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No Lie Detected
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Every Accusation…
“President Trump alleged Tuesday that the July 13, 2024, attempt on his life in Butler, Pa. was part of a ‘Democratic plot’ against him.”
“Everybody knows the Crooked Joe Biden FBI didn’t do what they should have with respect to the Lunatic who shot me in Butler, PA.”
“By the time I got into Office, on January 20th, most of the information was missing, altered, corrupted, or gone. New info was just found! Why wasn’t it seen long ago? This was all a Democrat Plot, to get me out of the Election, that failed.’”
Show us the evidence, Biff.
I still don’t believe this attempt was a conspiracy (they are too incompetent to pull it off). It’s not that they have a moral core, just that they are buffoons who couldn’t arrange a one-car funeral procession in a town with one street.
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Ravers 🤣
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Vomiting It All Up. And There Is a LOT of It Tonight.
Apologies for the sheer number of these tonight. And I know a some of them are a little stale at this point, but to paraphrase the famous quote from Ferris Bueller, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, post promptly when you find something you could miss it.” In bloging—especially blogs with a political slant—this is SO true!
And lastly…
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You’ve caved to your billionaire buddy Robert Kraft, you’ve deferred to the pearl-clutching Pink, you’ve fallen in line behind your promoters, and you’ve kowtowed to a handful of football stadium owners and allowed rapper Macklemore to be bootedfrom your tour for saying the words “Free Palestine.”
I can imagine how traumatic that must have been for your audience, the emotional scars they must be carrying right now from being asked to see the Palestinian people as deserving of dignity and self-determination…. the horror.
My newsfeed is absolutely littered with news stories, think pieces, and video critiques lambasting you for what people are saying is your cowardice, your selfishness, your obvious racism, your thinly veiled Zionism.
And with the fierce media firestorm raging all around you right now, I wonder if anyone’s considered your feelings, what it’s like to walk a mile in your custom Air Jordans.
I mean, this couldn’t have been an easy decision for you. In this economy, a guy with a net worth of 400 million has to stay on the road to keep the lights on, right? We can’t have you missing any meals out here, can we?
Oh, sure, tens of thousands of Palestinians have been brutally murdered, once vibrant cities leveled to dust, and an ancient culture violently erased. Yes, generations of human beings have been assassinated, starved, tortured, and burned alive. And yeah, children are being raped and shot and ripped from their mutilated parents in these very moments, but the show must go on, right? Can’t let a little genocide stop the party.
So what if a few thousand miles away an entire country is being wiped off the map with the taxes of your fanbase, you got a gig to do, merch to move, a few more homes to add to the mere three dozen or so you’re being forced to make do with.
You’ve dismissed Macklemore for having the audacity to choose integrity over the paycheck, for giving a damn about thousands of brown-skinned people who can’t buy concert tickets or boost your streaming numbers, and you’re going to bravely carry on with business as usual, playing the part of the happy, humble white savior of soccer moms and suburban preteens everywhere.
You’ll continue packing out stadiums, basking in the breathless adoration of a mix of the uninformed, the lazy, and the heartless; people who either don’t know what’s going on in Palestine or who simply don’t care enough to be inconvenienced enough to opt out (though you could inform and inspire them).
And you’ll get up there awash in spotlights and the intoxicating roar of an army of the most privileged people on the planet. You’ll wear that grinning everyman facade you’ve perfected. You’ll joyfully churn out your loops and whirl around in the middle of a massive sea of humanity (the largely white kind, the kind whose worth and safety might actually matter enough to you for you to get “political,” as you did with Ukraine, btw).
I’m sure it’ll be a blast… but not the kid-killing IDF kind.
But I wonder if the crowds at the shows will sing loud enough to cover the screams erupting from the rubble of Palestine. I wonder if the stratospheric tour revenue will be worth the suffering you’ve ignored to get it.
Maybe I’m being too hard on you. Maybe you’re really struggling with this. Maybe you’re going to have a change of heart and show some courage and something resembling a spine, and allow your humanity to take the lead. Maybe I’ll end up apologizing to you for underestimating you. I would welcome that, because it would mean you decided to leverage your privilege to save the lives of people who are being treated like animals.
But right now, Ed, for a guy who’s made a fortune with words, it’s your silence is most telling. You are choosing to say nothing, and there is a cost to that, too. Unfortunately, you won’t be the one paying the highest price.
Maybe you are exactly what they say you are. Maybe you’re a coward, or worse. Maybe the people of Palestine aren’t worth the show guarantees you’d have to part with to stand up to the bullies and the Zionists. Maybe it isn’t that you’re not willing to take sides (because you have been), but that the Palestinian people don’t fall within the borders of your empathy or the comfort of your courage.
I suppose no matter how successful and powerful someone gets, every person has their price, and yours was a 10-city tour.
The Palestinian people deserve our discomfort, Ed. They deserve to be on our breath because the voices of white people can carry their cries to people in the world who need to hear them, despite how uneasy it makes them.
It’s just really sad that with the size of the stage and the reach of the microphone you’ve been handed, and with the voice you’ve been given that could resonate so loudly on behalf of imperiled human beings, you have such moral laryngitis now.
Enjoy the rest of the tour, Ed… knock ‘em dead out there.
Free Palestine.
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so there we all were, just trying to make it though another fucked-up Monday, when out of the clear blue, we got hit with the News of the Century:
after three months of being hidden away from the public, Mitch McConnell was on his way to the Senate.
holy shit-kadoodle, Batman! he’s alive!
but then we got the video of The Esteemed Senator Turtlehump being wheeled out of his terrarium, and it was a big bowl of what in the actual fuck?
what bill of goods are we being sold here?
okay, there’s Mitch, clearly most sincerely not dead — but does he really look alive? we see him being wheelchaired from his doorway to his waiting car, but do we really see any sense of cognition — any sign at all that Mitch has any idea where he is, or what is happening to him?
even presidential side-piece Laura Loopy was all what on God’s green shitpile are they trying to pull?
Like I said, Mitch is brain dead. You can’t look at his face and say he’s not a vegetable. He’s not even responding to cognition tests. It’s like wheeling a corpse around. Worse than what the Democrats did with Joe Biden to be honest. He looks incapacitated. Brain dead.
the thing is, Laura’s not wrong. (I mean, not the part about Joe Biden, duh.) Mitch is clearly unwell.
later, when the MitchBot5000 showed up in the Senate, reporters were banned from recording video.
Some more photos of McConnell as he returned to the Senate for the first time in three months following a fall at his D.C. home.
Reporters were barred from recording video
perfectly normal stuff, am I right?
please do not record the senator while he is making grunting noises and shitting himself.
I mean, how do we know that’s not what Mitch is doing? they won’t allow us to find out.
could Mitch McConnell’s handlers kindly stop pissing on our heads and telling us it’s raining? it’s been over three months since McConnell was found unconscious on the floor of his house, and taken away in an ambulance. in all that time, there hadn’t been one single shred of evidence that Mitch was cognizant, or even alive. now that he’s finally here in front of us, all we want is an answer to a single question: is he competent to do his job? but instead of getting any answer from Team Mitch, we’re just cordially invited to go fuck ourselves.
what the hell? if McConnell is actually aware of his surroundings, why can’t we get any proof of it?
this is not how a functioning government works. this is how a clown show works.
wheeling a Zombie Mitch from location to location is just elder abuse at this point. why is he being dog-and-ponied around? is it because he grunted ‘iwaaaagwrrrrg’ and one of his handlers went, ‘Mitch says he wants to go to work’?
fuck off, Mitch. stay home. you’ve had a long, distinguished career of being the most evil person in the Senate, making life worse for We the People. bravo. job well done.
now step down, and try to enjoy what remains of your life.
* * *
there really need to be term limits, or age limits, in the Senate. look at Chuck Grassley. he’s 92. this session, he’s going to be expected to vote on things like data centers and AI. does he have the capacity to understand those issues? and it’s a bipartisan problem. three years ago, Democrat Dianne Feinstein died while in office at age 90. like McConnell, she had absent from the Senate for months, and when she finally returned, it was obvious that her brain had gone fuckity-bye.
When the fellow reporter asked her what the response from her colleagues had been like since her return, though, the conversation took an odd turn.
“No, I haven’t been gone,” she said.
four months after that conversation, she dropped dead. here’s what I wrote at the time.
look: I get why ancient Senators refuse to step down. it’s a cush job. the perks are awesome: power. free healthcare. a staff. travel. your face on TV. you don’t really have to work very hard, and you get shitloads of time off. and if you live in a safe, deeply-red or deeply-blue state, you don’t even have to campaign all that strenuously.
hell, I wouldn’t quit that job. would you?
of course you wouldn’t. you had to pry Dianne Feinstein’s job out of her cold, dead hands. is Mitch McConnell next?
come on, this shit ain’t supportable. term limits, now.
here’s some other cheery news we got yesterday. it turns out that some Putin-linked Russian oligarch bankrolled First Failson Cokey McSniffles’ lavish, private-island wedding.
New: Russian oligarch Umar Kremlev footed the bill for hundreds of thousands of dollars of wedding expenses at Donald Trump Jr.’s lavish wedding, including renting out a private island and paying for the fireworks show.
perfectly normal stuff, am I right? I mean, who among us hasn’t had some corrupt crony of Putin’s drop a couple-hundred thou in our lap, so we can get hitched in style?
National security experts expressed alarm at Trump Jr. accepting the oligarch’s largesse, saying it raised an urgent question: What motivated Kremlev to spend a fortune cultivating the connection?
“If I’m paying for your wedding, at some point, you’re going to owe me something,” said Frank Montoya Jr., a retired career FBI official who held senior counterintelligence roles.
no fucking duh. of course Mister Oligarch is going to expect something in return. that’s how this ‘enjoy your free wedding’ shit works. at this point, I think I’d be shocked if Donny and his family managed to do something that wasn’t corrupt.
naturally, House Republicans swore to get to the bottom of this scandal, vowing to immediately open hearings.
no, wait — what am I saying? Republicans didn’t promise to do any of that shit. instead, they had the most predictable response in the universe: look over there, it’s Hunter Biden!
Florida Rep Anna Paulina Luna: “there’s no evidence. we opened an investigation into Hunter Biden because of the evidence in the laptop that specifically pertained to influence peddling, and unless there’s a laptop that comes out with specific criminal evidence, I don’t think that opening up an investigation into Don Jr.’s wedding party is something that’s a good use of taxpayer dollars.”
holy shit, An Appalling Lunatic is more brain-dead than Mitch McConnell. not this again. there was never any Hunter Biden laptop. what there was, was a tampered-with hard drive that someone claimed had come from Hunter Biden’s laptop.
in Don Jr.’s case, we don’t need anyone to gin up fake evidence. we’ve got evidence up the yin-yang. over to you, ProPublica.
Kremlev footed the bill for hundreds of thousands of dollars of wedding expenses, according to records reviewed by ProPublica and interviews with three people familiar with the event.
In response to detailed questions, a spokesperson for Trump Jr. did not dispute the wedding payments from Kremlev. “Umar is a personal friend of Don,” he said.
can someone please copy the ProPublica article onto a laptop, and claim it came from Hunter Biden? maybe we can trick these Republican shitweasels into investigating it.
yesterday, the dumbest fucking moron in the known multiverse spent an entire day power-loading an infinite series of diapers, because AI.
Concerning AI, when, in the History of Business, did anyone see the Leaders of an Industry call for Regulation that, if strongly implemented, will drive them into oblivion and bankruptcy? AI taking over the World, destroying Humanity, and all other things bad, is a HOAX.
what Dear Leader was reacting to were the multiple stories that have been in the news lately about how the three largest AI honchos have all called for putting the brakes on the current race to build the smartest six-fingered plagiarism robots possible, lest these super-smart AIs start running wild and doing shit we can no longer control.
Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei published an essay asking that the pace of capability advance be slowed and committing his own company to embed outside evaluators with employee-level access. Sam Altman agreed and said OpenAI would do likewise. Elon Musk … wrote three words: “Dario is right.” Three rival laboratories in the most valuable commercial race on earth asked to be restrained, against their own immediate interest.
and that came right on the heels of this cheery news.
For three years, Jacob Coxon helped train increasingly powerful AI systems at OpenAI and Anthropic. On Sept. 8, he walked away.
“I resigned from Anthropic today,” Coxon posted on X. “Neither company is acting responsibly. They are racing straight to self-improving superintelligence and gambling with our lives.” His dire warning amassed more than 90 million views in less than 24 hours.
tell me, is is bad when the guy who helped invent the tech gets so terrified of what he’s done that he quits his job and starts blowing the whistle — and then, his own boss and the boss’s cronies go ‘he’s right, this shit’s hella bad’?
That sounds pretty fucking terrifying to me. isn’t that the plot of umpteen science fiction books any movies — some rogue AI decides that humanity needs to be killed to death — or turned into batteries?
literally everyone is concerned right now that the rush to build ever-smart AIs is a bad idea that’s in need of regulation: We the People, our elected officials — and even the homies who built the damned things. shouldn’t that tell you that something in fact needs to be done?
oh no, wait. there’s one dumb asshole who’s totally down with letting AI do its evil, unregulated thing — and he’s pulled out his favorite word: hoax.
I am the Hoax Buster, and I’m right now breaking another Hoax — That AI is going to take over, consume, and destroy the World, and that Robots will be marching into our Cities, and getting rid of us all! This is even wilder than the RUSSIA, RUSSIA, RUSSIA HOAX, or the Global Warming Scam. Thank you for your attention to this matter! President DONALD J. TRUMP
this fucking idiot — everything he doesn’t like is a hoax. yeah, as if the tech bros now clanging the alarms are hoaxing themselves. cool stor
why is Donny so dead-set against regulating the development of plagiarism robots ? because, as Robert Reich reports in his post from this morning, he and his failsons stand to make a mint off of AI tech.
So what explains Trump’s absolute refusal to regulate AI? Could it possibly be that he and his family have personal financial stakes in it?
Indeed, Donald Jr. and Eric Trump have invested substantially in American Data Centers, a firm created to support AI cloud computing and AI infrastructure.
remember what I said earlier about how, ‘at this point, I think I’d be shocked if Donny and his family managed to do something that wasn’tcorrupt’?
but Donny says not to worry, because he knows more about six-fingered plagiarism robots than all the six-fingered plagiarism robots — and he knows exactly what’s needed to keep things from getting out of hand.
So what explains Trump’s absolute refusal to regulate AI? Could it possibly be that he and his family have personal financial stakes in it?
Indeed, Donald Jr. and Eric Trump have invested substantially in American Data Centers, a firm created to support AI cloud computing and AI infrastructure.
but Donny says not to worry, because he knows more about six-fingered plagiarism robots than all the six-fingered plagiarism robots — and he knows exactly what’s needed to keep things from getting out of hand.
The only control or “guardrails” that AI needs is a STRONG AND SMART (High IQ!) PRESIDENT
so that’s all we need, to keep from ending up as batteries to power the matrix? a smart president?
oh shit, we’re fucked.
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Weekend At Mitch’s
When Supermarkets Sue To Block Affordable Food They Admit Their Prices Are The Real Problem
adhd_memetherapy: The grocery industry in New York City spent decades pulling out of low-income neighborhoods, then charged those same people more when they were forced to shop at their relocated stores. Now the city wants to open five stores of its own, one per borough, in those exact neighborhoods, selling groceries around 30 percent cheaper so that working-class people can have an affordable option. The supermarket lobby is distraught because their overpriced food can’t possibly compete with stores that don’t run on the hyper greed model that every corporation in this country runs on or learned to implement in their MBA programs. So instead of competing, like the system of capitalism was designed for, they’re trying to sue to stop it before a single one of these city run marts opens. Five stores in the Bronx and Harlem aren’t going to bankrupt anybody. What scares them is a city proving in public that it can feed people cheaper than they do without price gouging everyone. And look at who’s actually paying for the lawsuit. It was filed with the backing of the America First Policy Institute, Larry Kudlow’s Trump think tank, which has never cared about a bodega in the Bronx in its life. They’re in it because Chicago and Atlanta are already looking at copying this, and if a socialist mayor in the biggest city in the country shows that the government can sell you eggs for less than Kroger can, every other city is going to want one too, and there goes the story they’ve been telling us for fifty years about how the private sector always does it better.
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Good news, guys! Donald Trump’s gonna give us five thousand dollars of our own money! What a magnanimous motherfucker. I haven’t seen generosity like this since the ATM gave me back my own fucking paycheck.
He just needs to find the money, get permission to spend the money, and have us reelect the people who could give him permission to spend the money right fucking now. Before they’ll help us pay our bills, we have to guarantee we’ll keep paying theirs.
So we have to give them the jobs they already have before they’ll do the jobs we’re already paying them to do. Try that at work. “I’ll finish stocking the yogurt when somebody guarantees my fucking pension, Brenda.”
And if they borrow it, we get to pay interest on our own fucking present. He gets his name on the check. We get our names on the debt. Somehow I’m financing Christmas and this son of a bitch gets to be Santa.
Congratulations! You’ve been preapproved to finance your own fucking bribe.
Welcome to the Publishers Clearing House of fucking Representatives.
He’s calling it the “Trump dividend.” Five grand if Republicans keep the House and Senate. The House and Senate they ALREADY FUCKING HAVE.
So why the fuck can’t they get moving on it NOW? Aren’t they in power NOW? They’ve got the White House, the House, and the Senate. What additional lever of fucking power are they waiting for? Do we need to run down to Home Depot and pick them up another fucking lever?
I’m sorry, did I miss the Schoolhouse Rock episode where the little singing bill sits on the Capitol steps refusing to budge until we guarantee his bosses another two years of government dental?
Do the smooth-brained, truck-nutted troglodytes have to elect them harder? Tattoo their names across their chests? Rename the cat Mike Johnson and the dog Donald Trump? Spend the next twelve years standing in the backyard in their bathrobes hollering, “Donald! Get your nose out of Mike’s asshole!”
Did they get the fucking trial version of Congress? What else do you need, you cash-catfishing, country-club cocktease? Does Mike Johnson need somebody to sign his folder?
And the five grand wasn’t the only pledge at this fucking direct-deposit tent revival. He promised them a check, they promised him their remaining cerebral function, and only ONE of those transactions required immediate payment.
This pompadoured potentate had them raise their right hands and pledge to HIM, “the greatest president in the history of the United States.” He even worked “cheat like hell like they do” into the voting pledge, because he couldn’t get through his own fucking loyalty oath without accusing Democrats of cheating.
And they call this rugged individualism. It’s a fucking cult, a star-spangled self-abasement seminar for these obsequious, oath-bleating, orange-idolizing ovines waiting for their dividend-dangling, deference-demanding Daddy to tell them what to say.
Baa, baa, bootlicker, have you any fucking shame?
Nobody ever asked me to swear a pledge of allegiance to Joe Biden, for fuck’s sake. Then again, I didn’t tattoo his face on my ass and turn a routine colonoscopy into a fucking presidential meet-and-greet.
Which brings me back to the five grand, because the electric company doesn’t accept a fucking oath of fealty. You can turn your entire ass into Mount Rushmore, but until the money clears, you’re still sitting in the damn dark.
Anybody can promise shit they never have to deliver. Hell, vote for me and I’ll give you a puppy, a unicorn, a hand job and a velvet painting of a sad clown with a goddamn poodle.
Don’t ask how. That’s second-term shit.
He said the economy’s doing “so well” that we’re ALL getting a payout. If it’s doing that fucking well, cough it up today, asshole. Why does my share of this magnificent prosperity have an election attached?
And how the fuck isn’t this socialism?
By THEIR definition. The one these flag-fondling, fiscal-purity fetishists drag out whenever somebody without a private jet needs help paying for a fucking root canal. One free school lunch and suddenly the cafeteria ladies are storming the Winter Palace with a tater-tot trebuchet.
Some exhausted woman needs help buying groceries and these holier-than-thou hemorrhoids want her employment history, her blood type, and a notarized explanation for the name-brand mustard. God forbid the indigent enjoy a condiment. You’ll eat your federally scrutinized sandwich dry, Deborah. This is America.
But put Trump’s name on the handout and the bootstraps brigade comes barreling down the aisle in paroxysms of panhandling. The Ayn Rand book club has turned into Supermarket Sweep, and Earl’s about to dislocate a shoulder getting to the fucking bonus ham.
What happened to personal responsibility, you sanctimonious, selective-socialism, subsidy-suckling sons of bitches? Did Karl Marx become a job creator when he learned to sign a check with a Sharpie? Does Das Kapital come in Realtree camouflage now?
Now look at you, standing under a DON’T TREAD ON ME flag, refreshing your banking app with the evangelical fervor of a man expecting Jesus to arrive by direct deposit.
“The government must never give people money.” Unless of course, the money can help Republicans keep getting government money for telling us the government must never give people money.
And these are the motherfuckers who call themselves the party of fiscal responsibility. The balanced-budget, belt-tightening, bean-counting bullshit brigade. They’d make Oliver Twist submit his fucking porridge request in triplicate.
Meanwhile, by August, nearly thirty percent of our entire outstanding national debt had accumulated during Donald Trump’s time in office. Roughly eleven-point-six TRILLION fucking dollars across his first term and this unfinished second one.
They’d convene a congressional inquisition over a poor woman’s premium paper towels while their bankruptcy-baptized fucking messiah treats a trillion dollars like he’s breaking a twenty.
But please, tell us more about the grandchildren. They’re always so concerned about leaving debt to the grandchildren. Until Grandpa needs another electoral ego massage, at which point apparently little Brayden can get a second fucking job.
The party of fiscal responsibility, my ass. These pauper-policing, plutocrat-petting deficit disciples are backing a promise with a trillion-dollar price tag to improve the customer reviews on their own shitty fucking performance.
And hold the fuck on. Weren’t we already getting five large from DOGE?
Elon, that chainsaw-brandishing, chest-thumping technofeudal twat and professional sperm spreader, tore through Washington while Trump floated sharing the savings. We got the chainsaw. We got the cuts. We did not get the fucking check.
I’ve received more actual cash from the washing machine.
The two-grand tariff rebates haven’t arrived either, which Stormy Daniels could’ve warned you is kind of his thing.
When The New York Times asked about it, this bronzer-brained, bloviating blowhard said, “I did do that? When did I do that?” Then he said the money would come later in the year.
Now the Geriatric Grift-of-the-Month Club is promising the sequel.
Wonderful. Another five thousand dollars I can’t spend. I’m almost not buying a fucking boat. I’ll name it Insufficient Funds and christen it with the champagne I didn’t order and can’t afford.
But don’t worry, because JD Vance, that oleaginous ottoman enthusiast, says tariffs could cover this trillion-dollar campaign coupon. The same import taxes we’re refunding by the fucking billions.
Even the Kohl’s cashier working through an edible understands a fucking return.
You can’t keep spending the receipt after you’ve given the money back. And even the tariffs we keep don’t magically become Donald Trump’s personal checking account. This hush-money Houdini wants to play sugar daddy with OUR credit card.
“Daddy bought you groceries!”
Daddy, that’s my fucking Discover card. You can’t pilfer my purse, buy me a pound of pastrami, and expect me to start calling you Big Poppa.
And why the fuck are we letting him near the purse in the first place? This Fozzie Bear with a four-foot tie bankrupted casinos.
Just fucking think about that. Think how hard you have to try to suck to bankrupt a casino. People walked in specifically to lose money, and he still managed to beat them to it.
Now this fiduciary fuckwit is promising five grand without an approved payment or a delivery date. At least the fucking Tooth Fairy tells you when to check the pillow. Nobody makes a six-year-old wait for his molar money until Pennsylvania demonstrates sufficient fealty.
But I’m supposed to sit here and clap like a trained seal because this slippery, spray-tanned, self-dealing, solipsistic snake-oil salesman has discovered that people who need money would enjoy receiving some?
Yes, Donald. I fucking KNOW people need money. We all need money. We need even more of it since your tantrum tariffs made the shit we were already struggling to afford more fucking expensive. You don’t get to slap a surcharge on surviving and then expect me to genuflect because you’ve waved a checkbook in the general direction of my overdraft.
I’d fucking love five thousand dollars. I’d love to replace my brakes without briefly considering whether Fred Flintstone had the right fucking idea. But I can be broke without volunteering to be bamboozled. Needing help with the bills doesn’t mean I’ve agreed to let this predatory, pomade-plastered prick use my financial anxiety to finish paying off his political mortgage.
And he’s counting on us needing that money badly enough to vote like it’s already in the fucking bank.
He doesn’t need to pay you before November.
He just needs you to believe him when he says he will.
But how fucking stupid do you have to be to fall for this shit?
Remember The Boy Who Cried Wolf? The intended audience still occasionally shits its pants, and even THEY grasp that you stop believing the fucking liar.
You shidiots finished it and demanded an investigation into who was funding the sheep.
He’s buying your loyalty on layaway, and you’re making the fucking payments.
And if you’re dumb enough, gullible enough, enough of a pudding-brained, promise-gobbling patsy to believe he’s going to deliver on this latest dangled fucking carrot after more than a dozen promises just like it that he suddenly doesn’t even fucking remember making, then you deserve to get fucking fleeced.
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I Never Realized That Coke Was So Popular In Japan
…because these sellers are either on it, or are trying to support their habits.
$400 tops, even “new, unused” and with all the original accessories.
I want so badly to hit that “Message” button and ask,
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EVERY ACCUSATION IS A CONFESSION
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And Another Dinosaur Braying At The Incoming Asteroid
Councilwoman Vickie Paladino is demanding that Mayor Zohran Mamdani “not show his face” at New York City’s 9/11 ceremony, insisting that he does not belong on that “sacred ground.”
But let’s remember the basic facts.
When 9/11 happened, Rudy Giuliani was the Republican mayor of New York, George Pataki was the Republican governor, and George W. Bush was the Republican president. The attacks were carried out by al-Qaeda—not by any American political party or child.
Zohran Mamdani was nine years old.
Paladino is obviously not literally claiming that a nine-year-old caused 9/11. But portraying New York’s first Muslim mayor as somehow unworthy of standing at the memorial raises a troubling question: why should a Muslim American have to repeatedly prove his loyalty before being allowed to mourn alongside fellow New Yorkers?
Mamdani moved to New York at age seven. He has designated September 11 as a Day of Remembrance and Service and said he will attend the ceremony to honor the victims, their families, and the first responders who sacrificed everything.
Paladino does not speak for “the people.” Mamdani is the city’s elected mayor—and Muslim New Yorkers have every right to stand at Ground Zero, remember the victims, and mourn with their fellow Americans.
[source]
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Checkmate!
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Sunday Sacrilege
Quote Of The Day
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no, seriously. fuck you, Google Maps. fuck all the way off. start fucking off over here, and then just fuck yourself all the way to over there — and then keep on going, until you’ve fucked yourself right to the very edge of the universe.
and when you get there, eat the yummy bowl of fuck that’s waiting for you.
if those previous two sentences seem familiar to you, that’s because it’s how I opened my July 20, 2025 post, ‘CBS can pretty much fuck all the way off.’ I then used it a second time, in my September 18, 2025 post, ‘ABC can pretty much fuck all the way off.’
and now I’m using it a third time, because, in fact, it’s now Google Maps’ turn to pretty much fuck all the way off.
Google Maps has changed the name of Lake Ontario to “Lake America” for U.S. users to reflect President Donald Trump’s executive order renaming the lake, according to a Google statement.
that’s right, Google is the latest den of corporate shitweasels to kowtow to the childish whims of Preznit Fuckwit. if you’re in the US and you type ‘Lake Ontario’ into Google Maps, what you’ll get instead is ‘Lake America.’
it’s so fucking embarrassing. the Mad King has commanded that all his royal subjects are forever forbidden from acknowledging that anything named Ontario exists, all because Ontario Premier Doug Ford had the temerity to suggest that Donny might ought to kiss his ass.
how immature can one person be? you’re eighty years old, Donny, it’s time to grow the fuck up.
Google wants to you believe they had no choice in the matter but to comply.‘boo hoo hoo, pity us’ they blubbered. ‘we get our mapping data from the government. we have no control over that shit.’
“Since we update Google Maps to reflect name changes in official government sources, which is GNIS for the U.S., people using Maps in the U.S. will see ‘Lake America,” Google said in a blog post Saturday.
that’s a stinky pile of horse manure. the truth is that Google was so horny to appease Dear Leader that they didn’t even wait for the government to update its official maps. they went ahead and swiftly implemented their own change.
Google was even quicker to switch over to Lake America than the US government. While the GNIS database acknowledges the name change in a summary report, the base map layer still reflects the internationally recognized name of Lake Ontario. A message across the top of the USGS-operated website notes that the change to official maps is still pending.
cool story, Google, about how you had no choice in the matter. tell it again.
what Google Maps should have done, was nothing.
let me remind you, Donny’s infantile royal decree came in the form of an executive order. it can not be overstated that executive orders are not laws. only federal employees of the executive branch are required to abide by them. private citizens don’t have to do shit. corporations don’t have to do shit.
remember ‘don’t obey in advance’? that was historian Timothy Snyder’s sage advice, after Donny somehow managed to slither his way back into power.
“Most of the power of authoritarianism is freely given. In times like these, individuals think ahead about what a more repressive government will want, and then offer themselves without being asked. A citizen who adapts in this way is teaching power what it can do.”
obeying in advance is how fascism wins.
the answer to every one of Donny’s childish pronouncements should eternally be, ‘fuck you, make me.’
be this guy.
we don’t need any more corporations rolling over and doing whatever Donny demands.
what we need are heroes.
here’s what I wrote last year, after CBS appeased Dear Leader by canceling the Stephen Colbert’s show. let’s just replace ‘CBS and Paramount’ with ‘Google.’
Google Maps and Google are being cowards — and we don’t need any cowards right now. we’re all stocked up with cowards. we’ve got cowards up the yin-yang.
heroes, that’s what we’re in desperate need of.
no one ever went to bed with fascism and came up smelling like roses.
no one ever said gee, I’m so glad that faceless corporation collaborated with fascists.
fascist regimes come, and fascist regimes go. when this current nightmare finally runs its course, no one is going to say ‘wasn’t it awesome how Google slobbered all over Dear Leader’s shoes?’
the people we’re going to look back on with admiration will be the ones who stood up said ‘take your fascist bullshit and stick it where the sun don’t shine.’
but of course, the real issue here is that Google wants fascism to win.
why? data centers, that’s why.
Big Tech needs more and more data centers, to feed the insatiable and ever-growing need for power to run their janky, six-fingered plagiarism robots.
the thing is, data centers totally fucking suck, and voters hate them. no one wants to live next to one — nobody, not Republicans, not Democrats. it’s a true bipartisan issue.
they’re huge. they’re ugly. they’re oppressively noisy. they pollute. they jack up everyone’s electric bills sky high, and destroy property values. if one of these abominations goes up in your neighborhood, it’s game over, man.
data centers have become such political liability that even Texas’s razor-wire-booby-trap-loving psychopath governor, Greg Abbott, is now pretending to be against them.
despite massive opposition to all of Big Tech’s fuckery, there’s one stupid shit who loves him some data centers and doesn’t mind saying so — and of course you know who it is: Donny. he somehow manages to be on the wrong side of every issue.
The only reason that communities throughout the U.S.A. should not want Data Centers is if they want to end up being backwards and poor. If they want to be successful and rich, with far lower taxes and jobs all over the place, let Data Reign. The good news is that there are plenty of other places that want them. If we kill the Golden Goose, you will only have yourselves to blame. China could not be happier with this anti Data Center movement. Actually, they can’t believe it is happening! President DJT
that’s right — if you object to having your quality of life destroyed by a data center, it’s because you’re a fucking loser who’s backwards and poor. what the fuck is wrong with you?
the thing is, Donny’s too demented to actually understand the issue, and too sociopathically unfeeling to give a shit about what the poor schmucks who have to live next to one of these infernal things have to endure.
all he knows is that tech companies like Google are lining up to bribe him into letting them do whatever the fuck they want.
WASHINGTON, D.C. – Big Tech companies have spent at least $653 million cozying up to President Donald Trump and Republicans in Congress, according to a new report from Public Citizen. This funding is part of a deliberate effort by tech CEOs to ingratiate themselves with the Trump administration by heaping excessive praise on the president while going along with his unpopular and authoritarian policies.
oh, and Donny and his felonious sons have a personal stake in the success of data centers, because of course they do.
Just weeks after their father announced a major push to expand the country’s artificial intelligence infrastructure and loosen regulations on the industry, Donald Trump Jr. and Eric Trump invested in a new company aiming to build data centers “to address the growing demand for high-performance computing infrastructure.”
these corrupt fucking goniffs have to have their fingers in every pie.
so there you have it. of course Google is going to bend over backwards to accommodate the whims of our easily-bought-off Toddler-in-Chief, and fall all the fuck over themselves in a mad dash to rename Lake Ontario to anything Dear Leader wants.
meanwhile, as always, We the People are cordially invited to go fuck ourselves. if we didn’t want data centers befouling our towns, we should have had the foresight to donate $653 million to Dear Leader.
personally, I like AOC’s solution to the issue of where to build data centers.
PabloReports: “what do you make of Trump saying Americans who oppose data centers are backwards and poor?”
AOC: “I mean, how about we put one in Mar-a-Lago? I love that. let’s put a data center at Mar-a-Lago, and we’ll see how backwards and poor he is in response to that.”
seriously, I’m fucking loving this idea. let’s build a noisy, pollution-belching data center right on that green area, above the tennis courts. let’s see how Donny likes that.
in fact, I’m going to go one better.
yesterday, Donny held another one of his dog-and-pony shows. as usual, he slept though most of it.
you know what? it’s put a data center right in the Oval Bordello.
the ungodly noise will keep the stupid shit awake.
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 Has Such A Way With Words
In case you missed it the other night, Bill Maher, the oleaginous, unctuous, supercilious, smugly self-satisfied septuagenarian sleazeball with the permanently pursed expression of a man who genuinely enjoys the smell of his own farts, who has spent decades steeping in stale dissent and the accumulated fumes of his own self-regard, stood on the Real Time stage in the middle of his own comedy show and decided that with wars raging, Donald Trump wreaking havoc and all manner of genuinely important shit happening in the world, Americans were spending entirely too much time talking about the death of Dolly Parton.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
He actually complained that “all America could really talk about” was how sad people were that we lost Dolly, ticked through some of the extraordinary displays of love appearing around the world, the Empire State Building glowing pink, the Santa Monica Ferris wheel covered in hearts, tributes stretching from London to Las Vegas, and then arrived at the Sphere and announced that it had “added a nipple.”
And that was basically it.
No tenderness. No affection. No meaningful acknowledgment of what she gave the world, what she created, what she meant to millions of people or why they might be gutted that she was gone.
Just this dry, drive-by little cheap shot tossed at a woman three days after she died, and then on to the next joke.
Fucking hilarious, Bill.
Really.
And I know exactly what some people are going to say.
Jesus Christ, Jo, don’t be so dramatic. Dolly made jokes about her tits all the time.
She sure did.
Dolly joked about her boobs, her body, her hair, her clothes, her face, her makeup and practically every visible inch of herself that some tedious man had already scrutinized, underestimated or decided was available for public inspection, because she had that magnificent ability to grab whatever cheap shit somebody intended to use against her, bedazzle the bastard, turn it inside out and make the joke hers before the other person even realized she’d stolen the weapon out of their hand.
And I guarantee you Dolly wouldn’t have cared what Bill Maher said about her on his stupid show.
She was a better person than I am by a factor of a thousand, to say the very least. She probably would’ve laughed, waved one perfectly manicured hand and gone on with her day.
I, on the other hand, am a petty, vindictive bitch who relishes any opportunity to eviscerate a sexist little hobbit with a superiority complex, so here we are.
Because it pissed me off.
And I know I’m not the only one.
The thing is, if a different comedian had made the exact same joke, I might’ve laughed.
This isn’t about the boob joke.
It’s about the fucking asshole telling it.
Context matters. History matters. And he did not materialize on that stage Friday night freshly hatched from some politically incorrect chrysalis, shiny and innocent and unburdened by decades of his own bullshit about women.
He has spent a career pawing through women’s bodies, beauty, brains, boundaries, bedrooms, breakups, beliefs and basic autonomy with the proprietary disgust of a man who thinks female existence is a defective appliance he alone has been burdened with troubleshooting, turning every woman who displeases, defies or simply declines to flatter him into another recurring exhibit in his personal Museum of Why Everybody Else Is Wrong About Everything Always.
So no, I’m not clutching my pearls because somebody joked about Dolly Parton’s fun bags.
I don’t even own fucking pearls.
I’m saying that when this particular man, dragging this particular history behind him, looks at the death of this particular woman, surveys this immense eruption of grief and gratitude, complains that she’s getting too much attention and then points at her chest, the punchline arrives with a long, greasy receipt attached.
Because Dolly was warmth and wit, humor and heart, bawdy and tender and glamorous as hell, deeply rooted in her faith, ferociously ambitious and astonishingly generous, with this uncanny gift for making people feel welcome in her presence instead of inspected by it.
The whole fucking world stopped when she died.
It stopped in pink light and porch flowers and church pews and beauty shops and bars and kitchens and parked cars where people gripped steering wheels and cried into sleeves because Dolly had been there for so long, in our kitchens and cars and childhoods, in our mothers’ record collections and our grandmothers’ living rooms, on movie screens and radios and in books arriving in little kids’ mailboxes, that somewhere along the way we stopped imagining a world in which she wouldn’t be here.
Stories poured out about mothers and grandmothers, childhoods and first dances, long drives and hospital rooms and terrible years made softer because somewhere in the middle of all that shit there was Dolly, all bouffant, brilliance, bedazzled benevolence, and boobs, cracking filthy jokes one minute and putting books into children’s hands the next, writing songs people would carry for the rest of their lives, giving away fortunes, showing up after disasters and remaining unmistakably, gloriously herself through every bit of it.
I’m still not over her passing, and I don’t honestly expect I ever will be.
Losing her felt like somebody removed one of the load-bearing beams of human tenderness, something so constant that millions of us had forgotten how much weight she was carrying until she was gone.
That grief crossed generations, politics, religions and cultures because people weren’t mourning a résumé.
They were mourning Dolly.
And watching that ocean of affection scratched something raw in two sexist birds from the same rotten feather pile.
Donald Trump tried to jam his grubby little snausage fingers into her story by posting a fake AI image of himself walking arm-in-arm with her at the White House after she died, manufacturing a moment that never happened with a woman who spent her entire career being extraordinarily careful not to let politicians claim her for themselves.
Think about how fucking grotesque that is.
Even in death, he couldn’t leave a woman’s image, boundaries or legacy alone. He had to insert himself into the frame, manufacture an intimacy she never publicly gave him and paste his own face into her history after she was no longer here to tell him to get the fuck out of it.
The man has plenty of authentic photographs and archival footage of himself hanging around Jeffrey Epstein.
But Dolly?
He needed AI.
One grasping, glory-guzzling egomaniac tried to counterfeit closeness to her.
The other tried to cheapen the mourning.
Same fucking sickness: a beloved woman dies and two swollen male egos immediately start clawing at what she left behind, desperate to wedge themselves into a story that was never about them.
And the irony of Maher complaining that everybody was devoting too much attention to Dolly while IMPORTANT THINGS were happening could choke a python.
He was delivering a monologue on a television comedy program.
This wasn’t the chairman of the Joint Chiefs interrupting a briefing on troop movements because somebody wanted to discuss Dollywood. Nobody burst into the Situation Room waving a sequined butterfly and screaming that the Empire State Building had gone pink. He was standing under studio lights being paid an enormous amount of money to make jokes about current events while scolding ordinary Americans for caring too much about the death of one of the most iconic and beloved entertainers this country has ever produced.
The intellectual ouroboros here is fucking magnificent.
A snake eating its own asshole while explaining that everybody else has lost perspective.
I used to watch him a lot. Many, many years ago, I watched his show constantly because I thought he was sharp and willing to say the uncomfortable thing.
Now I can’t stand the sound of his fucking voice.
That resin-reeking, booster-bitching podcast pustule has the ineffable aura of a man who has been sitting on the same steakhouse barstool since 1997, slowly pickling himself in Maker’s Mark, stale aftershave and the sour backwash of his own bullshit while explaining to a succession of increasingly alarmed cocktail waitresses that women used to have a sense of humor.
He’s a human oil slick of smugness, scotch breath and unsolicited opinions, a pocket-sized, pontificating prick with the puckered little face of a man who’s been sucking Warheads through a cocktail straw since breakfast, carrying himself with all the swaggering, sneering self-importance of Lord Farquaad while radiating the unmistakable energy of somebody standing furious beneath the little wooden hand that says YOU MUST BE THIS TALL TO RIDE THIS RIDE.
He has calcified into the ageing, pretentious pub bore he would’ve mocked thirty years ago, mistaking irritation for intelligence, contempt for sophistication and chronic obnoxiousness for some rarefied capacity to perceive truths unavailable to the rest of us slobbering civilians.
And spare me the mythology that all this sanctimonious shit makes him some fearless fucking truth-teller.
George Carlin was.
Richard Pryor was.
Joan Rivers could verbally skin somebody, salt the hide and have the poor bastard laughing while she did it.
They were adored.
Being incisive doesn’t require being insufferable. Saying something shitty that makes everybody groan doesn’t automatically turn you into Lenny Bruce because you leaned backward afterward and looked pleased with yourself.
Sometimes a prick is just a prick.
Dolly will outlive all of this.
Her songs will still be playing. Her movies will still be watched. Children will still open books because of something she started long before they were born. Families will still tell stories about her generosity, her one-liners, her ridiculous hair, the places she showed up, the people she helped and the particular way she made kindness look less like sainthood and more like common fucking sense.
Fifty years from now, people will still know Dolly Parton.
Bill Maher will be a grainy thumbnail somebody scrolls past while trying to remember why the fuck anybody ever cared what he thought.
He has spent his life acting like the smartest man in every room and still gets aggrieved whenever the spotlight lands somewhere he can’t slither underneath it.
So finally, New Rule:
Trying to diminish Dolly Parton doesn’t make you daring, dangerous or defiantly unconventional. Taking a cheap shot at a legend three days after she dies because the scale of everyone else’s grief annoys you isn’t intellectual courage. It’s just cheap, sour little cruelty dressed up in the moth-eaten costume of rebellion.
It makes you look like a bitter, brittle, boozy, blowhard little loser, marinated in misogyny, embalmed in ego and pissed off that a woman whose kindness, talent, humor and humanity dwarfed yours by several fucking zip codes received the kind of love you could spend another hundred years chasing and never catch.
Dolly Parton will be loved long after all of us are gone.
You weren’t too intellectually superior to grasp that.
You weren’t too edgy to understand why the whole world stopped for her.
You were just pissed off because you’re a small, spiteful, smug, sexist, solipsistic, sententious pseudointellectual little excuse for a man, and you know goddamn well the world will not pause, let alone stop, for one single solitary second when it comes to you.
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🤣 🤣 🤣
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When I was a kid, my big brother Nick, who I’ve missed every single day since we lost him suddenly in 2020, wore a gold chain with an Italian horn charm and told everybody he was Italian.
Nick was not Italian.
At all.
He wasn’t a little Italian. He wasn’t Italian-adjacent. He wasn’t Italian sprinkled, Italian infused or produced in a facility that also processed Italians. As far as I know, he had never even rubbed up against an Italian hard enough to leave trace amounts of DNA on him, although this was my big brother Nick, so honestly, anything was possible.
He was half Lebanese and half Irish.
That’s it.
To be fair to Nick, he could pull it off. He had these big, thick, bushy eyebrows, a full shock of black hair and a face that could absolutely pass for Italian, because it turns out when you mix Celtic with Arabic, every once in a while the genetic slot machine spits out a guy who looks like he has cousins in Bensonhurst.
But Nick WANTED to be Italian because Italian was fucking cool. Rocky Balboa was Italian. Tony Manero was Italian. The Italian guys had the gold chains, the Cadillacs, the hair, the unbuttoned shirts and the whole fucking operation.
This was the early eighties, when a Members Only jacket zipped to exactly the right altitude and enough Drakkar Noir to violate local air-quality standards could make a teenage boy feel like he had important business at Satriale’s, and no matter how many times Nick practiced that De Niro stare in the mirror, our family tree remained stubbornly, inconveniently Lebanese and Irish.
So Nick did what any determined adolescent would do when confronted with the immovable obstacle of his own DNA.
He ignored the fuck out of it.
And because I was a kid and he was my big brother, I genuinely wondered whether there was some secret Italian annex to the family tree nobody had bothered to explain to me. Nick was older. Nick knew shit. Nick could drive. Maybe there was a branch from Naples wedged between Beirut and County Cork.
There wasn’t.
Nick was just full of shit.
And God, I miss him.
But Nick accidentally taught me something extremely useful all those years ago.
You can say something over and over and over again. You can dress it up. Accessorize it. Embroider it on a fucking pillow. Have it notarized, laminated and announced by a marching band.
It still doesn’t make it fucking true.
I’ve been dyeing my naturally brunette hair since I was eighteen years old. I can buy every bottle of blonde hair dye at CVS, bleach myself until I’m visible from the fucking International Space Station and demand everybody call me Goldilocks.
I am still not a natural fucking blonde.
Elizabeth Taylor could have walked down the aisle at her eighth wedding in a white dress, carrying lilies and wearing a veil long enough to cover Rhode Island.
It would not have made her a fucking virgin.
Joe the Plumber can slap a sign on the side of his van tomorrow morning that says COLONOSCOPIES $99, put on a white coat, snap on a pair of latex gloves and start introducing himself as Dr. Joe, Board-Certified Ass Specialist.
He is still a fucking plumber, and for the love of God, keep your pants on.
Because wanting something to be true doesn’t make it true.
Calling something by a different name doesn’t make it become whatever the fuck you decided to call it.
And having the president of the United States throw a tantrum and scrawl a new fucking name across an international body of water that was called Lake Ontario before this country even existed does not make it Lake America.
It makes him an asshole with a Sharpie.
But, inexplicably, cartoonishly, beyond fucking parody, here we are, because grievance-glutted, geography-groping, gold-plated gooch stain Donald Trump has decided that being pissed at our closest ally now requires dragging one of the Great Lakes into his latest small-dicked little power trip and ordering the federal government to participate in his hissy fit.
Lake Ontario has managed to exist in my life with remarkable fucking unobtrusiveness. I cannot remember the last time before this week I said its name out loud.
Daily? No.
Weekly? Fuck no.
Monthly? Please.
Yearly? I honestly don’t know.
It’s been sitting up there minding its wet Canadian-American business while I have gone about mine, and we were doing just fine.
Now it has been unwillingly conscripted into the geopolitical equivalent of a jilted ex-girlfriend entering hour seventy-two of a breakup, mascara dried into black skid marks beneath her eyes, one acrylic nail gone, hair glued to the strawberry lip gloss on her cheek, a Virginia Slim drooping from the corner of her mouth, his old T-shirt hanging to her knees, no pants, room-temperature pink screw-top wine wedged between her thighs, surrounded by shredded Walgreens photos, a cracked iPhone, his toothbrush snapped in half, one hoop earring she can’t find the mate to and a damp Kleenex adhered to her calf while she changes his contact name to LYING SMALL-IN-THE-PANTS FUCKFACE IMPOTENT CUNT, blocks him, unblocks him, deletes his number, retrieves it from Recently Deleted and checks every eleventy minutes to see whether he has somehow had a change of heart and wants her back.
He has not.
He’s ghosted her completely and at this point is probably accordion-folded into the back of a fucking Citroën the size of a toaster in the middle of a full-blown NATO gangbang with Emmanuel Macron, Friedrich Merz and Pedro Sánchez while she’s still on the bedroom floor with one tit hanging out of his old T-shirt, refreshing Find My Friends and firing off a succession of slurry voice memos.
FINE. I CUT YOUR FACE OUT OF THE NIAGARA FALLS PICTURES.
I RENAMED THE LAKE WE SHARED.
I WANT MY VCR BACK.
I NEVER EVEN LIKED YOUR MOTHER.
I’M DOING AMAZING.
CALL ME.
This is what currently passes for “diplomacy,” except our rancid little breakup banshee has nuclear codes.
And can you fucking imagine traveling back to 1996 and telling Republicans that within thirty years they’d be red-faced, vein-throbbing, foam-flecked and bellowing CRY HARDER, LIBTARDS because the reality-TV game-show host they put in the Oval Office TWICE had managed to find more warmth for North Korea than Canada and was punishing our closest northern ally by rage-renaming Lake fucking Ontario?
Bob Dole would’ve stared at you like you’d shit in his briefcase.
Pat Buchanan would’ve assumed the Soviets had won.
Rush Limbaugh would’ve checked the label on his painkillers to make sure he hadn’t swallowed the whole bottle before breakfast (again).
And somehow the stupid keeps finding new basement levels.
Because Lake America sounds less like one of the world’s great freshwater bodies than something conceived during a methamphetamine brainstorm behind a shuttered Kmart by the washed-up kid who played “Boy #2” on a 1984 sitcom and now owns three storage units full of stolen copper wire.
It sounds like somebody bought every slide, tube and medieval spinal-injury apparatus Action Park was legally required to dismantle, reassembled the whole tetanus trap somewhere in the Oklahoma Panhandle and started charging five dollars admission, cash only, waiver mandatory.
It sounds like a Foghat cover band playing the Thursday-night grand opening of a daiquiri barn/transmission shop in Slidell, Louisiana, while a guy named Duane sells loose Marlboros beside the Porta-Potty.
It sounds like an educational initiative launched in conjunction with Be Best.
Lake America.
Jesus fucking Christ.
It sounds like something your insurance refuses to cover.
And the red-white-and-bald-eagle ethnonationalist genius caucus polishing its collective knob over the supposedly pristine Americanness of America might enjoy learning that Amerigo Vespucci was Italian, and the German cartographer who put “America” on his 1507 map was working in what is now France.
So this whole freedom-fapping patriotic bukkake is being performed by a flotilla of forehead-forward, cortex-deficient, cerebrally undercapitalized, chromosome-challenged, patriotism-pickled fuckwits defending a European christening honoring an Italian while acting like Canada just took a dump on Betsy Ross.
Fucking magnificent.
Meanwhile, the Epstein files still haven’t been released in full, and Trump’s name is all over material that has come out. People are getting financially flayed at grocery stores and gas pumps. Food is being recalled. Measles is spreading. Critical weapons reserves have been chewed down frighteningly low. And we are six months into an illegal, unconstitutional motherfucking endless war in Iran.
Those are the fucking stakes.
Not some ancient shared expanse of freshwater most of us hadn’t thought about since Christ knows when.
And no, I am not giving Donald Trump credit for some diabolical master plan. He is not Machiavelli. He is impulse in an adult diaper. Appetite without brakes. Ego without a governor. A peckish, perpetually pissed-off emotional hemophiliac with the self-command of a cocaine-addled retainer salesman at a three-day dental convention in Reno.
This isn’t genius.
It’s muscle memory.
Trump has spent his entire public existence marinating in spectacle: tabloids, feuds, bullshit boasts, fake grandeur, ratings, cameras, conflict, attention at any fucking cost. When the audience starts looking elsewhere, make some fresh preposterous declaration and drag every eyeball back toward him.
And somehow the jingoistic, jizz-brained, flag-fondling freedom fetishists are acting like this is OWNING THE LIBS instead of what it actually is: a loud little paperwork stunt the rest of the planet is free to ignore.
That is the whole fucking achievement.
He ordered his own government to play along while Canada keeps calling it Lake Ontario and Trump stomps around on this side of the border like a sunburned, snack-deprived, sippy-cup-slinging toddler who just found out the other kid gets to keep the blue shovel.
He can issue orders.
He can change federal maps.
He can tell every bootlicking, bobbleheaded, brain-dead beneficiary of his bullshit to call it whatever he wants.
Ottawa is not losing sleep.
Nobody is trembling.
Nobody in Paris is clutching their pearls because Donald J. Trump conquered a Microsoft Word document.
And there is something he will never understand because everything inside him is built around possession, permanence and putting his mark on whatever surface happens to be nearest.
You can build a fucking arch. It doesn’t make you Caesar.
You can tear down the East Wing. It doesn’t make the White House yours.
You can slap your name onto the Kennedy Center. It doesn’t make Kennedy disappear.
You can stand beneath a chandelier, shellac yourself in gold and announce a resplendent new epoch of unsurpassed national glory with all the bombast of a bankrupt casino owner unveiling a marble bidet.
It still doesn’t make this a fucking golden age.
We still know what we’re looking at.
And when you’re gone, and that day will be here sooner rather than later, every cheap little territorial scar you carved into this country will be scrubbed, scoured, chiseled, sandblasted and power-washed the fuck off.
The signs will come down.
The plaques will be replaced.
The maps will be corrected.
The names will be restored.
And aside from whatever antibiotic-resistant STD they eventually name after your sorry ass, you will be forgotten.
So enjoy the attention while it lasts, you bloated, blustering, bargain-bin Bonaparte, you spray-tanned shitheel, you grandiose gargoyle, you pustular prince of performative patriotism presiding over another irrelevant little atlas aneurysm.
Because the world is not watching in awe.
It is watching you make an ass of yourself in increasingly larger font.
What the fuck else is new?
And to our friends in Canada: elbows up.
A plurality of the dumbest dumbfucks who ever dumbed inflicted this fucking reality on all of us.
But we will get through it… together. 🇨🇦
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None Of This Is Unprecented If Your Population Can’t—Or WON’T—Read
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Americans Are A Continual Embarrassment to America
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I Did Not Know That! 😉
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New Spokesperson
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Trust Me, We Are Okay With That
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Well… DUH!
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Dolly was far too kind to tell you this while she was alive, so I will: you and she had little in common. Oh sure, from a distance, it might seem that way, but get a little closer and dig a little deeper and the differences could not be greater…
Dolly loved people, all people.
Unlike you, she loved without qualifiers, catches, caveats, or conditions. Her love did not come with strings or theological hoops or political litmus tests. In Dolly’s no one had to stand outside or prove their worth or earn her decency.
Dolly loved America, real America.
She wasn’t about that flag-waving, Don’t Tread On Me, America First, Christian Nationalism, Send Them Back nonsense you continually peddle as patriotism. Her America was diverse, open-armed, inclusive, and kind; a place where everyone deserved to feel at home.
Dolly was a Christian, a Jesus Christian.
Her deep and abiding faith did not need to be loudly broadcast or worn as a costume. It did not seek to bend anyone to its will. It was not something she wielded like a hammer in forced compliance. Her faith simply and clearly showed up, in an unrestrained love for neighbor that reflected the open-handed, open-hearted compassion of Christ that you mock as toxic.
Dolly believed in family, every family.
A faithful, passionate supporter of the LGBTQ community, Dolly’s advocacy of family was not confined to some rigid, White Evangelical monument to straightness and whiteness. She understood something in the core of her being you never will: that love cannot be limited and will not be hemmed in.
Dolly Parton was not MAGA in any way; she was its beautiful counterpoint.
She was a vaccine-supporting, nature-preserving, book-loving, trans-defending gay icon, and nearly everything she stood for flies fully in the face of the cruel, sneering, exclusionary narcissism of your vile, bloviating, spray-tanned messiah and his hateful movement, which you so joyfully partner in.
Dolly Parton showed respect to every single human being who ever had the good fortune of being in her orbit, whether at arm’s length or from thousands of miles away.
She left everyone feeling seen and heard and loved and respected, regardless of orientation, pigmentation, or nation of origin.
She never saw anyone as an enemy to be defeated, never attempted to gatekeep blessings or opportunity, never demanded that someone earn her decency, and never dehumanized a soul.
Yes, you should aspire to emulate her and endeavor to replicate the generosity and unconditional love she so easily moved through this life with.
And you’re welcome to show her respect and gratitude; in fact, you should.
But please, don’t try to claim her as yours today, MAGA.
She simply wasn’t.
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