Category: Fuck This Bullshit

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He’s Fucking Delusional

Little Donny Fuckface is what would happen if an overripe diaper became a real boy. he’s that full of shit.

the United Nations General Assembly in is session right now, and yesterday was Donny’s turn to address the gathered diplomats and heads of state.

unlike last year, Dear Leader and his Slovenian rent-a-wife were never in danger of getting escalatored to smithereens.

nor did Donny’s teleprompter go fuckity-bye right in the middle of his speech, as it did last year — but you kind of wish it had, though. because the prepared text that Donny read from yesterday was a big bucket of holy shit.

“I have a big decision to make. will a deal be made with Iran that lets them rebuild and create a far greater country than it ever was before, maybe one of the greatest in the Middle East or even the world? or do I annihilate the Islamic Republic and do it quickly, never giving them a chance to kill and destroy people and countries again? do I drive them into hell with no chance of survival and no hope of future greatness or generations? but I believe we will make a deal, right after the election.”

Jesus H Christ. lighten the fuck up, Francis.

who even talks like this? what part of United Nations does Donny need explained to him? you’re not supposed to stand up and casually threaten to send another member nation to hell. the only uniting that Donny is doing, is uniting the rest of the world against us. we’re a rogue nation now. America — the country where the United Nations chose to be headquartered, because back in 1945, no one could have imagined that Donny’s dystopian hellscape is the country we would become, 81 years later.

oh, and mad props to whoever it was at MSNOW who wrote this caption.

“Trump touts being a peacemaker while asking if he should annihilate Iran.”

if that doesn’t say it all, I don’t know what does.

Donny is like an ill-mannered six-year-old at another kid’s birthday party, and all he can talk about is how he wants to smash everyone else’s toys. he’s a psychopath. 

how many times has he now threatened to fuck Iran’s shit but good? by my count, it’s exactly elventyskillionpickledillion. if it’s a day that ends in y, Donny’s threatening total obliteration, like no one thought possible.

during Donny’s tirade, the Iranian delegation got up and walked out — but if it had been me, I would have just sat there, rolling my eyes and miming jerk-off motions, because let’s get real. Donny’s not going to do any of that shit.he’s all mouth and no brain, and everyone who isn’t already a cultist is so fucking tired of Donny’s worn-out act.

oh, and Donny didn’t just vow to get all explodey with Iran. he also threatened Mexico and Cuba, and bragged about having stolen all of Venezuela’s oil. perfectly normal stuff — if you’re an out-of-control madman.

but if you thought Donny’s Iran rant was pure crazypants, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. get ready for a triple-fuckton of gibberish.

“the United States also totally rejects any attempt to construct a globalist scheme to control for the— artificial INTELLIGENCE being spoken of SO MUCH now, herein and after officially called SUPER— intelligence. changing the name, and that the use of the word artificial makes intelligence fake. it makes intelligence fake. it makes it sound fake, and it is not fake. it’s actually— amazing. but we have to be careful. IN FACT, it is exactly the opposite of— what it— purports. from this point forward, ALL OF United States documents and hopefully the world’s will be changed to use the much more ACCURATE term SUPER, as opposed to artificial. so it’s— super— intelligence. in other words, WELCOME TO THE NEW WORLD of super intelligence, dash, SI. SI. let’s see if that goes. sounds much better, it is much better, and it’s much more accurate. let’s see if I have any power. maybe I do and maybe I don’t. we’re going to find out pretty soon. SUPER INTELLIGENCE. every major new technology brings challenges.”

oh my god. the prepared text was ‘intelligence — SI’ and Donny read it as ‘intelligence dash SI.’ what a fucking idiot.

imagine being a world leader, or a top member of your nation’s diplomatic corps, and having your time and expertise wasted by having to sit there and listen to some low-wattage idiot shit out his crazypants idea to rename janky, six-fingered plagiarism robots.

welcome to Donny’s latest infantile obsession. while the entire world goes to shit all around us, Dear Leader’s got a grand scheme to rename AI to SI.

why should Donny — or anyone — give a shit what AI is called? because he and his felonious sons are heavily invested in data centers, that’s why.they stand to make a mint off this shit, and so — while the rest of us are worried about some rogue AI causing an extinction-level event — this corrupt old carnival barker thinks he can make AI more marketable by renaming it.

oh, and speaking of Donny’s fixation on names, check out this bit, from his meeting with the UK’s brand spanking new Prime Minister.

“he asks good questions, but— and I think there’s a tremendous patriotism, in Britain. we call it the United Kingdom, Britain, sometimes England, you to back to the old— it’s got more names than any other place in the world. and sometimes you have to be educated as to what— but uh, there’s great patriotism in the country. and they want to see— great things happen.”

they say that first impressions are everything — and Donny’s fucktangle of incoherence was British PM’s Andy Burnham very first impression of Dear Leader. 

as a head of state, how can you possibly prep for that? it’s one thing to have your advisors brief you on what to expect. ‘sir, he’s a little bit— unusual.’

it’s another thing entirely to actually sit right beside him and smell the diaper, gaze at the clownish makeup, the rotting hands and the neckgina, and actually hear the gibberish seeping from his rancid anus-mouth — some fuckbrained nonsense about how ‘the UK has so many names, and you have to be educated.’

that’s right, PM Burham, everything you were told about how Donny is ‘as if Dunning and Kruger had a baby, and then dropped it on its head,’is true.

but you know, it’s not just the United Kingdom’s that known by a lot of names. so is our own country. 

we’re America. we’re the United States, we’re the USA — and now we’re Donny Convict’s Dystopian Hellscape.

lucky us.

now let’s watch Dear Leader’s head explode when CNN’s Kaitlan Collins has the utter temerity to ask him a question.

Kaitlan Collins: “Mr President, two thirds of Americans don’t think the US is winning the war with Iran. When will it end?”

Donny: “I’m surprised that CNN is here covering me.”

Collins: “the United Nations allowed us in, sir.”

Donny: “you should not be here covering me. you said you weren’t going to be covering me. you shouldn’t be covering me.”

boo fucking hoo, bro. your infantile ban (and the subsequent major network boycott) only applies to what goes on in the White House. Kaitlan Collins has every right to be in the United Nations, questioning you about your unwinnable Iranian clusterfuck that indeed, no one asked for and is overwhelmingly unpopular.

dry your eyes and eat binkie, Preznit Piss-Baby.

and so, another of Donny’s yearly spectacles at the United Nations has come and gone — and, as usual, he shit the bed, completely embarrassing himself and his country.

he threatened allies and adversaries. he praised himself, and boasted about his imaginary accomplishments. he rambled incoherently about insignificant shit that matters to no one but him — and he whined like the colicky piss-baby he is.

remember, none of this is normal — and someday, this war’s gonna end.

the midterm elections are just 41 days away. let’s see if we can restore dignity and sanity to this country — and maybe even begin to dismantle Donny’s dystopian hellscape.

vote.

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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I’ve seen some stupid shit in my life.

I watched an absolutely shitfaced grown-ass man sprint down a cobblestone street with both hands jammed in his pockets, entrusting his entire dental future to the footwork of a man who couldn’t have successfully operated a juice box. And I watched him go down mouth-first, having selected his fucking incisors as his preferred landing gear, and at least two teeth skittered into the gutter like loose Chiclets while his hands remained safely tucked away. 

Thank God. Wouldn’t want to hurt a finger.

I watched a car full of teenagers flip off a state trooper because they’d mistaken the median between the local and express roadways for an international fucking border. Just a sedan stuffed with middle fingers and fully unearned confidence, cruising through the sovereign republic of Suck My Dick. And I watched that median end about four-fifths of a mile later. A tragically short republic.

(Okay, that was me.)

I watched a woman get so homesick for the house she grew up in that she roasted a marshmallow on a metal fork over her New York City stove, then put that fork directly into her fucking mouth. An adult. With voting rights. I heard the sizzle. Four little grill marks on her lip like she’d tried to French-kiss a panini press.

(OK, that one was me too, but you take my point.)

I’ve seen some (and done some) dumb shit.

But I have never seen anything as fucking dumb as this.

Because Donald Trump — that bunker-brained, bronzer-basted, bullshit-buttressed baron of bad taste, that swollen sultan of stucco, that fat Satan in a forty-inch fucking tie — is now saying he wants to put SNIPERS on his preposterous, pitiful, piteous, piss-poor, please-love-me participation trophy. 👇

Apparently the evil genius plan, temporarily not involving sharks with laser beams, though it’s early yet, is to recycle the exact same bullshit he used on the ballroom he wasn’t allowed to build to “make the case” for the arch he isn’t allowed to build.

You know. That two-hundred-and-fifty-foot, taxpayer-tapping, tomb-adjacent tribute to his own tremendous self.

That gargantuan, gold-leafed, grief-trampling gateway to a cemetery. A hundred million dollars of our money, fifteen million of it already shoveled out the door by the National Endowment for the fucking Humanities, to bolt a slab of granite to himself at the front gates of Arlington National Cemetery.

And he can’t help himself, because a hunk of rock is the only erection this man has ever gotten to stay upright past the thirty-second mark, and the entire planet already knows it.

But “please clap for my concrete cock” is a tough sell, so now his architectural schmeckle insecurity needs a military escort.

And he can’t even respect us enough to come up with a halfway decent lie. Just plops this down in front of us like a cat presenting a dead mouse and waits for somebody to tell him he’s a good boy:

“At the strong request of the United States Military.”

Oh, absolutely. The military begged.

And I’m a natural fucking blonde virgin who doesn’t drink and once fainted because somebody said “darn” at a christening.

Are we supposed to believe the Pentagon came to him, unprompted, hats in hand, medals trembling against their big military nipples, to request permission to stuff his taxpayer-funded stone stiffy full of drones, gunmen and live rounds?

“Please, sir. We’ve exhausted every other option. The security of the republic depends on making your decorative doorway shoot people.”

And he “agreed”. Bless his selfless little bone spurs. Imagine the courage it took to sit there and let a room full of four-stars explain that the thing he’d been whining for since last spring was actually his solemn duty to the nation.

You can practically hear the generals choking back tears.

“Our men can’t spend another Christmas without somewhere to store their tactical narcissist. Morale is collapsing. Sergeant Johnson hasn’t seen a gilded cornice in eight months.”

Next thing you know, the Joint Chiefs are standing around a conference table pushing little models of tanks across a map while one of them points at Washington with a pool cue:

“Gentlemen, we’ve identified the vulnerability. Not enough fucking arches.”

And by the way, just as an aside, who was it that ranked these “59 top cities and Capitals”?

Which fifty-nine, Donald? Where’s the fucking list? You can’t remember what country you bombed, but you’ve got municipal pageant results down to the runner-up?

Did number sixty get eliminated in the swimsuit competition? Did Brussels drop a baton and mouth “fuck” in front of the judges? Did Copenhagen show up without a headshot and have to borrow Oslo’s tit tape?

Was Vienna standing there in a borrowed ball gown, thirty seconds to explain what world peace means to her while Paris smiled through the Vaseline on her teeth and quietly called her a whore?

But I do need to know how we missed the semifinals of So You Think You Can Arch.

And look, I’m sorry Paris sent you an unsolicited arch pic, but we shouldn’t all have to live inside your heavily armed architectural schlong-measuring contest.

His cult of course, will swallow the sniper story whole, the way they swallow everything. Unfortunately for Donald, the rest of us need a little more convincing than the kind of men who buy the extended warranty on a fucking rotisserie chicken.

And he fucking knows it.

He knows nobody wants this. He knows the polling. He knows exactly how it plays to stick a hundred-million-dollar gluttonous, grasping, grabby, gimme-gimme grope for attention in the driveway of the cemetery where the actual heroes are buried, and he does not give a single fuck.

Because under the kabuki foundation and the fifteen-step comb-over, he knows the brutal truth.

He didn’t serve. Even his fucking feet needed nepotism. Other people’s kids got orders to report; Little Lord Fauntlefraud got bone spurs from a podiatrist who happened to rent his office from Fred Trump. A medical emergency conveniently located inside his daddy’s rental portfolio.

And now he wants to loom over the ones who actually went, his big beautiful bullshit visible from the graves of people whose parents couldn’t get them out of a war by calling the guy downstairs.

What the fuck are we commemorating? The Battle of Somebody Else’s Problem?

He wants history to remember his name.

He built nothing. He fixed nothing. He saved nobody.

The only permanent record with his name on it is a criminal one.

So now the vainglorious, vein-mapped, varicose Vesuvius of vanity waddles around the District in his little elevator shoes spraying himself on everything that isn’t nailed down, a wheezing Nebuchadnezzar in a girdle, a god complex with a golf cart, hiking a leg on the Mall and hosing down every marble surface in the capital like a diabetic tomcat working his way through a room full of curtains.

Because he can feel what’s coming the second he’s cold. Not that we forget him. That we get the fuck to work with a bucket and a wire brush and scrub his name off every goddamn thing he pissed it onto.

Which is why he’s bolting military equipment to his vanity projects like a man handcuffing himself to the furniture during an eviction.

He slapped “national security” on the ballroom nobody needed and thinks that means we bought the bullshit. Now he’s dragging the same sweaty sales pitch across the Potomac: if you won’t pay to admire him, he’ll tell you it’s “dangerous not to.”

Yes, there’s real security work going in underground over there. That’s the fig leaf, and it’s about four sizes too small. The courts already pulled the two apart: the buried infrastructure is one thing, the ninety thousand square feet of aboveground party barn squatting on top of it is another.

But apparently Ramses the Rotund discovered the greatest loophole in American government: want something gaudy, gilded, gargantuan and completely fucking unnecessary? Reclassify your personal wish list as a strategic defense imperative.

The Pentagon requires my chandeliers! CENTCOM specifically requested the marble! NORAD cannot possibly defend the continental United States without a cocktail terrace and sixteen fucking bidets!

He hears “defense spending” and lights up like a fucking pinball machine, because the only thing this man has ever defended in his life is that papery, piss-baby, porcelain-thin, perpetually punctured pride of his.

The entire federal budget repurposed as a blast door for one motherfucker’s feelings.

This isn’t the Department of Defense. It’s the Department of Don’t Care What You Dipshits Think, Daddy’s Doing It Anyway, Directorate of Just Look at the Fucking Size of It.

At this rate that Mar-a-Lago Medici is probably wandering through the White House right now pointing at shit he wants like a toddler loose in Costco.

“I want the ball pit from the McDonald’s PlayPlace.”

National security.

“Fill it with Adderall, loose Sudafed and my cocaine retainers.”

Counterterrorism.

“I need a 40-foot marble statue of myself. Shirtless. Riding a bald eagle. Give me the abs of a Romanian gymnast. Golf club in one hand, chocolate cake in the other. Bigger hands. I want to be able to finger Lake America. Give the bird my mug shot face and point my snausage crotch at Canada. They’ll know why.”

Cyber Command asked for it.

And this doesn’t end here. Every memorial, every monument, every building in the citadel of our democracy is next in line to get this secondhand, scratch-and-dent, spray-tanned strongman’s name spackled across the front of it.

Next up: the Donald J. Trump Center for Performing Arts and Precision-Guided Munitions.

“Please silence your phones, locate your nearest emergency exit and secure the fucking perimeter.”

The coat-check lady has Q clearance.

The Rockettes have been replaced by the 82nd Airborne and wardrobe is issuing Kevlar tutus.

Grandma unwraps one petrified disc of black licorice during Swan Lake and six sharpshooters acquire her position.

Act Two has been delayed because somebody parked a Reaper behind the fucking scrim.

And why stop there?

Hollow out the Resolute Desk and fill it with grenades.

Dress an Abrams tank up as the Easter Bunny.

Stick an aircraft carrier in the Reflecting Pool and hide it behind the peeling paint.

Gold-plate the nuclear football and have Vanna White present it every time somebody enters the Situation Room.

At least commit to the bit, asshole.

Anywhere else on Earth, a room of exhausted people spends eleven months arguing over which mountain, which desert, how many miles from the nearest road.

This fucking idiot walked into that meeting and said:

“I’m thinking a giant, ornate, golden arch and a ballroom.”

Nothing screams classified military installation like a colossal, conspicuous, camera-ready Corinthian cock ring visible from fucking space.

It’s stealth technology for people who think Liberace was being too subtle.

Covert operations by way of Caesars Palace.

A Wish-dot-com Versailles with a sniper’s nest in the attic and a Saddam-grade gold finish on the fucking doorknobs.

This isn’t national security.

It’s militarized megalomania.

A garish, gold-plated, gun-packed, government-funded glory hole for one man’s bottomless, blistering, building-sized need to turn the nation’s capital into his personal presidential peacock parade.

And THAT is the scam underneath all the stucco.

He wanted the ballroom.

He wanted the arch.

And now, what an astonishing coincidence, the United States military desperately “needs” both.

Every decorative boner His Royal Smallness dreams up magically develops a tactical purpose the minute somebody asks why the fuck we need it.

And this sure as shit, is NOT something we need.

Actual governments run by adults spend obscene amounts of money making sensitive military facilities boring, buried, hardened, hidden and difficult to identify. Secret tunnels. Blast doors. Decoys. Restricted schematics. Classified coordinates. Entire systems designed around one extraordinarily complicated military principle:

DON’T TELL EVERYBODY WHERE THE FUCKING WEAPONS ARE.

Meanwhile this man, who lies the way the rest of us breathe and has the impulse control of a cracked-out cockatoo, wants to raise a 250-foot gilded bullseye in the middle of Washington, announce what he plans to stash inside it, identify where the shooters will be positioned, brag about the caliber, and presumably put the finishing touch on American operational security: a fucking bedazzled sign reading “SECRET WEAPONS THIS WAY” while a Liberty Tax guy dressed as Uncle Sam spins an arrow on the sidewalk and Kid Rock works the valet stand.

It’s all just so exhaustingly fucking stupid, isn’t it?

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Couchfucker Says What?

Vice President JD Vance attacked the Rev. Adam Hamilton the Democratic nominee for the U.S. Senate in Kansas, because Hamilton’s Church of the Resurrection was one of dozens of sponsors of Kansas City PrideFest. Vance said Hamilton “proudly supported a drag group called Our Ladies of Perpetual Indulgence.” No organization by that name exists.

Vance called the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence “the devil worshiping group that was saying special blessings before LA Dodgers games” and “an anti-Christian hate group.” The Sisters are a 47-year-old volunteer order of queer and trans nuns founded in San Francisco on Easter weekend 1979. They raise money for community nonprofits and produced Play Fair!, a 1982 pamphlet that was among the earliest AIDS-era prevention resources.

The Dodgers did not invite the Sisters to bless games. The Los Angeles chapter received a Community Hero Award before the June 16, 2023, Pride Night game, recognizing decades of charitable work.

Sister Roma, a prominent member of the founding San Francisco order, told The Advocate, “If he was talking about the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, our name isn’t the only thing the vice president got wrong,” and added: “We do not mock nuns, we are nuns.” Hamilton’s campaign said Resurrection fed more than 45,000 people, distributed nearly 60,000 children’s books and built affordable housing in 2025.

[source]

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Colicky ManBaby Has Yet Another Meltdown

I’ve said it before: all journalists should just stop reporting on his rallies,  press briefings ego fluffing sessions, and accordion-hands announcements. Stop hanging on every word that spews from his rancid anus-mouth. He’s a malignant narcissist and if you stop giving him attention it will cut off his oxygen more effectively than anything else.

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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!

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And lastly…

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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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When Is This Dam Going To Burst?

impeach_the_imposters:
In December 2024, Adam Zarnowski, ex-CIA agent and author of Jörmungandr was personally involved in an NSA‑authorized forensic audit of the 2024 election. He says; “Kamala Harris and Tim Walz won—by a wide margin. Trump lost dramatically. There are multiple layers of complexity to this cover‑up, including transnational organized crime syndicates that extend far beyond the United States and our elections. To that point, I work in the human trafficking sector, which intersects with the stolen election(s) and has ties to Trump and Epstein—not to President Biden, Vice President Harris, or Governor Walz, but to the allied interests responsible for burying the audit.” — Adam Zarnowski, ex-CIA agent and author of Jörmungandr.

That’s all very well and good, but when wil any of these criminals be punished for their crimes? Felon 45 is pretty much off limits—for now—but Musk? Haul his ass in!

And more than anything else right now, JUST ONCE, I’d like to see someone’s fist wipe that smirk off Felon 45’s face. Seriously.

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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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yesterday afternoon, the White House press pool was summoned to the Oval Bordello for a hastily-organized, unscheduled dog-and-pony show.

when they arrived, there was Preznit Fuckwit, seated behind his Big Boy Resolute Desk, surrounded by his emotional support flunkies and visual aids. 

the gathered reporters were all ‘what the fuck?’ — but as word-adjacent noises began to seep from Dear Leader’s rancid anus-mouth, they realized they were about to have their time wasted on the pettiest bullshit imaginable.

“okay, uh, the purpose of this, more than anything else, is we’re gonna be— changing the name of Lake Ontario— effective immediately, to Lake America. that’s gonna take place right now, as I sign the— order.”

oh, for fuck’s sweet sake. seriously? this is what this spite-obsessed imbecile remains laser-focused on, as the world all around us turns to shit?

he’s going to make good on his infantile threat to ‘rename’ a lake — all because Ontario Premier Doug Ford had wounded his precious fee-fees by suggesting Donny might ought to kiss his ass.

as the price of goods and services continues to soar, as the unwinnable clusterfuck in Iran goes on, as sailors starve and armed federal thugs invade our cities, as climate change caused a glacier to fucking collapse, killing hundreds in Nepal, this shithead is wasting everyone’s time on settling scores.

he’s such a child. ‘I’m going to call you Premier Poopyhead, and then you’ll be sorry!’ 

ace job, Donny. you sure stuck it to Canada. I’ll bet Doug Ford is sorry he ever tried to mess with the Supreme Re-namer of Water.

and — oh look! all the worthless scribblers of the corporate-controlled media immediately ran back to their desks to dutifully type out what Dear Leader had decreed.

here we go again, and it’s all so predictably stupid. Donny does something pants-shittingly imbecilic, and the press falls all the fuck over itself in a mad dash to normalize it.

‘of course a president would rename a body of water out of spite. why wouldn’t he? it’s the most perfectly reasonable thing in the world.’

we need to step back — because first of all, Donny’s executive order ass-clownery didn’t actually change the name of shit.

can I just remind everyone of something that the worthless scribs seem to have forgotten? 

executive orders are not laws.

Executive orders are issued from the executive branch of the government, specifically the U.S. President. An executive order is not a law in the sense that it does not go through the legislative process. It is not binding on everyone, only on employees of the executive branch.

got that? none of Donny’s moronic EOs are actually laws, and no one has to abide by them except the poor unfortunate schnooks who work in the executive branch.

you or I don’t have do shit.

neither does Mapquest.

but wait — Mapquest upped its game. they’ve created their own Lake Ontario Name Generator, and you can access it here: https://gulfof.mapquest.com/lakeontario.

how’d I do?

Donny hasn’t actually stuck it to anyone. no one outside of the MAGAverse and the media gives a shit about his nonsensical royal decrees. the entire world is laughing at the embarrassing antics of America’s Boy King as he quite publicly pisses his pants — and the stupid fuck thinks he’s winning.

Canadian PM Mark Carney, can you step in here for a quick minute and explain to my nice readers how Lake Ontario got its name?

The name Lake Ontario comes from the Wendat word Ontari’io, which, appropriately, means “the lake is beautiful, the lake is big”.
The name is more than 400 years old, predating both the Confederation of Canada and the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America.
We know that America is changing. Their trading relationships, their foreign policies, their national monuments, their hydronyms.
Canadians also know that naming reality means calling it Lake Ontario – then, now and always.

Donny doesn’t know any of that shit. nor does he care. all he knows is that the dude who runs Ontario was very very mean to him, and so now all patriotic Americans are forever forbidden from saying its name.

it’s all so eternally moronic.

it’s stunning how quickly the entire Donnysphere has risen up as one to demonize the nation of Canada. tell me it’s not a cult.

last week, nobody gave a shit about Canada. they were simply America’s hat, quietly doing whatever the hell is it they do up there, above the 49th Parallel. this week, they’re the Evil Red Menace to our north.

listen to Fox News’ Own Plankhead of the Airwaves. he’s practically foaming at the mouth.

“all of this is a warning what will happen to our country sixty-nine days from now, if radicalized Democrats get their way, and win the midterms. Canada’s become so woke, so far left, so anti-Trump, so radical socialist left, they have become crazy climate alarmists, and they’re wrapped up in this idiotic land acknowledgement whatever scheme of theirs, gender theory, that they seem to view communism, and, yeah, the communist Chinese as a better partner than the US.”

that’s right, Mr and Mrs America — while you were innocently asleep in your beds, the entire nation of Canada turned communist. 

I knew it. I knew these fucking lumberjacks were commies the first time I laid eyes on them.

if an unpopular president choosing to gin up a pointless war with Canada in order to distract everyone from his own failures sounds familiar, that’s because it is. it’s the plot of the 1995 comedy Canadian Bacon.

The plot of the 1995 satirical comedy film Canadian Bacon centers on an American President with a low approval rating who decides to start a cold war against Canada to boost his popularity.

for decades, Canadian Bacon was notable only for being John Candy’s final role prior to his untimely death.

now, it’s a guidebook for an administration that’s already been using 1984 and The Handmaid’s Tale as instruction manuals.

lucky us.

and now, Canada has the chance to do the funniest thing ever.

the Welland Canal is the only shipping route between the American side of Lake Erie and the Canadian side of Lake Ontario. approximately 26.3 billion dollars’ worth American goods travels through the Canal every year.

it’d be a real shame if Canada were to rename the Welland Canal to, oh, say, the Strait of Our Moose, and close it down.

and now for your Hero of the Day: the reporter who, while asking Doug Ford a question, accidentally botched the name of our granny-starving Secretary of Commerce.

“you talked yesterday in your interviews about how you’re confident that a deal can be reached, but today you were talking about the problems that people like Howard Nutlick— Howard Lutnick and other members of the administration present.”

tee fucking hee. you just know that everyone calls this him ‘Nutlick’ in private. it was only a matter of time before someone slipped up in public.

sorry Howie. ‘Nutlick’ is canon now.

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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Birds Of A Feather FLOCK Together

brendannorth: These dangerous anti-surveillance saboteurs have really done it this time. Placing a live bird directly in front of a Flock Safety camera forcing its motion activated sensor to record hundreds of useless photos and video clips? Absurd! 

“Birds of a Feather De-Flock Together” is my latest protest art piece that attempts to draw parallels between a canary in a cage and the mass-surveillance apparatus being built up around us. 

Cameras on every corner. Data collection in our pockets. Algorithms watching what we buy, where we go, who we talk to, and what we believe. Every day, more bars are added to the cage. We only escape by fighting ba

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