0 comments
True!
Tick, Tock…
0 comments
Let’s start today’s post off with a bang. Ladies and gents, I give you the winner of the Nobel Best Sign At No Kings Day Prize.
More than 3,000 No Kings events took place across the world yesterday, but this time the focus was different.
No Kings Four wasn’t about crowd size. It was about getting out the vote — and voting early, where possible. We need to out-vote the shitheads, in numbers great enough that they can’t steal the midterms — because you know that they’re going to try like hell to pull some post-election fuckery. In fact, No Kings is already working on their next project — defending the vote.
Of course, there were crowds, in places such as Denver.
In New York City.
And even in front of Donny’s beloved Epstein Reflecting Pool, which still seems to be completely fucked to hell.
But the people I really adore — and want to call out — are the individuals in the far-flung corners of the world who made it a point to let Dear Leader know how just how much he totally fucking sucks.
Exhibit A is this American visiting Scotland’s Isle of Skye, who took time out from her vacation to hold a one-woman protest.
“Add Isle of Skye, Scotland to the map of No Kings Protests! I can’t wait to vote early when I get home. I imagine the London action was bigger but at least we can say there were two protests in the UK! Indivisible Guide Indivisible Long Island #NoKings #BlueWave”
And then there’s this guy, who spends every No Kings Day camped out in front of the US embassy in Talinn, Estonia. Here he was, yesterday.
This homie fucking rules. he held the exact same one-person protest during No Kings Three last last March.
And here he is at the No Kings Two protest on October 18, 2025.
This is how much the entire world loathes you, Donny. Congratulations, you did that!
Oh, and when we say ‘no kings,’ we really have to make an exception for Carole King, who showed up to protest in Haley, Idaho.
Hey, do you know who can go fuck themselves all the way to Mars? The oligarchs and tech bros, that’s who.
They’re terrified of We the People, and they’re doing everything they can to make sure our voices get buried. Yesterday, just as the No Kings protests were ramping up, Meta disabled No Kings’ Instagram account, knocking them completely offline.
“We have some breaking news, as we follow No Kings protests nationwide. A spokesperson for No Kings says the main accounts for the coalition on Instagram were frozen, and pulled down, and the administrators lost access to the peak of their national day of action. They say this happened at about 1:30pm eastern. MS NOW is out to Meta for comment. We have not heard back yet.”
Meta claimed that the whole thing was just a silly mistake, nobody’s fault, really, ha ha — but it still took them hours to restore the account.
Oh, how convenient.
Meanwhile, at a hate-rally in who even gives a shit where, Mad King Donny once again fixated on his his latest obsession.
“And he came up and he was talking very nicely. And I stood right over here. And I examined his ass.”
It’s always something with this corroded old fucksnoot, isn’t it? Remember during the 2024 campaign cycle? Back then, in every single speech, Donny would lapse into some nonsensical reverie about boats and batteries and sharks and what would you do if you fell into the water, would you rather get electrocuted by the shark or eaten by the battery? There was never ever any context for this incoherent rambling, but there it was, in speech after speech.
No more. The boats and the sharks have been retired, replaced by Donny eternally examining Jon Husted’s ass. That must be one hell of a gluteus Jon’s packing back there.
Way too much information, President Proctologist. Keep it to yourself.
I’ve got two heroes for you today. The first one is Jon Ossoff — because he’s so good at saying the things we’re all thinking.
“Now, maybe you saw Donald Trump was in Dalton yesterday, oblivious to the collapse of his presidency. A crowd smaller than this one endured two hours of senile babbling while the price of oil hit its five-month high.”
Ossoff excels at knowing exactly where to stick the knife. Back in the Oval Bordello, a ketchup bottle just got hurled against the wall, as Dear Leader hears himself get called senile, and has his crowd size made fun of. Boo fucking hoo, bro.
Our second hero is Abdul El-Sayed — because he’s so good at saying the things we wish we were smart enough to say.
Some MAGA chud named Tommy showed up at one of El-Sayed’s rallies, and was so cocksure of himself that he actually imagined he could disrupt the event by heckling. What happened instead was the Tommy the Chud got his rhetorical ass handed to him. El-Sayed took him apart, just by talking to him, one on one.
The entire clip is almost five minutes long. I’m only going to transcribe the first minute, but I implore you to listen to the whole thing.
El-Sayed: “You give me your name, I’ll answer the question.”
Tommy: “Okay, Tommy.”
El-Sayed: “Hi, Tommy. How are you?”
Tommy: “I’m great.”
El-Sayed: “Are you? Do you know what the Constitution of the United States is?”
Tommy: “I have one simple question. Will you disavow the Muslim Brotherhood?”
El-Sayed: “Yeah, sure, absolutely. But I want to ask to the question that you’re asking. Why are you asking the question?”
Tommy: “Well, because they’re a terrorist group.”
El-Sayed: “Okay. No, no, but what are you implying? Do you assume that I wouldn’t?”
Tommy: “Yes.”
El-Sayed: “Why not?”
Tommy: “Because I have not heard you disavow them yet.”
El-Sayed: “Have you disavowed them? I haven’t heard you disavow them yet.”
Tommy: “I disavow them.”
El-Sayed: “Do you? Great. But here’s the thing about it. You’re asking the question, because implicitly, you’ll assume that I have dual loyalties, right? Right? You assume that somehow I wouldn’t disavow, or that I’ll have some higher order, allegiance, than to the Constitution, correct? Tommy, isn’t that what you imply?”
Tommy: “Yes.”
El-Sayed: “Why would you think that about me?”
Tommy: “Because I have not yet heard you—”
El-Sayed: “No, no, no — why would you actually think that about me?”
That’s just the first minute. Please keep watching the entire clip. Spoiler alter: things don’t go too well for Tommy. He gets demolished. Not because El-Sayed insults him back, or makes fun of him, but simply because El-Sayed talks to him like a fellow human being.
And, in the end, Tommy the Chud books it the fuck out of there with his tail between his legs
this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:
practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.
to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.
we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.
0 comments
1 comments
That’s It In A Nut Shell
0 comments
Submitted Without Further Comment
0 comments
JoJo’s Got Such A Way With Words, Don’t You Think?
Late last night, Mr. “Russia, Russia, Russia” signed an executive order waiving sanctions against Vladimir Putin, because this perfidious, Putin-fluffing pile of presidential pork fat couldn’t bear the thought of his favorite murderous dictator suffering so much as a financial fucking inconvenience while his military continues slaughtering Ukrainians.
So he waited until Friday night, when Americans were busy recovering from another week of surviving his shitshow, and quietly loosened the financial screws on his Russian Master before scurrying back to his padded kennel to await further instructions.
Because Donald Trump has always been Vladimir Putin’s bitch.
And at this point, how much more fucking obvious does it have to get? We’ve been standing beneath a Russian sewage pipe for the better part of a decade, getting blasted in the face with industrial-grade excrement, and half the country is still squinting at the sky, asking whether anybody else thinks it smells funny.
Motherfucker, you’ve got a turd hanging off your eyebrow.
He’s the gimp from Pulp Fiction, except we’re all trapped in the basement with him, and this gelatinous, genuflecting cuck is sweating Sunny D through a latex onesie two sizes too small, packed in like kielbasa at a Lambeau tailgate, squeaking every time he bends and twirling in his Bedazzled ball gag like it’s prom night at the Moscow Marriott.
Welcome to Kneepad Diplomacy™, where the most powerful nation on Earth is being run into the ground by a Tang-glazed, tongue-lolling tuffet of treachery with a praise kink who’d trade the Statue of Liberty for a firm swat on the rump and a slab of chocolate cake the size of a hubcap.
He had American service members on their hands and knees in Alaska rolling out the welcome mat for his death-dealing, democracy-devouring despot, while that Crisco-cushioned quisling stood ready to have PROPERTY OF VLAD monogrammed on his kneeling pad.
That red carpet was foreplay, because this apricot ass-kisser isn’t even meeting Putin halfway; he’s crawling the entire fucking distance with American foreign policy between his teeth, stopping every few feet to check whether Daddy needs his slippers, another concession, perhaps a sovereign democracy diced into bite-sized pieces and served on a silver tray he licked clean himself, anything for a scratch behind the ears from the Botoxed little bastard holding his leash before retreating beneath the staircase to wait for somebody to tell him he’s been a very good boy.
And the evidence of this groveling, groaning, geopolitical degradation has been piling up for years, from Don Junior, that chinless, coke-eyed princeling of inherited privilege, bragging about Russian money to oligarchs circulating through Trump-branded properties like the guest list for a fucking money-laundering swingers’ convention, while the whole family developed a conveniently catastrophic case of selective Slavic amnesia.
This collared, capitulating little pay pig has spent decades glazing, glorifying, and giving Vladimir Putin the geopolitical equivalent of a complimentary rim job, and now the relationship has progressed to him telling Ukraine to stop hitting the Russian refineries helping bankroll the invasion that’s killing Ukrainian children.
Ukraine paused during a ceasefire Trump announced with the confidence of somebody who’d personally negotiated it with God, except Putin hadn’t agreed to jack shit, Russia kept bombing, and Zelenskyy resumed hitting the refineries, which, who the fuck could blame him? If somebody’s trying to kill your family, you hit them where it hurts.
And this Kremlin-coddling coward called it a disgrace, a real Emily Post moment from somebody scolding an invaded country for the brass-balled, bloody-minded gall of declining to die while Vladimir balances his books and bills the corpses.
But the same orange arsonist who helped send fuel prices soaring with his Iran war now wants to moonwalk out of the smoke clutching a Russian jerrycan like a carnival goldfish and pretend he’s rescuing American families from expensive diesel.
Spare me the steaming tanker truck of horseshit. None of this is about helping Americans here. It’s all about helping Vlad win over there.
And this obsequious, orange-hued oil fluffer is working the arrangement with both teeny-tiny hands wrapped around Vladimir’s Johnson, tongue poking out in concentration like a cake decorator piping the last buttercream rose onto a six-tier wedding cake, begging us to admire his energy policy.
Which makes the latest development in this grotesque geopolitical peep show especially revealing, because while Donnie Two Scoops was failing to persuade Zelenskyy to roll over like a good boy, multiple outlets traced the order to slow Ukraine’s military satellite service to the White House, which was interesting enough before the Telegraph reported that Elon Musk, our great white beluga cast as the dying E.T., had approached Trump with the idea and Trump agreed.
What did that conversation sound like? “Sir, Zelenskyy won’t stop bombing Vladimir’s refineries, but what if we slow down the technology Ukraine uses to stop Russian drones? Maybe a few more exploding apartment buildings will teach him to listen.”
And that’s how Ukrainian interceptors reportedly ended up struggling to chase Russian drones that could continue toward civilian neighborhoods like they’d made a fucking dinner reservation, while the machines trying to STOP them got sentenced to a timeout they never earned.
But after a night of carnage in Kyiv, Elon “Horses for Handjobs” Musk, that pallid, plutocratic pile of unseasoned poultry with a breeding fetish and a bank balance large enough to purchase his own applause, suddenly became terribly concerned about European customers.
European customers.
Jesus Christ. A city is being terrorized, and this profit-panicked purveyor of overpriced electric appliances is worried somebody in Düsseldorf might buy an Audi. What does a Ukrainian mother have to do to get your attention, asshole? Staple a canceled purchase order to her child’s fucking coat?
And did Musk want to punish Ukraine because it knocked out one of his Russian bot farms? Is that why he’s so obsessed with getting rid of Zelenskyy? Imagine spending billions buying yourself an audience only to discover somebody bombed the data center housing your fucking fan club.
But when the world started asking who’d been fucking with Ukraine’s defenses, suddenly nobody wanted credit. Musk pointed at Washington, Trump pointed at anybody but himself, and the two of them became the Spider-Man meme, except both Spider-Men were counterfeit, beer-bellied bastards outside the Times Square Olive Garden, hustling fentanyl to tourists between twenty-dollar photo ops and screaming about whose fucking shift it was.
And that’s when the belligerent bouffant with security clearance announced he didn’t know who’d given the order.
You don’t fucking KNOW?
He’d rather have us believe he’s not running his own administration than admit what agreeing to that slowdown would mean: the United States helping Putin kill Ukrainian women, children, and other civilians trying to survive in their own free country.
Can you imagine Biden giving that answer? Fox would interrupt its own interruption, and Hannity would need a fresh shirt and a priest. This is the “perfect phone call” all the fuck over again. Except worse.
And now His Flatulent Fraudulence insists Starlink is running perfectly normally, always has been, nothing to see here, while Zelenskyy says it STILL isn’t back to normal and Ukrainian tests across the European border show the connection working at speeds that cause it to cut out inside Ukraine.
What the fuck is that? A geographically selective nervous breakdown? Does the satellite recognize the Ukrainian border and develop performance anxiety?
Did these two evil idiots think they could pull the Airplane! routine, unplug the runway lights, plug them back in, and chirp “Just kidding!” while everybody struggles to land?
Oopsie! Did we interfere with your ability to stop explosives heading toward your children? Everybody relax! We plugged the fucking thing back in! Well, most of it. Actually, we never unplugged it. And if somebody did, nobody knows who!
So the United States bombed a school in Iran, and now we’re helping Putin bomb schools in Ukraine.
Is THIS what being “great again” looks like?
There is no “Russia hoax,” just a United States president serving Vladimir Putin’s interests while flag-fellating fuckwits defend him from the evidence of their own goddamn eyes.
And they’re counting on the rest of us being too busy surviving to notice, with your kid needing shoes, the insurance company denying the claim, the car making that noise again, and another national betrayal becoming something you’ll find the strength to think about somewhere between the third transfer and the fifth rendition of instrumental “Careless Whisper.”
They’re manufacturing the chaos and exploiting our exhaustion, because they don’t need our approval if they can make giving a shit one more thing Americans can’t afford.
And while our troops are dying in his illegal, unconstitutional, endless war with Iran, Trump claims he doesn’t “THINK” Russia or China are helping Tehran, despite American intelligence indicating otherwise.
That’s like me deciding I’m not a natural brunette because I prefer being blonde. Somebody tell my fucking roots. They keep rudely submitting evidence to the contrary.
But this cranial custard cup clarifies that even if they ARE helping, “it’s at a very low level.”
IF THEY ARE?!
You’re the commander in chief of the United States of America, you ambulatory mound of presidential pudding, not somebody divining national security intelligence from the sediment in his Diet Coke.
What constitutes an acceptable amount of help killing American troops? Does Putin get complimentary Pentagon coordinates after his third missile shipment, a commemorative challenge coin, and a voucher for two nights at Mar-a-Lago?
Nancy Pelosi said “all roads lead to Putin,” and she wasn’t guessing. She was reading the name engraved on his little leather collar.
And now we’re calling it “peace talks,” because the murderer apparently requires another financial inducement to stop murdering, while the country being invaded is supposed to offer up portions of itself like somebody carving the fucking Thanksgiving turkey.
Imagine marauders break into your house, kill your dog, kidnap your children, and start firing missiles into your kitchen, while Putin’s piss-yellow property manager steps over the wreckage and asks what YOU’RE prepared to concede.
Concede? Motherfucker, I LIVE HERE.
What do you offer? Alternate weekends with the refrigerator? Perhaps the burglars will let you keep the garage if you acknowledge their legitimate security concerns, while this bootlicking sack of sedition measures your living room for Putin’s sectional and explains that insisting the intruders leave makes YOU unreasonable.
It has never been about peace. It’s about giving Putin a piece of another country.
“Our country has to survive,” Zelenskyy says, having to remind the United States of America that his country’s continued existence isn’t an unreasonable fucking request.
Oh, how very far we have fallen.
And the red-white-and-brainless contingent tells us to “cry harder,” while I’d ask where the fuck Republicans in Congress are, but their heads are so far up their own asses they could check their prostates with their eyelashes, which must make reading the Constitution difficult, although I’m reasonably certain these craven, cringing, constitutionally constipated little courtiers would rather bend over the Resolute Desk and chirp “Yes, sir! May I have another?” than risk displeasing the spray-tanned submissive running their party.
Remember when we fought fascism?
We sent our men and boys across an ocean to liberate people living under tyranny, boys writing home about the lives they hoped to resume, reassuring mothers they were terrified they’d never see again, and now a five-time draft-dodging, bone-spurred coward expects us to admire his willingness to accommodate a dictator invading a European democracy.
We once sent Americans to help get other people off their knees. This servile sack of surrender wants us to join him on his, as though the flag that covered their coffins were another piece of fabric he could spread at Putin’s feet.
He can lower himself until his belt buckle scrapes the floor, crane his neck for a crumb of approval from a murderer who regards him as useful equipment, and spend whatever remains of his dignity begging for a biscuit he’s been trained not to reach for.
But he keeps reaching behind him for the rest of us, expecting an entire country to bend until we can no longer look the people we abandoned in the eye.
Fuck that. His submission does not come with OUR consent.
He’s convinced we’re too exhausted to care and too powerless to stop him, that traitorous, treacherous, treasonous, tyrant-teabagging toady, certain the American people will fold while he pawns off the birthright of an entire nation for another approving grunt from the Kremlin butcher.
But this nepo-baby beneficiary of inherited billions, this spectacularly incompetent casino-bankrupting bastard who somehow managed to lose money in a business where the fucking house always wins, is betting against the American people.
And once again, he’s betting wrong.
In the meantime, the question isn’t how far Donald Trump is willing to lower himself for Vladimir Putin.
The question is: How much of America does he think we’re willing to let him take down there with him?
Stay safe out there, stay strong, and stay connected to each other!
Continued radio silence from the bullies I will keep you updated, I promise!
💙 Jo
0 comments
Yesterday was another one of those days where the stupid was so ungodly thick, you could cut it with a knife. Here a stupid, there a stupid, everywhere a stupid stupid — and you know what that means: it’s time once again to roll out the good old Big Wheel of Moron™, give it a vigorous spin, and see where it lands. Ready? Here we go.
Oh look, here’s a perfectly normal thing that happens every day. It’s just United States President Rottinghands McCankles, being bundled into Helicopter Force One (or whatever the fuck it’s called), along with Diaper Nurse Natalie Harp and Found Object Katie Zacharia.
Holy shit, look at the intensity with which these two women are focusing their rictus grins on the object of their affection.
Who thought this was a wise idea? You can’t do this. You can’t take two fixated weirdos who both believe they have the god-ordained right to be the Fourth Mrs. Donny™ and put them in close quarters. It’s like shoving matter and antimatter together. Nothing good is going to happen. Bunnies are going to get boiled. Lots and lots of bunnies.
If we could somehow take the barely-suppressed, seething resentment that these two rivals are developing for each other, and somehow hook it to a generator, it could be America’s greatest source of renewable energy.
We’d better get out of here before we become collateral damage. Let’s give that Big Wheel of Moron™ another spin.
Oh my dear sweet lord, help us. It’s landed on United States Vice President Couchfuck McGee.
I love you too sir. In a totally platonic way, to be clear. I’m the vice president, not James Talarico.”
GET IT? GET IT? JAMES TALARICO IS THE GAY! (Spoiler alert: he’s not.)
I’m so tired of neanderthal assholes like JD Vance, whose homophobic sense of ‘humor’ — if we can charitably call it that — never matured beyond the eighth-grade locker room. It’s so fucking adolescent.
This is what you do when your party is utterly devoid of accomplishments, and bereft of anything positive to run on — you just make up stupid shit about your opponent. Why does Couchfuck imagine that ‘ha ha you so gay’ is still a thing you can lob at someone? Bro, this is the year of our lord 2026. Open your eyes — no one cares. So what if Talarico were the gayest gay in all of gaydom? We’ve over that shit.
But beyond that, why is Couchfuck even being trotted out to campaign on behalf of loser candidates? He has zero charisma. He has no ability to connect with average people. He’s complete shit at small talk.
‘So how’s your sexuality? Are you still straight? HA HA THAT’S GREAT!’
Wheel of Moron™, kindly get us the fuck away from this repellent dipshit.
Sigh. It landed on Dear Leader, at yesterday’s hate rally in Texas. Let’s hear what’s on this tiresome fuckface’s liquefying mind.
Mutilate your children, they want to mutilate, cut your children. It’s unbelievable, what they do. Six states, I mean they could do whatever the want, and they do. Your son leaves as Jimmy and comes home in three days as Janet, and they don’t even ask you. Most people don’t believe it. You know, they think it’s like an exaggeration. It’s not. They can take your child out of school and do whatever the hell they want. These people are sick. Minnesota is one of those states that can do that.”
Fact check:
For fuck’s sake, Preznit Fuckwit has been vomiting out this fever-swamp hallucination for years now, and it doesn’t even stand up to ten seconds’ worth of critical thinking. Imagine that this were true. Imagine that you were the parent of darling little Jimmy, and one day he doesn’t get off the school bus. And then what? You just sit there for three days, going ‘well I guess he’s okay, wherever he is.’ Of course not.
You know, Donny thinks he’s doing his party a favor, by showing up to ostensibly ‘campaign’ for a candidate, and then shitting nonsense like this out of his corroded face-hole instead. He’s not. Just like his furniture-fornicating Vice President, he’s become kryptonite to voters. Nobody but the brain-deadest of cultists want to hear Donny prattle on about ‘the transgender.’
That shit might have worked in 2024, but it doesn’t any more. Don’t take my word for it. Listen to Republican Dade Phelan, a former Texas State House Speaker.
Phelan said it’s doing nothing, because no one cares about the few dozen transgender people in sports. They just want cheap gas.
Okay, that’s enough from our Moron-in-Chief. Let’s spin that Big Wheel again.
Oh fuck us all blind, it landed on Donny again. Holy shit, he’s still bragging about pointing to the picture of the camel.
“But remember, I’m the only one who took the test. You know, the aptitude test or whatever the hell they call it. I took it— when I did— every time I do a physical— I take a mental test. And I’ve aced it. WHERE’S MY DOCTOR? Is he around, I travel with more doctors than any human. If people get sick in the audience, they don’t— do— they leave him alone. You know what they call him? Collateral damage. If that person right over there, he looks like shit actually. He looks— he looks like he’s ready to have a heart attack. If he actually had a heart attack, you know what they would do? They would leave him alone.”
The stupid shit thinks he’s been taking an ‘aptitude’ test. He’s not — it’s a brain damage test. And if you’re being asked to take one every time you have a checkup, it’s because your doctor has an excellent reason to suspect you have brain damage.
Don’t you love the way Donny boasts about acing his dementia test, and then careens wildly into the kind of incoherent anecdote that only a dementia sufferer would tell? Way to connect with your audience, you rotting dumbfuck. People can’t afford food. They can’t afford housing. They can’t afford basic goods and services.
Above all, no one can afford healthcare — and this out-of-touch nincompoop is bragging about how he has all the doctors in the world, and you don’t. What in the actual fuck?
Sigh. Let’s give that Big Wheel one final spin. Ready?
Goddammit, it landed on Donny a third time. I’m going have to take this thing in and get it calibrated. The veeblefetzer is out of whack again.
Oh no, wait, the Big Wheel of Moron™ actually did us a solid. This one’s worth seeing.
This is why, when they broadcast Dear Leader’s hate-rallies on TV, they’re always cropped in tightly from the front, on Donny and the worshipers who have been placed behind him — because if they showed you a wider view, you’d learn that no one is showing up to these things. The arena is nearly empty. He’s the crowd-size obsessed president, and he can’t draw a crowd. How sad is that?
Wait, did I said it was sad? Actually, I meant to say that shit’s fucking hilarious.
I swear, I’m trying really hard not to laugh.
this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:
practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.
to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.
we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.
1 comments
But She Can Get Past The Smell Of His Overflowing Diaper And Fellate The Mushroom, And That’s All That Matters
I know that I’m breaking no new ground when I point out that every member of the Donnyverse is a low-wattage shit-wit, blessed with absolutely zero qualifications for the jobs to which they’ve been assigned.
You’ve got a gin-soaked, failed weekend chat-show host running the military. A lady who arranged rigged wrestling matches is now in charge of education. A reality-show never-was has been tasked with making sure planes don’t fall from the sky. The coward who is too chickenshit to tell Dear Leader that his shoes don’t fit is somehow supposed to be making sure our allies do what we tell them.
And let’s not forget that a huffing-coke-off-a-toilet-seat, dead-bear-cub-kidnapping, whale-head-chainsawing maniac is now standing guard over our nation’s health.
But wait, here comes Donny’s latest hire — the Q-Anon-adjacent found object Katie Zacharia — to teach a master class in how to really, most-sincerely, truly fucking suck at your job.
“to OFFICIALLY be part of this incredible journey— together? and with that— I will take your questions— [extremely long pause] here in our NEW media seat.”
What the fuck was that? It was like watching a clip of a robot fail. Quick, someone reboot Katie!
The job of the White House Press Secretary is a simple one: it’s to read off a script, take questions, and answer them. Katie Zacharia can’t do any of that shit.
“He had a historic one-day war, and now we are—have a—booming economy, and a—a great relationship [another interminably long pause] with Venezuela.”
Oh shit, can somebody reboot Katie again?
The indispensable Aaron Rupar has put together a three-minute, forty-second supercut of the best-worst moments from yesterday’s press briefing.
I really need to caution you that if you try to watch the whole thing, you may end up stupider than when you started. You have been warned.
What a crap-show. Katie was stiff. Uncomfortable. Non-human. Unwilling or unable to make eye contact. She took only three questions from the press, and then mercifully booked it out of there after fourteen minutes. She shit all the beds.
Seriously, it was so clownfucktacularly awful that Zacharia became the Main Story of the Day. She was the only thing the media wanted to talk about.
“Some White House officials are already wondering how long she’ll keep the job. They tell CNN’s Kaitlan Collins her performance was unlikely to satisfy President Trump. One White House official called the appearance, quote, ‘unusual.’ Another called it ‘brutal.’”
The question everyone’s now asking is, ‘can she out-scaramucci Anthony Scaramucci?’
Tony Scaramucci, you’ll recall, is the weirdo who famously lasted only eleven days as one of Preznit Fuckwit’s press secretaries. The Mooch got shitcanned for saying goofy shit like, ‘I’m not Steve Bannon, I’m not trying to suck my own cock.’
Thanks for sharing, Mooch. You know, I could have gone my entire life without knowing that about Rotting Stevie Three-Shirts.
Meanwhile, you’ll be shocked to learn that Katie Zacharia may or may not be lying about her resumé. She claims to be a lawyer, but when the press pressed her for details (Ha ha! See what I did there?), Katie’s answer was a non-answer.
Reporter: “you said Zacharia is an attorney. Where did she pass the bar exam? What state?”
Zacharia: “When I moved to China.”
Yeah, no. China isn’t a state.
Rep. Ted Lieu, could you explain to the nice lady how passing the bar works?
One cannot take an American state bar exam in China. Bar exams are administered at designated testing locations in each state of the union.
Are Katie Zacharia and trump lying when they say she is an attorney?
If not, then she needs to disclose in what state she passed the bar.
Look, Katie Zacharia ticks all the Donnyverse boxes. She’s a liar, she’s evasive, she’s a fucking weirdo, she’s unqualified, and she’s absolute shit at her job.
If that’s not a deal-breaker for any of the men who do Dear Leader’s bidding, then it shouldn’t be for Katie.
Our piss-drunk Secretary of Death hasn’t lost his job, after butt-dialing classified war plans to a reporter, or depleting our nation’s supply of missiles, or destroying military readiness, or blundering us into an unwinnable war, or any of the other fucked-up shit he’s pulled.
Bobby Brainworms still has his job, after single-handedly creating a measles epidemic.
Liddle Marco Big-Shoes still has his job, even after [gestures all around].
It’s only the women who have been pushed out of their jobs during our Misogynist-in-Chief’s second reign. Pam Bondi. Tulsi Gabbard. Kristi Noem. And, most recently, Kimberly Gargoyle.
Maybe it’s Donny who should be better at his job. Maybe he should stop hiring men just because they look like they came ‘straight out of central casting.’
Maybe he should stop hiring woman simply because they remind him of the daughter he wants to quote-unquote ‘date,’ if that’s what we’re charitably going to call it.
Come on — let Katie Zacharia keep her job. She’s so bad, she’s good. She’s entertaining as fuck — and at least when she screws up, it won’t result in planes colliding in mid air, or the proliferation of human shit geysers.
Everything totally fucking sucks right now, but at least we can watch our cognitively-collapsed president apparently forget what what doors are for.
Look at this idiot, on the tarmac in Alaska last night. He had one job — to walk in a straight line, into the wide-open door of his waiting helicopter.
Spoiler alert: he fucked that shit up, inexplicably meandering towards the rear of the copter. Wither doest thou wander, dipshit?
It’s only at the last second that he apparently snaps out of his reverie and remembers why doors exist. Holy shit. Donny’s brain has gone fuckity-bye.
But please — tell me once again how Joe Biden was too old and icky and smelly and decrepit to properly to his job. That’s such a cool story.
this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:
practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.
to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.
we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.
0 comments
I Can’t Today…
Sorry, but I just can’t deal with Donny today, as entertaining as Jeff’s take on him might be. If you’re interested in reading for yourself, just click on the headline below.
0 comments
0 comments
Has there ever been, in the history of mankind, or whatever genus of jackbooted Jell-O he technically belongs to, a bigger fucking crybaby than Donald J. “for Genius” Trump?
My God, that puling, peevish, petulant pantload, that sniveling, snot-sucking sultan of self-pity, that heaping pile of clammy deli trimmings that looks like somebody tried to sous-vide a Stretch Armstrong in the cloudy runoff from a can of hot-car Vienna sausages, is so absolutely, mind-bogglingly, embarrassingly pathetic.
Does Fat Satan hold the unofficial world record for competitive pissbabying? Get Guinness on the phone, but don’t tell this diapered dauphin of disappointment there’s a certificate, or we’ll never get the gelatinous little glory whore off the line.
He’s been whining nonstop about the “Noble” Peace Prize while we’re in the middle of a war he started and this preening, pud-pulling prima donna is picking out tile for his bulletproof ballroom, because heaven forbid he have to do his double-fisted jerk-and-twist to “YMCA” on a floor that doesn’t flatter his cankles.
He’s also trying to sue me again for posting a picture of him with a pedophile, as if I’m the one who should’ve been more careful about who he was standing next to. But I digress.
This pick-me, panhandling pork rind has spent years dry-humping the committee’s leg without learning the name of the fucking prize, because apparently the self-proclaimed stable genius who keeps reminding us that nobody knows the word “dumb” ends with a B can’t distinguish Nobel from Noble.
All that panting, pawing, and varnishing its corduroys with orange chin grease, and he still thinks “no” is a clerical error he can overturn by forcing himself upon whoever and whatever he wants.
And they gave it to a WOMAN? In the putrid, pustulent, pussy-grabbing primordial sludge that passes for his presidential psyche, a woman is something HE gets, not somebody who gets something HE wants.
Barack Obama has a Nobel Peace Prize, and that’s nine hundred percent of what’s eating this envious little bastard alive.
Obama has one. He doesn’t. He can fill the White House with enough gold to make a Saudi prince request a less ostentatious table, and there will still be that one shiny thing Barack has that he couldn’t buy, browbeat, or bitch his way into being awarded.
Obama, young, lean, ludicrously handsome, wickedly intelligent, devastatingly articulate, with that slow grin, that velvet baritone, that exquisite composure, and a lethal wit he could deliver with one raised eyebrow, sexy enough to make a woman mistake a discussion of monetary policy for foreplay and briefly resent Ben Bernanke for wasting that mouth on the fucking bond market, stood at that 2011 White House Correspondents’ Dinner and filleted him in a tuxedo.
A Black man with all that grace, all that gravitas, all that effortless command of a room this prestige-starved parasite would gargle warm denture water just to impress. In the rancid racial pecking order Donald had inherited right along with the real estate, this man was supposed to be beneath him.
Donald had been peddling the racist birther bullshit that Barack Obama wasn’t even born in the United States, trying to delegitimize the first Black president. And there was Barack, standing behind the presidential seal, making him the fucking punch line for all the world to see.
For a creature of such colossal conceit and cringing insecurity—a vainglorious, vindictive vulgarian—having Obama strip the gilt off his entire goddamn existence must have been fucking annihilating. The genius, the tycoon, the irresistible ladies’ man: he’d spent decades bullying the world into accepting his bullshit as biography, until The Apprentice gave the mythology a boardroom and a broadcast schedule.
This counterfeit Casanova even posed as his own publicist, John Miller, to tell reporters how many women wanted to fuck Donald Trump. He invented another person to corroborate his own bullshit.
And now the actual president was peeling the cellophane off the whole fraudulent creation in front of the Washington press corps, and the man who demanded everybody’s admiration had to endure the public evisceration of the mythology he’d spent his entire life trying to pass off as himself.
And the room laughed. Oh, how they laughed and laughed and laughed.
Obama even put up a mock-up labeled “Trump White House Resort and Casino,” which, considering the People’s House now looks like Saddam Hussein’s third wedding in a Paramus banquet hall, where somebody’s spray-painted the shrimp gold because the groom thought they looked poor, was pretty fucking clairvoyant.
All these years later, Baron von Bitchfit is mentally still at that Correspondents’ Dinner, jaw clenched, corn-niblet fingers curled into fists beneath the table, furiously rehearsing the comeback he wishes he’d delivered before Barack got back from the bathroom.
Except now his comeback has a motorcade and a military budget.
That humiliation seared itself into whatever spite-saturated substitute for a soul this man possesses and metastasized into Obama-Induced Resentment Syndrome, a chronic, terminal condition. He wants the footage destroyed, the witnesses to swear they were choking on dinner rolls, Barack to confess his lifelong envy of Donald’s magnificent physique, and the Nobel committee to issue a groveling apology for its catastrophic error in judgment. He wants to know why winning the presidency TWICE hasn’t entitled Donnie Diapers to unlimited pudding and official recognition as the most special boy in the universe.
None of that is happening, but Veruca Salt in a pair of black patent-leather Florsheims with three inches of elevator lifts and enough heel polish to waterproof a bass boat isn’t leaving Wonka’s factory without her golden goose, even if she has to threaten the Oompa Loompas with federal indictments.
Sooner or later, that overstuffed bad egg is headed down the garbage chute.
And all the while, he’s so spectacularly constipated with resentment that he actually had Barack’s portrait moved and slapped up that oversized “painting” of himself after the assassination attempt, a Franklin Mint limited-edition “Presidential Martyrdom” collectible that looks like it came with a certificate of authenticity, a complimentary velvet display pouch, and six easy payments of $39.95, batteries not included.
The damn thing doesn’t even fit the wall panel.
Unable to wrestle Obama’s Nobel out of the universe, the Great Orange Gland of Grievance got his greasy meat mittens on somebody else’s. María Corina Machado, Venezuela’s opposition leader, handed him her 2025 medal in January, apparently hoping to secure his support for her bid to lead the country. She surrendered the most prestigious honor of her career to a man who’d sell his own grandmother’s dental implants for a McRib coupon, and what did she get in return? Fuck all. No endorsement, no path to power, not even a lousy refrigerator magnet from the White House gift shop. He pocketed her medal, announced he’d received the honor “indirectly,” and essentially told her, “Thanks, bitch. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
And even THAT wasn’t enough for Beelzeblubber, who wants EIGHT peace prizes, one for each war this medal-mad, megalomaniacal mound of presidential mortadella claims he “ended.”
By that standard, I deserve one for not losing my mind when my daughter turned my kitchen into an artisanal pumpkin muffin sweatshop at MIDNIGHT.
Another for the restraint I demonstrated at a stoplight when some horn-humping jackass in a Dodge Ram was riding so far up my ass he could’ve performed a colonoscopy through the tailpipe, and I only flipped him off THREE TIMES.
And a third for not informing my neighbor that her drunk-ass husband asked me about my sex life while I was handing out Halloween candy, because maintaining peaceful relations between sovereign households while a shitfaced suburban satyr conducts unsolicited research into my vagina over a bowl of fun-size Snickers requires the restraint of a bomb-disposal technician.
Did I summon the Norwegian ambassador to acknowledge my extraordinary contributions to suburban détente? No. I went inside and ate a leftover muffin.
The Tangerine Tantrum Tyrant expects the full Scandinavian production, complete with trumpets, tuxedos, a twenty-one-gun salute, and preferably a notarized statement confirming Barack Obama’s dick is smaller than his.
He’d insist his proctologist submit a five-star review of his asshole for inclusion in the banquet program, then demand to be carried into Oslo on a gilded sedan chair by four Norwegian weightlifters in orthopedic back braces while the string section abandons the overture to fan his swollen, swampy balls with their sheet music, assuming the cellist can hoist that collapsed wedding cake of Man-FUPA without giving himself a fucking hernia.
Even after all that ceremonial ball ventilation, he’d need Daddy to tell him he’s a good boy, which leaves the Nobel committee playing the role of five Norwegians in oatmeal-colored fisherman sweaters who can refuse him without getting fired.
Daddy said no, Donnie. Daddy keeps saying no. You need to stop fucking asking.
Except the Pouting Potentate of Pissbabyvania doesn’t hear no. He hears an invitation to apply pressure, punish, and threaten until whoever’s refusing him submits or breaks. He believes wanting something obligates everyone else to surrender it. Countries. Institutions. Women. Consent is an administrative inconvenience. He told us on the Access Hollywood tape: “I don’t even wait.”
He. Doesn’t. Wait.
Grab ’em by the Peace Prize.
He thinks the Nobel committee owes him a medal for taking his boot off a throat he put it on. With Iran, he’s demanding the medal before he’s even lifted the fucking boot—counting it among the wars he supposedly settled while still talking about how he’s going to settle or win it, as though starting a fire and eventually getting bored with watching it burn qualifies as an advanced degree in fire prevention.
That’s the arsonist who torches the Sizzler, calls 911, and plants his ass on the fire hose demanding a hero’s parade because he rescued the five-gallon bucket of ranch dressing. The firefighters are trying to save the building, the salad bar has reached temperatures ordinarily associated with Mercury, and this kerosene-cologned catastrophe is demanding the fire chief thank him personally before asking whether the cameras caught his good side.
Ending a war you started doesn’t make you a peacemaker. And “winning” a war you started sure as shit doesn’t make you one either.
Take that definition to Minab, where a U.S. strike hit a girls’ school and killed 175 children, and explain to the parents who buried them why the man presiding over the war deserves a gala and a commemorative photograph with the king of Norway.
Their daughters are dead, and this self-absorbed sack of presidential suet expects the world to console him because nobody gave him a necklace.
As if the dead children weren’t enough, Mussolini Alfredo is preparing to livestream the firing-squad execution of Nidal Hasan, the Fort Hood murderer, who uses a wheelchair. American soldiers, a condemned man, a worldwide audience, and a government convinced that military justice has been missing a production crew.
Gandhi never even got the fucking medal, but this bloodthirsty butter sculpture expects one while his people work out the camera angles for a public fucking execution.
Giving this malevolent, marauding madman a Nobel Peace Prize is like giving Jeffrey Dahmer a James Beard Award for sourcing locally, Ted Bundy a Volunteer of the Year plaque for helping lovely young women carry things to his car, and Joe Exotic the Carole Baskin Award for Excellence in Conflict Resolution.
And since we’re handing out honors to men whose résumés read like evidence inventories, find this spray-tanned supplicant a consolation prize before he works himself into a presidential prolapse. Rummage through the recycling, find a Fancy Feast lid, punch two holes in it, and thread a ribbon through the bastard. Check the edges, because I refuse to spend three weeks hearing that the president received a Purple Heart for being lightly inconvenienced by a can of Gravy Lovers Ocean Whitefish & Tuna.
Hang it around his neck, tell him it’s an upgrade on his FIFA Peace Prize, pat him on the head, and give him a chocolate chip cookie. Throw in a juice box and a participation certificate with a gold foil sticker that says WORLD’S BEST DONALD.
None of it fucking matters, because I’m never gonna be a natural blonde married to Ewan McGregor, he’s never gonna be a six-foot-three, 213-pound, high-IQ genius, and there isn’t enough gold in Fort Knox to bribe, bully, blackmail, or bludgeon somebody into hanging something around his sweaty neck-fold cheese that will ever make him a man of peace.
He’s not a war-ender. He’s not a humanitarian. He’s not some magnanimous, merciful, olive-branch-wielding statesman. He’s a sadistic, self-sucking, spectacularly spiteful son of a bitch who doesn’t give a solitary shit about peace unless there’s a piece of something in it for him.
Barack Obama is never going to apologize for embarrassing him.
That room full of people is never going to stop laughing at him.
And the Nobel committee is never giving that fat, ugly fuck a prize.
UPDATE: What I feared would happen when I finally told my story about the Trumps coming after me happened: another letter, six pages of threats citing my tweets and the very Substack essay I wrote about them threatening me, because now they’re threatening me for telling you they’re threatening me.
It’s straight up harassment, and I’d be lying to all of you if I said it didn’t scare the shit out of me, or that I haven’t spent a good chunk of the last two days crying, but I will be goddamned if I let them scare me into silence.
I’m fairly sure this is going to result in a lawsuit, but I guess we’ll wait and see, because I’m not going to stop.
In the meantime, thank you, all of you, for your incredible, unwavering support—it’s the only way I’m getting through this.
I love you guys! Stay safe, stay strong, and stay connected to each other!
💙 Jo
0 comments
0 comments
Not Enough Gold Leaf
0 comments
0 comments
🤣 🤣 🤣
1 comments
Every One
1 comments
FUUUUUUUCK!!!
1 comments
What’s It Going To Take To Remove This POS?
Hey Goddess/God/Gods…
The Only Thing Donny Has Ever Been A Success At…
…is keeping us outraged.
Seriously, what is it going to take—what line needs to be crossed—to get this lunatic removed from office? Because it’s becoming increasingly obvious he has no intention of ever leaving voluntarily.
Hello, and welcome to another exciting episode of Donny Says Stupid Shit, the show where our Very Special President gets away with blurting out the kind of crazypants dumbfuckery that would immediately end the political career of any mere mortal who said the same thing.
“And again, remember. With the war, it’s just artificial. It’s a little bit high. It’s a small price to pay. for keeping the world safe. For keeping our country safe. They could take out a city. Let ’em take— let it— let ’em take out Los Angeles. Let ’em take our San Diego. That’s— this is a very small price to pay.”
Wait a minute — did this depraved shithead just give Iran permission to nuke a couple of our cities? Did he actually call such an act ‘a very small price to pay’?
Is Preznit Fuckwit … joking? Is he serious? Is he so demented that he has no idea what he’s actually saying? Does it even matter why Donny said what he said? Dude is clearly unfit for office, and growing worse by the day.
This is probably a good time to note that my What The Fuck Is Wrong With You Challenge™ is now in its 2,371st day.
Where are you, worthless scribblers of the corporate-controlled press?
Imagine that Sleepy Joe Biden’s autopen had blundered its way into an unwinnable war, and then invited our adversary to nuke the shit out of us. The press would have had a field day, falling all the fuck over themselves in a mad dash to file their stories.
Jake Tapper would have orgasmed on the spot.
Where are the calls for Donny to resign?
Remember Joe Biden’s last year in office? The press had their knives out. Every time Joe stumbled over a word, or took too long to reply to a question, every newspaper in the land would shit out editorial after editorial, calling Biden icky and old and smelly, and demanding that he resign immediately, ‘to serve his country.’
Where are you now, O Glorious Editorial Writers? Donny is in fact icky and old — and he probably smells like shit. Have you seen one call for Dear Leader to step down, to serve his country? I haven’t. Why the fuck not?
Come on, Donny can’t hack it any more. Most of the time, he’s just blithering incomprehensible nonsense.
“You need to be a student at the top of your class at MIT to turn on a lawnmower nowadays, you know? But I got rid of all that stuff. Now you can have a LAWNMOWER. Boom!!”
What is this fucking idiot — this pampered fool — who has never done a day’s labor in his life, imagine he’s done to improve lawnmowers? What ‘stuff’did he ‘get rid of’?What is he hallucinating about?
ast summer, I bought a new lawnmower. It was the same as every lawnmower I’ve had since the 1960s. You pull the string and it goes vroom-vroom. Hey Jake Tapper, maybe you can explain it to me. What exactly has Donny done to Make Lawnmowers Great Again?
Why is the crowd clapping like trained seals at Dear Leader’s fever-swamp bullshit? My god, they’re just as brain dead as he is.
Again, Donny has been getting away with this shit for literal years, nattering on and on about stoves that don’t light, or toilets you have to flush a million times. Where are the worthless scribblers?
And when Donny’s not confabulating, he’s just outright lying.
“It’ll end very quickly and prices are gonna come down very sharply. You might say, ‘please, please, sir, it’s going down too fast!’ You watch. You watch what’s going to happen in a very short period of time.”
Ohhhhh, okay. This unwinnable don’t-you-dare-call-it-a-war on Iran — the one that was only supposed to last one day; the one that Donny has claimed we’ve already won twenty times or more — now, it’s going to end very quickly. Any day now, just you wait and see — and then prices will plummet, and big, strong cultists, the afternoon sun rippling off their massive biceps, blinded by the uncontrollable tears of joy coursing down their ruddy cheeks, grateful for cheap gas like few thought possible, and the easy-to-start lawnmowers like no one’s ever seen before, and the radioactive craters where Los Angeles and San Diego used to be — they will all come up to Dear Leader and go ‘sir! sir! we can’t stand it any more! it’s going down too fast! Sir!”
And then, pigs will start flying out of my ass.
Donny never stops promising us that there’s going to be so much wining, we’re going to get tired of all the winning. Fuck that noise. I’m still waiting for the winning to start.
Wouldn’t you love it if our press would spend even ten minutes honestly reporting on any of this shit?
Look at CNN, dancing around the issue of Donny saying the very thing we all heard him say.
Top California officials denounce President Trump after he appeared to suggest Iran could “take out” Los Angeles or San Diego
Ohhh, Dear Leader ‘appeared’ to say what he said. How helpful of you to point that out, CNN. I can’t wait for CNN’s report that San Diego ‘appears’ to be a smoking ruin.
Apparently, if you want accuracy in reporting, you need to cross the ocean and read the Guardian.
First Thing: ‘Deranged’ and ‘dangerous’ Trump calls for Iran to strike US cities amid historic ratings low
That’s more like it. Are you paying attention, US press?
Sigh. I thought not.
It’s time for a palate cleanse. Let’s watch in awe as Davram Stiefler of the Good Liars tries and fails to get a gang of cultists to answer the age-old question, ‘why are socialism?’
Davram Stiefler: “Is everyone worried about socialism?”
MAGA: “Oh, 100%. It never works”
Stiefler: “For the viewers, what is socialism?”
MAGA: “Socialism is pretty much, I mean, it’s control of everything, I mean, they want control and there’s no… uhm… I don’t even… how to explain it, but… you have no control at all. I mean it’s just, it’s their way or the highway”
Stiefler: “But as an economic form of governance, what is it?”
MAGA: “Socialism”
I can’t even with these dumbfucks. The definition of socialism as an economic form of governance is socialism. Thanks a lot, Brainiac. You’ve really done us a solid with that simple explanation.
Jack Smith was spotted at an outdoor music festival this past weekend, wearing a ‘No Kings’ tee-shirt.
Naturally, this caused the entire MAGAverse to shit one massive brick. How dare Jack Smith exercise his First Amendment right to express a personal opinion — while also listening to music at the same time! Treason! Treason!
And, of course, no one whined louder than our whiny Whiner-in-Chief.
Maybe Donny should invite Iran to nuke Jack Smith. Y’know, kill two birds with one stone.
And again I ask…what is it going to take to have him removed from office, ecause it’s obvious the Grim Reaper isn’t up to the job.
0 comments
It’s Perfect
0 comments
Yup
0 comments
Don’t Threaten Us With A Good Time
0 comments
I’m Sure That’s Going To Be The LEAST Of What Comes Out
0 comments
0 comments
What Patsy Said
Mad King Donny continues to deteriorate before our very eyes.
Yesterday, sweaty and unsteady on his feet, he shambled into the Oval Bordello, half an hour late for the dog-and-pony show that his minders had set up for him.
Surrounded by his Emotional Support Flunkies, Dear Leader sat down at his Big Boy Resolute Desk and struggled to read from his prepared text.
And, of course, as soon as someone else started speaking, the narcoleptic old fart factory fell fast asleep, and started crop-dusting the room with the pungent aroma of ass music.
The whole event was a clownfucktacular shit-show — or, as we call it around here, Monday.
Dozy Donny should have stayed asleep — because after he woke up, he doubled down on his five-thousand-dollar bribe.
“Because of tariffs, we— are— taking in HUNDREDS of billions of dollars of dollars— of profits. It’s one of the reasons I can offer, if— Republicans win the— HOUSE and Senate. $5,000 to every adult. And we can do it and the Democrats can’t, because the Democrats don’t have any income.”
Holy shit. Every word that just seeped from Donny’s rancid anus-mouth is either a fever-swamp fantasy, an outright lie, or just a basic failure to understand how money works. It staggers the mind when you consider that this low-wattage fuckwad is in charge of our entire nation’s economy.
Hey, can we get Community Notes in here to do us a solid, and lay out the basic bullet points?
A $5,000 payment to every US adult would cost about $1.25 trillion. The government collected $195 billion in customs duties in FY2025. Net tariff revenue turned negative in some months of 2026 due to Supreme Court-ordered refunds. Analyses show tariffs cannot fund it.
Got that? There isn’t enough money to give every adult in America five large. It’s just not there, no matter how many times Donny clicks his bloated cankles together and wishes it were so.
And it’s just fucking weird that Donny considers money taken in via taxes and tariffs to be profits. they’re not — they’re revenues.
This is a fundamental mistake that all these shit-gibbons who insist that ‘government should be run like a business’ make. Governments are not businesses. The revenues that a governments takes in are — in any sane country — used to provide for the public well-being of its people. They’re notprofits, for some tinpot fucksnoot like Donny to hoard for his own personal use.
And what’s all this nonsense about ‘Democrats don’t have any income’? There aren’t two treasuries, one for each major political party. There isn’t Republican money and Democratic money. It’s just money money.
Not only is it fucking insane that Donny believes this, it’s insane that every worthless scribbler of the corporate-controlled press just sits there and nods their head and goes, ‘well, I guess if Donny says so.’
None of this shit is normal. Is it really too much to ask of our media to stop treating it as if it were?
For eleven long years now, ever since that racist game show host came down his golden escalator in June of 2015 to announce his candidacy, the press has been sanewashing his fucknuttery — and they’re still at it. Look at this piece of shit reporting that the Washington Post crapped out yesterday
Donny’s hare-brained schemes are in no way ‘ideas for aiding US consumers’ — they’re the mouth-farts of a panicked idiot who is throwing everything the wall in a desperate attempt to not lose the midterms.
Dear Leader couldn’t give a shit about ‘aiding US consumers.’ He only gives a fuck about himself. He just wants to remain in power indefinitely.
Oh, and it’s also fucking against the law to bribe people into voting a certain way. How about reporting on that?
Meanwhile, the MAGAsphere is pissing itself with glee, over the free government money that Donny’s gonna send them.
Vote GOP, reject the crazy communists, and get $5k as an additional incentive.
Let’s do this!
How many times is MAGA going to fall for this shit? They’re now the guy from Mememto. They can no longer form lasting memories.
Ask MAGA about the $5,000 DOGE checks that Donny promised to sent them way back in February 2025. They’ll just go ‘huh wha?’
Ask them about the $2,000 ‘tariff rebate’ checks that the con artist they worship told them they were getting in November 2025.
They don’t remember.
I guess if MAGA is too memory-impaired to remember how many times Dear Leader has lied to them about free money from the government, they’ll also be fooled by the ‘migrant caravan’ that has magically appeared, five weeks before an election.
Here we go again. Every time an election looms, the entire wingnut outrage-industrial complex starts flooding the airwaves with bullshit scare-stories about swarthy brown-skinned migrants walking thousands of miles on foot, just so they can cross our border and fuck our shit.
The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) issued a strong warning to a major migrant caravan that crossed into Mexico and was moving north with hopes of reaching the U.S.-Mexico border.
“USBP is closely engaged with its international partners to monitor their movement and any additional developments,” DHS told Fox News in a statement. “[United States Border Patrol] USBP reminds migrants that under the leadership of President Trump and Homeland Secretary Mullin, the border has remained closed and secured for the last 16 months.”
Yeah, like I would believe anything that comes out of the mouths of Marky Two-Names and his racist band of shitweasels at the Department of Homeland Security.
And they’re really getting lazy, too. Remember back when they used to spice up their reporting with juicy stories about ‘prayer rugs’ being found at the border?
What ever happened to fun scare tactics like that? Fox News is really falling down on the job here. It’s all so patently ridiculous that even the three-toed freak of nature, Marjorie Sporkfoot Greene, can smell a rat.
We have not seen a caravan headed to the U.S. southern border in several years, why now? Oh yeah, there is an election coming and the GOP needs to scare you into voting because nothing else is working.
She’s not wrong — but please don’t be fooled by MTG’s supposed change of heart. It’s all an act. She’s not our friend. Never forget that she spent years promoting this racist garbage, and has never apologized for it.
You would think that the cultists would remember that Sporky and her ilk have been hoodwinking them with this garbage since all the way back in 2018 — but you would think wrong.
And, lastly, we have this fucking fuck to contend with. Holy Mike Johnson — the limpest dick ever to wield the House Speaker’s gavel — wants you to know that if you object to data centers, you’re just falling for commie Chinese propaganda.
Mike Johnson says opposition to data centers “is a Chinese psyop. I really believe that. That’s not a conspiracy theory.”
Mike Johnson can fuck himself straight into the sea. Data centers are a nightmare to live with. They’re noisy. They pollute. They deplete local water supplies. They jack up everyone’s electricity bills, and destroy everyone’s property values.
this isn’t conjecture, nor is it any ‘Chinese psyop.’
I have an idea whose time has come: how about every one of these shit-kazoo politicians who claim that data centers are no biggie, be forced to live next to one for a year?
let’s see how they like it.
who’s with me?
this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:
practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.
to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.
we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.
0 comments