, all while being drowned out by an endless series of hecklers.

Oh, and Donny hasn’t shitcanned those rallies because he’s debilitated. No, you’re the one who’s debilitated.

Reporter Jacob Bogage: “So you not going to Kansas has nothing to do with you being sick of traveling?”

Donny: “Oh, you’re sick to ask that question. You are sick. Who are you with?”

Bogage: “I’m with Reuters, sir.”

Donny: “You are a sick guy. Reuters is terrible. Can you imagine? Look at this guy. He’s way out of shape. Look at how bent— he comes [makes accordion hands] he comes to me. ‘Sir, you’re not gonna go to Kansas.’ I’m not going to Kansan because he’s doing very well. We’re gonna do a tele-rally’ … but he says, ‘you’re not going to Kansas, sir, are you feeling well?’ You’ve been following me for two weeks. I feel perfect. You are disgusting. Put yourself in shape. You look like hell.”

Shut the fuck up, Piggy.

Wow, Dear Leader sure gets cranky when he’s got a full load in his diaper — and he didn’t even hear the question correctly. Did you catch that? The reporter asks Donny if he’s ‘sick of traveling,’ and Donny goes ballistic because all he hears is ‘are you sick?’ And he automatically explodes into some infantile rant about ‘I’m not sick, you’re sick’ — because he’s got the emotional maturity of a four-year-old.

Maybe Donny needs to get his ears checked.

Is this a piece of your brain, Donny?

Dear Leader can’t hack it any more. He’s too old and tired and demented to be flying across the country every single goddamned day. Plus, he’s fed up. He loves the crowds — only this time around, there aren’t any crowds. All that remains are the die-hard, brain-deadest cultists — and there aren’t even enough of them left to fill the pint-sized high school gyms his flunkies are booking him into. How long before Donny has to open for a puppet show?

Donny didn’t sign up for this. He doesn’t want to stand there and listen to some communist heckler scream at him about shoving his beloved Epstein Dance Hall up his fat ass, or call him ‘Butterscotch Shitler.’ Fuck that shit, and fuck it hard. He’d rather be at his golf motel, canoodling with his diaper nurse. 

‘Oh Natty, you’re the only one who understands me.’

Eww. I think I just threw up in my own mouth a little.

So now, if you’re a cultist and you need your Donny fix this weekend, you’re going to have to zoom in to some ‘tele-rally,’ and watch Dear Leader sitting behind the Resolute Desk, drooling all over himself as he gradually loses consciousness. It’ll be just like a real rally, except you won’t be able to smell the farts.

Meanwhile, let’s go live to Republican National Headquarters for the GOP’s reaction to Donny having canceled his remaining rallies.

Seriously, the GOP is fucking celebrating right now — only they won’t say so out loud. Let’s let CNN’s Kaitlan Collins explain (beginning at 3:25 in the clip below).

“Sources say, though, that some Republican officials are relieved by the president’s decision to cancel those final two rallies. One top Republican official told my colleague Jeff Zeleny, quote, ‘thank God. He hasn’t moved the needle anywhere.’ And a second official, saying, quote, ‘everyone has seen the president who wants to see him.’”

Boo fucking hoo, Republicans. Maybe it was a mistake to hitch your wagons to an increasingly-befuddled fascist who, thanks to an increasing fog of dementia and untreated tertiary syphilis, no longer has any idea which end is up.

Oh, and here’s some more stupid-shittery that Preznit Fuckwit got up to on that tarmac yesterday.

Reporter: “Have you heard that Lt. General Sylvia leaked classified information at the Pentagon?”

Donny: “One what?”

Reporter: “I said, Lt. General Sylvia leaked classified information at the Pentagon.”

Donny: “She’s got problems. She’s gonna have big problems. She did. We’re very much looking for leakers, and uh— she’s gonna have big problems.”

Oy my god, Dear Leader isn’t just deaf, he’s ignorant. Check out, from his Wikipedia page, this photo of Lt. General Brett Sylvia — who just happens to be a dude.

Surely, Donny can’t be this seriously misinformed, can he?

Spoiler alert: yes he can be this misinformed. Remember, Donny’s daily intel briefing has been boiled to down to a single page of bullet points and burlesque photos from the 1940s.

That’s the only thing that will hold Donny’s attention. So of course he hasn’t a fucking clue who Lt. General Brett Sylvia is. All he hears is the name ‘Sylvia’ and away he goes, blithering about the retribution he’s going to inflict on some imaginary woman who doesn’t exist. 

I’m so old, I remember when Job Biden would occasionally stumble over someone’s name, and would have to correct himself. The press would have a field day, and start filling editorial pages with piece after piece about how Sleepy Joe was too old and icky and smelly do to his job, and how he needs to step down, right now, for the good of the country.

Now we have an actual cognitively-collapsed president concocting fairy tales about strange generals, lying in ponds, distributing leaks — and not one worthless scribbler of the corporate-controlled press can be bothered to say one word about it.

It’s so embarrassing to have a President of the United States who is an uninformed fool who has no fucking clue what’s going on inside his own government, and just makes shit up on the spot, based on what’s he’s misheard.

But tell me once again how it was Joe Biden who was the real problem. That’s such an awesome story.

I swear, I yam disgustipated. 

Let’s just cut to our Hero of the Day, because this guy’s a fucking hoot and a half. 

Fox News bobblehead: “Tom, why are you here this morning?”

Tom: “Well, in the late 70s, I was a little too young to get involved and go to South America for the Jonestown Massacre. But this is as close as I’ll ever get, so that’s why I’m here.”

Bobblehead: “Wait, the Jonestown Massacre?”

Tom: “That’s right. There’s nothing like seeing a cult right up front, man.”

Bobblehead: “Maybe this is not a Trump supporter [walks away dejectedly].”

And right there, that’s your problem for Fox news — and for all the wingnut media right now. When there are too few cultists in the crowd, it’s way too easy for any mischief-maker to walk up to the dude holding the microphone, and go ‘interview me next.’

Masterful job, bro. Norway will be in touch to let you know when you can pick up your Nobel Trolling Prize.

[Oh, and that scream you just heard, that was me — because this is where I was in writing this post when I got the notification on my phone about Donny going ahead with the canceled rallies. I was this fucking close, man.]

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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Before we get to the mozzarella-stick militia having a paroxysm of patriotic pearl-clutching because a two-term, scandal-free, infuriatingly handsome, effortlessly eloquent, smooth-as-fuck former president had the temerity to make a joke about their gilded, grievance-engorged fellatiarch’s taste in décor, a little palate cleanser.

Last night, democracy went two-for-two on the road. In Serbia, a student-led movement defeated Aleksandar Vučić’s political camp in parliamentary elections. The strongman actually acknowledged losing.

Imagine that. A fascist who can count.

In Brazil, Lula, soon to be eighty-one, came from behind and beat Flávio Bolsonaro, the junior varsity heir to the family fascism franchise, by more than four million votes. Naturally, Flávio, whom Trump’s kleptocratic regime has been trying to help into power, is refusing to concede and demanding the election be annulled.

Sound like a familiar pity-party tantrum to anybody else?

Let him howl. Every one of these defeats is a big fucking deal for democracy, for freedom worldwide, for everybody watching authoritarian assholes treat entire countries like something their sons should inherit along with billion-dollar defense contracts.

Apparently American exceptionalism means other countries get to watch their fascists lose while we get to watch ours build Versailles out of fucking gold contact paper. All I want is to wake up in a country where the good guys won, Junior’s crying into his coke pile, and his yam-dyed daddy is in a prison cell downwind of a goddamn McDonald’s, smelling fries he can’t have and listening to the steady, maddening whup… whup… WHUP of six hundred wind turbines keeping his fucking door locked.

Israel gets its chance tomorrow. Please, universe, let Netanyahu be the next genocidal goon to fall.

We get ours next Tuesday. Vote out the unctuous little congressional cock-polishers who’ve mistaken legislative oversight for keeping an eye on whether His Royal Thighness needs another pillow. Give him a House that issues subpoenas instead of compliments and a Senate that can locate its own testicles without asking his permission. I want these bastards watching election returns with their lawyers on one line and a charter pilot on the other.

But right now? I’m here to laugh at MAGA.

This one goes out to you, you tallow-brained, Trump-tumescent troglodytes, you suppositories of racial resentment, you sycophantic sphincter spelunkers who crawled up a con man’s ass and declared yourselves the master race.

I know you’re having a hard time lately, and I would like very much to make it worse. Because your guy is out there looking like a foreskin somebody inflated with a leaf blower, steeped in hot-dog water, and topped with the hair recovered from a motel Jacuzzi filter.

He’s short-circuiting, making strangulated, subverbal noises no speechwriter has ever had to punctuate, like a caveman on helium somebody slapped on the back while he was trying to whistle and drink chocolate milk at the same time. What the fuck do you even put in the transcript? A consonant? A wet footprint? Somebody get an anthropologist and a splash guard.

Meanwhile, we’ve got Barack Obama, that tall drink of Yes We Can, followed by Pete Buttigieg, Jon Ossoff, Abdul El-Sayed—a procession of gorgeous, literate men who don’t need both hands on the furniture to hold on to a thought.

Put Ossoff in a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and I’ll canvass a county I can’t pronounce. Pete and Jon? A dream ticket I could get behind. Or in front of. However they want me. I have questions about their positions, and very few concern the filibuster.

But I digress.

And there you are, MAGA, having spent ten years insisting Trump is the consummate alpha male, watching Obama remind you—with one joke—that you’ve pledged your life, your paycheck, and your last shred of dignity to a scrotal-reconstruction lawsuit in a red tie.

So, here goes…

Dear Ma and Pa MAGA,

You absolute fucking idiots.

You tariff-tenderized, Toby-Keith-tatted tailgate theologians of the Tuscan chicken flatbread. Have a seat. Loosen the elastic on them Sunday-best sweatpants.

Obama said Trump’s got the White House looking like “Saddam Hussein opened a Cheesecake Factory,” and you gripped your rosary so hard the beads came out the other end as hush puppies.

He was being generous.

That room looks like a Las Vegas funeral parlor offering a graveside lap dance with the purchase of a premium casket. Any second, a man in a crushed-velvet tux is gonna emerge from behind a gold column to explain that the Platinum Bereavement Experience includes bottle service and a grieving hostess named Sinnamon.

With an S.

Quick sidebar, because I may actually know her. In college, I found out I was working as a stripper. News to me: my only experience with a pole was waiting at the bus stop. My seventeen-year-old stepsister had stolen my identity and was dancing under my name. Her stage name? Sinnamon. With an S. An entire career in adult entertainment without seeing a dollar, which makes me the most MAGA thing in this essay.

Anyhoo.

The Trumpian Oval Office looks like a Fabergé egg that caught gonorrhea in the back room of a strip mall nail salon, with an antique coin purse made out of eyelid skin in the middle conducting a decorating consultation entirely through the phrase “MORE FUCKING GOLD.”

This man would gold-leaf his own colon if the gastroenterologist agreed to call it the Hall of Mirrors.

Obama mocked THAT, and you, the affronted aristocracy of the appetizer sampler, decided he’d insulted the place where Real Americans™ eat.

And look, I LOVE the Cheesecake Factory. I’ll commit a succession of butter-baptized dietary atrocities beneath those inexplicably Egyptian columns until the booth requires a coroner, then leave cradling a doggy bag whose translucent grease stains provide a complete medical history.

I also love Disney World. Doesn’t mean I want a fucking churro cart beside the nuclear football.

Nobody came for your booth, Cletus. Your step-grandson’s prison-release party was never under attack.

Donald Trump has joked to supporters that $5,000 would get them one hamburger and a small dessert at Mar-a-Lago, but yes, please, PLEASE go on about how Barack Obama is losing the everyman over a fucking restaurant joke.

Trump posts a video depicting Barack and Michelle Obama as apes. MAGA laughs its ass off.

Trump mocks Rob Reiner after he and his wife are murdered. MAGA laughs its ass off.

Trump says of Robert Mueller, “Good, I’m glad he’s dead.” MAGA laughs its ass off.

Obama compares all that gold to a Cheesecake Factory run by Saddam Hussein?

HOW DARE YOU. YOU HATE ORDINARY AMERICANS. YOU’RE EVIL INCARNATE. LEAVE OUR FUCKING CHEESECAKE ALONE.

But insult the gold leaf and you lachrymose little lickspittles react like he wiped his dick on your birthday slice of Ultimate Red Velvet Cake Cheesecake.

You’ll defend the honor of a dessert menu with your last wheezing breath while the preening, parasitic prick you elected celebrates oil profits and you’re wondering whether you can afford the gas to get there.

Even your marmalade-smeared, money-grubbing, morally bankrupt messiah knew how obscene that would sound. He anticipated the criticism before announcing: “I don’t give a damn, I’m going to say it — we’re making a freaking fortune.”

We.

Oh, he’s in the “we,” all right. His personal oil and gas holdings are now estimated at $22.5 million to $81.6 million, up from $12.6 million to $46 million at the end of 2025. Those values include additional purchases, not just gains. Your petroleum-plumped peckerpotentate is practically rubbing his nipples with the quarterly statement while you price denture adhesive by the ounce and wonder whether the Second Amendment entitles you to shoot a pork chop small enough to gum.

Sweetheart, you heard “we” and thought somebody added you to the joint checking account. He meant himself and the people whose boats have smaller boats. You’re helping finance a second staircase on something that fucking floats.

But you deferential, dickriding dipshits would hold the flashlight while he siphoned your gasoline into his yacht through a monogrammed garden hose, then coast home on fumes explaining that Obama thinks he’s too good for you.

Perhaps the class enemy was the gentleman with your gasoline in his mouth, Earl.

The tariffs were supposed to make you rich. Your peace candidate dragged us into a war with Iran. Now you’re wearing a shirt with two bald eagles having bannerific intercourse over the Constitution, pleading with a blinking card reader to recognize that you voted for prosperity while the machine requests something your entire political philosophy was supposed to render unnecessary: sufficient fucking funds.

But admitting you got played would require an exhumation of every sanctimonious sermon you delivered across a Thanksgiving table, every time you called a relative brainwashed, every gun-toting Jesus meme you dispatched from the University of Your Own Ass.

Your niece’s pronouns did not raise your grocery bill. The blue-haired barista never had jurisdiction over the Strait of Hormuz. And you’d rather excavate your own prostate with a shrimp fork than give your liberal daughter the satisfaction of hearing she was right.

The well-paid MAGA mouthpieces know it. The second these oleaginous little oligarch groupies spot the first flicker of quasi-comprehension crossing your face, they smother it with a fresh star-spangled panic.

Look over here, sugar tits. The uppity Black man has impugned the architectural integrity of your sacred feeding grounds.

Back on the outrage teat you go. Somebody darker to resent, an immigrant to blame, anyone you can shove beneath you before you have to look at who’s standing on your fucking neck.

Lyndon Johnson understood the arrangement: 

“If you can convince the lowest white man he’s better than the best colored man, he won’t notice you’re picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he’ll empty his pockets for you.”

So sure, investigate the cheesecake remark. Impound the dessert trolley. Haul a frightened busboy before Jim Jordan and demand to know when the tiramisu became radicalized. Your fossil-fueled Marie Antoinette in a spray tan and a pontoon boat tarp is purring “let them eat cheesecake,” and you’re demanding an apology from the man who insulted his gilding.

I don’t give a single deep-fried, flag-bedazzled fuck about your manufactured outrage. You’re praying to the patron saint of declined debit cards, and the only emergency you’ve identified is a Black man who called the gold tacky.

Your million-dollar-an-hour, malignantly moronic mountebank knows you’re getting screwed. He could wipe caviar off his chin with your fucking foreclosure notice and you’d still swear he was just a regular guy trying to keep a roof over your head.

He’s hosting dinners for his billionaire buddies where you’d have to sell both kidneys just to afford the free bread.

But sure. Obama is the one treating you like you’re fucking stupid.

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And The Bullshit Continues

WHERE IS OUR BIG BEAUTIFUL HEADLINE?!

Folks, you can say what you want about Preznit Fuckwit, but you can’t deny that the dude is a bottomless well of super-awesome ideas.

Let’s threaten and alienate all our allies. Let’s throw Ukraine to the wolves, and give Putin everything he wants. Let’s bomb the shit out of Venezuelan fishermen.

Let’s allow masked federal thugs to roam the streets of our cities, and look the other way when they gun down anyone they want. Let’s smash half the White House to rubble, and put up a vulgar, heavily-militarized Epstein Dance Hall in its place. Let’s clownfuck ourselves into an unwinnable war that ends up making everything unaffordable.

Let’s encourage Americans to rat each other out for fun and profit.

Wait, what was that last one? Americans should do what?

Oh, you heard me right.

“So today, I’m thrilled to announce the— Fraud Whistle— Blower Incentive— Program. Fraud— Whistle— Blower Incentive Program. Annnnnnd— mark those words. Independent journalists and every— body and all Americans will now be able to go to the— fraud dot gov and report cases of corruption and theft of taxpayer dollars in their communities … if you turn somebody in and you find $1 billion, we’re giving a commission of 1%. That’s a lot of money,”

Really? We’re paying bounties on fraudsters now? Because I know a guy who sleep-farted his way through an entire trial, and then got convicted on 34 counts of fraud. He’s still walking the streets, and he’s still criming. Can I turn this narcoleptic fuckface in, and glom some reward?

Silly rabbit. The Donnyverse doesn’t intend for this new whistleblower thingumbob to be used against actual fraudsters — and certainly not against white people.

Here comes undead White House advisor Nosferatu McGoebbels, to explain that this is actually just another handy way for the administration to commit a racism against those they deem undesirable.

They came here from Somalia, they’re living here for a year or two, they say ‘I’m going to open up a fake daycare. I’ll tell Keith Ellison, I’ll tell Governor Walz, I’m taking care of 200 kids. Send me a check for thirty million dollars. What do they do? They buy Mercedes, they buy BMWs. They buy a mansion, they buy a nice house. All their kids fly first class all over the world. They are living the high life.”

Wait, is that true? Let’s do a quick fact check:

Of course this isn’t happening. It’s a fever-swamp fairy tale cooked up by white supremacists. 

The reality is that every accusation Nosferatu just shat our of his undead mouth is actually being perpetrated right now by Preznit Fuckwit’s two felonious failsons — Cokey McSniffles, and the dumb one.

A report released Thursday details how the family of President Donald Trump “pocketed more than $2.9 billion”—including “in cash and gifts from crypto ventures, legal settlements, a luxury jet from a foreign government, and corporate deals”—while Republican cuts to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program left millions of Americans without critical food aid.

Can I turn them in? Pretty please, can I?

Pick a lane, racists — are these Somalis all on welfare, or are they all buying luxury items? Because — spoiler alert — it can’t be both.

Folks, this is straight up Nazi bullshit — because you know who else used to pay people to rat out the undesirables in their midst, don’t you? Of course you do.

“The Dutch Department,” as the Nazis called it, was also known as the “Colonne Henneicke,” after its leader, Wim Henneicke. He had been trafficking in stolen Jewish property until the Nazis began offering cash for Jewish prisoners.

Workers were paid about 15 guilders a week, or $75 at today’s exchange rate, plus 7.50 guilders or $37.50 per captured Jew, van Liempt writes.

Pretty weird how every atrocity this administration is committing right now, was first dreamed up by the Nazis, 90 years ago. What a bizarre set of coincidences, am I right?

There was a time when arriving at our shores with five dollars in your pocket, and then going on to make a success of yourself was called ‘living the American dream.’

We celebrated such people, and wrote books and made movies about them.

Okay, that’s probably not the best example, but you get my drift.

The American dream isn’t a thing any more. The oligarchy doesn’t want some nasty immigrant coming here and succeeding — and certainly not any non-white immigrant. They want to keep all that money for themselves. (They made an exception for the Space Nazi — because, as a white child of privilege, he was already one of them.)

Look, let’s run some numbers. The entire number of Somalis in Minnesota is thought to be around a hundred thousand. Of that hundred grand, 85 people of Somali descent have charged with fraud. Of that 85, around 60 have been convicted and sent to prison.

Sixty out of a hundred thousand is 0.06 percent — a rounding error away from zero.

Fraud in Minnesota is almost nonexistent, and the culprits have already been rounded up and dealt with — but racist shit-kadoodles like Nosferatu McGoebbels want you to believe that every Somali is guilty of something, and that the America people won’t be safe until every single one of them has been deported to who the fuck even cares, just get them out of Dear Leader’s sight.

All this is by design. It’s a distraction from the real problem in our country.

‘Keep the people ignorant and fighting each other, and they won’t notice the plutocrats picking their pockets’ is right there on page one of the oligarch’s playbook.

And MAGA falls for this shit, every time — because stupid doesn’t magically cure itself overnight.

Now, listen — I’m not saying that folks should prank this new anti-fraud hotline, but I’m not saying they shouldn’t.

Here’s a fun thing that We the People did back in 2023.

You see, the government of Missouri had themselves a bright idea: transgendered people aren’t being persecuted enough, so let’s make it easier to single them out for abuse. And so they created a web form where concerned people complete fucking busybodies could rat on their neighbors.

Decent citizens everywhere had a better idea: let’s fuck this war crime right into the ground — and so they flooded the hotline with bogus reports. 

It was fucking glorious.

Pranksters flooded the snitch form with so much hilarious garbage that it had to be shut down.

Now, I know what you’re going to say next. “But Uncle Jeff, you’ve already written over eleven hundred words, and you still haven’t told us what we really want to know: at any point during yesterday’s Oval Bordello dog-and-pony show, did Donny melt down at a reporter’s question and throw an infantile shit-fit?”

Do you even have to ask? Of fucking course he did.

“Listen to you. Hey. Hey! I’m not— You better, you better — I don’t know the hell you are, but you better be careful.”

And then the colicky piss-baby did it a second time.

“Wait. Wait. Quiet. QUIET! What’s wrong with you? Are you a sick person? I actually think there’s something wrong with you.”

What a fucking child. Tell me again how women don’t have the temperament to be president. That’s such a cool story.

Donny actually did it a third time, but some idiot forgot to bookmark it last night when he was making notes for this post.

Dear Leader held another hate-rally last night, in who the fuck even cares where. The demented old shitbag rambled incoherently for a merciless hour and fifty-four minutes. I’m not even going to bother to write about it. It was virtually identical to all the hate-rallies I’ve been covering for weeks now. Same shit, different day.

Let me just leave you with this one clip from last night.

“So, he’s over here, I’m over here. And— I’m studying his body. I’ve never studied the body of a man before. It’s not my thing. Nothing wrong with it, of course. Heh heh. Nothing— I always proceed it by saying ‘nothing wrong.’ But it’s never been my thing, to be honest with you. But I looked at his ass. And then I looked at his legs. And I said it might— and I said, ‘his ass is shit.’ It’s like— it’s like a pile of muscle. Then I looked at his legs. And I said, ‘man, his feet are big.’ Then I looked at his shoulders and I tapped him on the shoulder, and it actually hurt my hand. It was like a piece of steel.”

You have to love that Donny stuck a ‘not that there’s anything wrong with that’ in there. No, of course not.

Congratulations, MAGA. You elected a gay president — and you didn’t even know it.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

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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Let’s start today’s post off with a bang. Ladies and gents, I give you the winner of the Nobel Best Sign At No Kings Day Prize.

More than 3,000 No Kings events took place across the world yesterday, but this time the focus was different. 

No Kings Four wasn’t about crowd size. It was about getting out the vote — and voting early, where possible. We need to out-vote the shitheads, in numbers great enough that they can’t steal the midterms — because you know that they’re going to try like hell to pull some post-election fuckery. In fact, No Kings is already working on their next project — defending the vote.

Of course, there were crowds, in places such as Denver.

And Las Cruces, New Mexico.

In New York City.

And even in front of Donny’s beloved Epstein Reflecting Pool, which still seems to be completely fucked to hell.

But the people I really adore — and want to call out — are the individuals in the far-flung corners of the world who made it a point to let Dear Leader know how just how much he totally fucking sucks.

Exhibit A is this American visiting Scotland’s Isle of Skye, who took time out from her vacation to hold a one-woman protest.

“Add Isle of Skye, Scotland to the map of No Kings Protests! I can’t wait to vote early when I get home. I imagine the London action was bigger but at least we can say there were two protests in the UK! Indivisible Guide Indivisible Long Island #NoKings #BlueWave”

And then there’s this guy, who spends every No Kings Day camped out in front of the US embassy in Talinn, Estonia. Here he was, yesterday.

This homie fucking rules. he held the exact same one-person protest during No Kings Three last last March.

And here he is at the No Kings Two protest on October 18, 2025.

This is how much the entire world loathes you, Donny. Congratulations, you did that!

Oh, and when we say ‘no kings,’ we really have to make an exception for Carole King, who showed up to protest in Haley, Idaho.

Hey, do you know who can go fuck themselves all the way to Mars? The oligarchs and tech bros, that’s who. 

They’re terrified of We the People, and they’re doing everything they can to make sure our voices get buried. Yesterday, just as the No Kings protests were ramping up, Meta disabled No Kings’ Instagram account, knocking them completely offline.

“We have some breaking news, as we follow No Kings protests nationwide. A spokesperson for No Kings says the main accounts for the coalition on Instagram were frozen, and pulled down, and the administrators lost access to the peak of their national day of action. They say this happened at about 1:30pm eastern. MS NOW is out to Meta for comment. We have not heard back yet.”

Meta claimed that the whole thing was just a silly mistake, nobody’s fault, really, ha ha — but it still took them hours to restore the account. 

Oh, how convenient.

Meanwhile, at a hate-rally in who even gives a shit where, Mad King Donny once again fixated on his his latest obsession.

“And he came up and he was talking very nicely. And I stood right over here. And I examined his ass.”

It’s always something with this corroded old fucksnoot, isn’t it? Remember during the 2024 campaign cycle? Back then, in every single speech, Donny would lapse into some nonsensical reverie about boats and batteries and sharks and what would you do if you fell into the water, would you rather get electrocuted by the shark or eaten by the battery? There was never ever any context for this incoherent rambling, but there it was, in speech after speech.

No more. The boats and the sharks have been retired, replaced by Donny eternally examining Jon Husted’s ass. That must be one hell of a gluteus Jon’s packing back there. 

Way too much information, President Proctologist. Keep it to yourself.

I’ve got two heroes for you today. The first one is Jon Ossoff — because he’s so good at saying the things we’re all thinking.

“Now, maybe you saw Donald Trump was in Dalton yesterday, oblivious to the collapse of his presidency. A crowd smaller than this one endured two hours of senile babbling while the price of oil hit its five-month high.”

Ossoff excels at knowing exactly where to stick the knife. Back in the Oval Bordello, a ketchup bottle just got hurled against the wall, as Dear Leader hears himself get called senile, and has his crowd size made fun of. Boo fucking hoo, bro.

Our second hero is Abdul El-Sayed — because he’s so good at saying the things we wish we were smart enough to say.

Some MAGA chud named Tommy showed up at one of El-Sayed’s rallies, and was so cocksure of himself that he actually imagined he could disrupt the event by heckling. What happened instead was the Tommy the Chud got his rhetorical ass handed to him. El-Sayed took him apart, just by talking to him, one on one.

The entire clip is almost five minutes long. I’m only going to transcribe the first minute, but I implore you to listen to the whole thing.

El-Sayed: “You give me your name, I’ll answer the question.”

Tommy: “Okay, Tommy.”

El-Sayed: “Hi, Tommy. How are you?”

Tommy: “I’m great.”

El-Sayed: “Are you? Do you know what the Constitution of the United States is?”

Tommy: “I have one simple question. Will you disavow the Muslim Brotherhood?”

El-Sayed: “Yeah, sure, absolutely. But I want to ask to the question that you’re asking. Why are you asking the question?”

Tommy: “Well, because they’re a terrorist group.”

El-Sayed: “Okay. No, no, but what are you implying? Do you assume that I wouldn’t?”

Tommy: “Yes.”

El-Sayed: “Why not?”

Tommy: “Because I have not heard you disavow them yet.”

El-Sayed: “Have you disavowed them? I haven’t heard you disavow them yet.”

Tommy: “I disavow them.”

El-Sayed: “Do you? Great. But here’s the thing about it. You’re asking the question, because implicitly, you’ll assume that I have dual loyalties, right? Right? You assume that somehow I wouldn’t disavow, or that I’ll have some higher order, allegiance, than to the Constitution, correct? Tommy, isn’t that what you imply?”

Tommy: “Yes.”

El-Sayed: “Why would you think that about me?”

Tommy: “Because I have not yet heard you—”

El-Sayed: “No, no, no — why would you actually think that about me?”

That’s just the first minute. Please keep watching the entire clip. Spoiler alter: things don’t go too well for Tommy. He gets demolished. Not because El-Sayed insults him back, or makes fun of him, but simply because El-Sayed talks to him like a fellow human being.

And, in the end, Tommy the Chud books it the fuck out of there with his tail between his legs

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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JoJo’s Got Such A Way With Words, Don’t You Think?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

European customers.

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

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

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

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

You don’t fucking KNOW?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is THIS what being “great again” looks like?

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

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

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

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

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

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

IF THEY ARE?!

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

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

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

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

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

Concede? Motherfucker, I LIVE HERE.

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

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

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

Oh, how very far we have fallen.

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

Remember when we fought fascism?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And once again, he’s betting wrong.

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

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

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

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

💙 Jo

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Yesterday was another one of those days where the stupid was so ungodly thick, you could cut it with a knife. Here a stupid, there a stupid, everywhere a stupid stupid — and you know what that means: it’s time once again to roll out the good old Big Wheel of Moron™, give it a vigorous spin, and see where it lands. Ready? Here we go.

Oh look, here’s a perfectly normal thing that happens every day. It’s just United States President Rottinghands McCankles, being bundled into Helicopter Force One (or whatever the fuck it’s called), along with Diaper Nurse Natalie Harp and Found Object Katie Zacharia.

Holy shit, look at the intensity with which these two women are focusing their rictus grins on the object of their affection.

Who thought this was a wise idea? You can’t do this. You can’t take two fixated weirdos who both believe they have the god-ordained right to be the Fourth Mrs. Donny™ and put them in close quarters. It’s like shoving matter and antimatter together. Nothing good is going to happen. Bunnies are going to get boiled. Lots and lots of bunnies.

If we could somehow take the barely-suppressed, seething resentment that these two rivals are developing for each other, and somehow hook it to a generator, it could be America’s greatest source of renewable energy.

We’d better get out of here before we become collateral damage. Let’s give that Big Wheel of Moron™ another spin.

Oh my dear sweet lord, help us. It’s landed on United States Vice President Couchfuck McGee.

I love you too sir. In a totally platonic way, to be clear. I’m the vice president, not James Talarico.”

GET IT? GET IT? JAMES TALARICO IS THE GAY! (Spoiler alert: he’s not.)

I’m so tired of neanderthal assholes like JD Vance, whose homophobic sense of ‘humor’ — if we can charitably call it that — never matured beyond the eighth-grade locker room. It’s so fucking adolescent.

This is what you do when your party is utterly devoid of accomplishments, and bereft of anything positive to run on — you just make up stupid shit about your opponent. Why does Couchfuck imagine that ‘ha ha you so gay’ is still a thing you can lob at someone? Bro, this is the year of our lord 2026. Open your eyes — no one cares. So what if Talarico were the gayest gay in all of gaydom? We’ve over that shit. 

But beyond that, why is Couchfuck even being trotted out to campaign on behalf of loser candidates? He has zero charisma. He has no ability to connect with average people. He’s complete shit at small talk.

‘So how’s your sexuality? Are you still straight? HA HA THAT’S GREAT!’

Wheel of Moron™, kindly get us the fuck away from this repellent dipshit.

Sigh. It landed on Dear Leader, at yesterday’s hate rally in Texas. Let’s hear what’s on this tiresome fuckface’s liquefying mind.

Mutilate your children, they want to mutilate, cut your children. It’s unbelievable, what they do. Six states, I mean they could do whatever the want, and they do. Your son leaves as Jimmy and comes home in three days as Janet, and they don’t even ask you. Most people don’t believe it. You know, they think it’s like an exaggeration. It’s not. They can take your child out of school and do whatever the hell they want. These people are sick. Minnesota is one of those states that can do that.”

Fact check:

For fuck’s sake, Preznit Fuckwit has been vomiting out this fever-swamp hallucination for years now, and it doesn’t even stand up to ten seconds’ worth of critical thinking. Imagine that this were true. Imagine that you were the parent of darling little Jimmy, and one day he doesn’t get off the school bus. And then what? You just sit there for three days, going ‘well I guess he’s okay, wherever he is.’  Of course not.

You know, Donny thinks he’s doing his party a favor, by showing up to ostensibly ‘campaign’ for a candidate, and then shitting nonsense like this out of his corroded face-hole instead. He’s not. Just like his furniture-fornicating Vice President, he’s become kryptonite to voters. Nobody but the brain-deadest of cultists want to hear Donny prattle on about ‘the transgender.’ 

That shit might have worked in 2024, but it doesn’t any more. Don’t take my word for it. Listen to Republican Dade Phelan, a former Texas State House Speaker.

Phelan said it’s doing nothing, because no one cares about the few dozen transgender people in sports. They just want cheap gas.

Okay, that’s enough from our Moron-in-Chief. Let’s spin that Big Wheel again.

Oh fuck us all blind, it landed on Donny again. Holy shit, he’s still bragging about pointing to the picture of the camel.

“But remember, I’m the only one who took the test. You know, the aptitude test or whatever the hell they call it. I took it— when I did— every time I do a physical— I take a mental test. And I’ve aced it. WHERE’S MY DOCTOR? Is he around, I travel with more doctors than any human. If people get sick in the audience, they don’t— do— they leave him alone. You know what they call him? Collateral damage. If that person right over there, he looks like shit actually. He looks— he looks like he’s ready to have a heart attack. If he actually had a heart attack, you know what they would do? They would leave him alone.” 

The stupid shit thinks he’s been taking an ‘aptitude’ test. He’s not — it’s a brain damage test. And if you’re being asked to take one every time you have a checkup, it’s because your doctor has an excellent reason to suspect you have brain damage.

Don’t you love the way Donny boasts about acing his dementia test, and then careens wildly into the kind of incoherent anecdote that only a dementia sufferer would tell? Way to connect with your audience, you rotting dumbfuck. People can’t afford food. They can’t afford housing. They can’t afford basic goods and services. 

Above all, no one can afford healthcare — and this out-of-touch nincompoop is bragging about how he has all the doctors in the world, and you don’t. What in the actual fuck?

Sigh. Let’s give that Big Wheel one final spin. Ready?

Goddammit, it landed on Donny a third time. I’m going have to take this thing in and get it calibrated. The veeblefetzer is out of whack again. 

Oh no, wait, the Big Wheel of Moron™ actually did us a solid. This one’s worth seeing.

This is why, when they broadcast Dear Leader’s hate-rallies on TV, they’re always cropped in tightly from the front, on Donny and the worshipers who have been placed behind him — because if they showed you a wider view, you’d learn that no one is showing up to these things. The arena is nearly empty. He’s the crowd-size obsessed president, and he can’t draw a crowd. How sad is that? 

Wait, did I said it was sad? Actually, I meant to say that shit’s fucking hilarious.

I swear, I’m trying really hard not to laugh.

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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Here We Go Again

I. Just. Can’t. Anymore.

I guess it’s time to pull all those masks out of storage. Especially with my health being what it is.

Because if you think Trump’s government did very little last time, and it reaches our shores (as it inevitably will) they’re going to do even less this time. It will be up to each of us to protect ourselves when we’re out and about. And if you think the MAGA crowd fought masks last time, buckle up sweetheart. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

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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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