Category: Politics, Religion, and Social Commentary

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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

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Cruelty Is ALWAYS The Point

For We the People, life continues to totally fucking suck out of control.

Basic goods and services remain unaffordable. Inflation and unemployment are on the rise. Our food is unsafe to eat. Our government lies to us. Our once-staunch allies hate our guts, and openly mock us. Masked, trigger-happy federal thugs roam the streets of our cities. Our hallowed national monuments have been shuttered, or bulldozed to rubble.

Our detached, demented president has completely checked out of fixing any of this shit, preferring to focus on useless vanity projects in honor of his own crappy self.

But We the People are getting one very special thing, and it’s just for us. Know what that one thing is? Get ready for it: Public executions.

Yes, you heard me right. Public executions.

So, we’ve for that going for us. Which is nice.

Hegseth on Nidal Hasan: “He’s gonna get a firing squad of soldiers. As it should be. We’ll make sure that people are able to watch it. That it’s public. Because people need to understand that there’s serious consequences for these types of things.”

Seriously, what the damn?

credit: Rusty Creates

Did you notice how completely fucking excited Piss-Drunk Pete was, in that clip? He was absolutely giddy with glee as he burbled away at a mile a minute about how the military was going to publicly kill shit out of someone. That’s insane. Nobody should be that happy about meting out death — and nobody who’s that over-the-moon about killing should be put in charge of the lives of others.

We may need our own What The Fuck Is Wrong With You Challenge™ just for Piss-Drunk Pete.

We’re going backwards as a country. The last public execution in the US was the hanging of some dude named Reiney Betha, on August 14, 1936. After that, states came to their senses, realized that kind of spectacle was barbaric, and stared passing laws against it.

And now, Piss-Drunk Pete wants to bring it back, because he thinks that shit’s awesome. As always with these fuckfaces, cruelty is the point.

Hey, you know what other country also does public executions? Iran. Isn’t Preznit Fuckwit always telling us how we’re more civilized than they are? That’s such a cute story, Donny, tell it again.

Oh, but at the same time we’re going backwards, we’re also going forwards. We’re bringing public executions into the twenty-first century. Check out this abomination.

The public will be able to watch the execution of a former US Army major by firing squad, US Defence Secretary Pete Hegseth has said.

A Defense Department official told the BBC the execution of Nidal Hasan, who shot dead 13 unarmed US soldiers at Fort Hood in 2009, would be livestreamed.

It is believed it would be the first public execution in the US in almost a century. The decision to livestream it is “unprecedented in the modern era” and “on uncertain legal terrain,” said John Mills, a lawyer who works with inmates sentenced to death.

Oh, come on. Are you fucking me?!

credit: Rusty Creates

Who is this for? Who’s going to watch a livestream of someone getting firing-squadded to smithereens? Cultists? Psychopaths?

More importantly, who’s going to provide the livestream stream? Netflix? Amazon? Facebook? What corporation wants to be complicit in this barbarity? You’d hope the answer would be none of them, but I can think of a few tech bros who would be that horny to curry favor with Dear Leader, and volunteer to host that shit for free.

Is this who we want to be, as a nation? Do we really want to be known as the country that broadcasts state-sponsored death? Count me out. I want no part of this fuckery.

The civilized world, of course, is aghast that we would even consider turning an execution into a spectacle.

It’s so much fun being a rogue nation, isn’t it?

Ten days ago, the state of Tennessee tried to execute Christa Pike by lethal injection. If you’ve been following that story, you know that they fucked it up royally. Instead of dying, Pike spent hours moaning and crying in pain, and ended up in the hospital in a coma, with severe burns to her arms and shoulders.

Imagine if that shit-show had been livestreamed.

Maybe it should have been. Maybe the public outrage over that obscene level of cruelty would have started a real national conversation about the death penalty.

Now here’s something Dear Leader shat out onto his crappy app yesterday. It’s one of those posts that, when it shows up in your social feed, you go, ‘oh come on, that’s fake as fuck, not even Donny is that crazypants’ — but I shit you not, it’s real.

The White House considers anyone that uses the term, “Artificial Intelligence,” as opposed to the highly accepted new and more accurate term, “Super Intelligence,” THE ENEMY! President DONALD J. TRUMP

Who even talks like this? Just because we don’t agree on what to call the janky, six-fingered plagiarism robots, we’re now the all-caps ENEMY? How can any one person be that infantile?

Shit off, Donny.

credit: Rusty Creates

I’m so tired of him. I’m so tired of the relentless dumbfuckery. I’m so tired of the bone-crushing stupidity, and the childish if-you-don’t-agree-with-me-you’re-a-poopy-head mentality.

And I’m fucking exhausted that there’s now an entire infrastructure devoted to making this utter failure feel good about his own shitty self.

Did you know that Donny was awarded another Emotional Support Trophy yesterday?

It’s true. Donny’s minders arranged to have some dog-and-show at the ridiculously-named ‘Donald J. Trump Institute of Peace,’ ostensibly so that Donny could dole out medals to the Space Nazi, and to other tech-bro cronies. 

But Donny’s minders also did this: they took a genuine award that Donny’s uncle — the actual MIT professor, John G. Trump — had won in 1983, stuck it behind some chintzy gold frame, and with great fanfare, presented it to Donny, so that he could stand there, beaming, and pretend that he had somehow earned it all by his own Big Boy self.

Look at this preening asshole. He’s just so eternally embarrassing. Put that shit down, numb-nuts, you haven’t won anything. 

And now, speaking of actual awards that Donny will never win—

Congratulations to our Hero of the Day: this year’s Nobel Peace Prize laureate Navi Pillay, whose very first public statement after winning the award was to joke about sharing it a notorious whiny piss-baby.

“Thank you very much. If you clap a little bit more, I may share this prize with Trump.”

Really weird how there’s currently no Truth Social post from Donny, congratulating Navi Pillay for winning. What’s up with that?

this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:

practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.

to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.

we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.

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Photo by ari susanto on Unsplash

So, here’s the bad news: fascism isn’t coming to America; it’s here.

We are long past the warnings of an approaching existential threat looming on the distant horizon of our story. The nightmare is no longer a future improbability but a present reality.

The current President kept his 2024 campaign promise to be a “dictator on day one,” wiping out decades of protections and partnerships with the stroke of a pen.
He filled his Cabinet with the absolute moral dregs of humanity, people committed to nothing but him, and the power and wealth that sycophantic devotion affords them.
He and his soulless accomplices have quickly dismantled every system and safeguard that, up until a couple of years ago, were established givens.

And the only question left is: do we have the strength to stop them?

History is a really good teacher.

If we pay attention to her, she reminds us that populations don’t become monstrous overnight, that nations don’t abandon humanity in a single moment, and that generational human rights atrocities don’t form in an instant or a vacuum.

Collective sickness is never sudden. There is always a slow, deliberate, almost imperceptible pattern, and we’re seeing it now:

Manufacturing fear: misinformation, fake emergencies, and abject lies all designed to create an unnecessary urgency in the heads of easily manipulated people and to make them feel hopelessly assailed.

The crafting of surrounding enemies: encroaching threats to tangibly embody the nightmares they have made in their heads; someone to go to war against, to take back their country from—someone these leaders can save them from.

The weaponizing of religion: making the manipulated believe that their mission is not just important or right, but holy; that they are being obedient to God while eradicating other human beings.

In that state of frantic, perpetually terrorized self-righteousness, they begin to allow everything. They can justify all manners of cruelty, all denials of care, every act of violence, because they are purifying and protecting their divinely curated country.

Once this happens, once-ordinary, rational, even compassionate people begin to lose their ability to see the humanity in front of them—it’s too late to help them see clearly.

This is how holocausts and genocides happen.

This is where historic national malignancies grow.

These are the first steps down a road that at the beginning seems unthinkable.

Decent Americans, we need to listen to History right now.
She is warning us that we are on the precipice of a free fall.
We can’t afford to go to sleep now.
We need to wake ourselves up.

America is not yet near where Germany was at the peak of Hitler’s power, but Germany wasn’t always there either, and that is the point.

That hideous transformation (like so many before) required targeted propaganda, fake news streams, dehumanizing rhetoric from leadership, an uninformed electorate, coercive religion, and a marginalized population to serve as the focal point for the holy war.

Most of all, it required a large number of decent people to be silent, which is why we will not.

It would be completely irresponsible and reckless to suggest that the United States in 2026 is Germany in 1941, but it could very well be Germany in 1933.

We cannot let the myth of American exceptionalism numb us into imagining we are above devolving into inhumanity. We have every ingredient in place to abandon the best of ourselves and to become something monstrous, something History records as yet another shocking failure of the center. It can and will happen here unless we refuse to allow it.

It’s not a foregone conclusion that America will give birth to something as tragic and sickening as we have seen. Still, we’re stupid and arrogant if we don’t believe ourselves capable, and that we aren’t already seeing the warning signs of bigotry and prejudice irreversibly taking root.

The question is whether or not we have enough good people who are willing to push back and to move together across lines of politics and religion and race and nation of origin and orientation and to declare our independence from fascism.

Do we have the energy, the diligence, and the courage to join our disparate voices into a single, furious choir that refuses to stop singing songs of freedom for everyone?

Do Americans have the attention span and intestinal fortitude to fight as they’ve never had to fight before because they’ve never had to go to war with their government in this way before?

Will we refuse to tolerate injustice in the name of national greatness or divine will, to reject and oppose denials of people’s worth and humanity even when it comes from our party or our church or our families?

And perhaps most of all, do we have the humility not to imagine that we are too intelligent or spiritual or informed not to become as monstrous a nation as we have seen others become?

My money says we do.

Yes, the bad news is that fascism is here, but the good news is that so are we.

Dictators don’t oust themselves, horrible regimes don’t leave on their own, and oligarchs don’t tire of devouring up nations, but fortunately, decent, brave, and organized human beings like us aren’t gonna wait around for that.

We have a month left to transform the what is into the what will be.

May we be our best selves in this moment, so that History one day tells our story as one where disparate humanity twisted the plot.

Now that fascism is here, let’s make sure we drive it back to the hell it came from.

We can. We must. We will.

Take heart, good people.

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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.

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Here We Go Again

I. Just. Can’t. Anymore.

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

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

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woman leans on wall in white fur jacket docking her head while holding it using her leaf hand

Warning: this piece contains language regarding sexual assault that may be triggering or uncomfortable to some.

In October of 2024, a then 20-year-old young woman alleges she was brutally assaulted by 7 of her Cornell University classmates, at least one of whom she considered a friend.

Right now, in the wake of her decision to speak publicly and file suit in an effort to bring her abusers to justice, she is being assaulted a second time by a similarly grotesque mob:

A sitting president, himself an adjudicated rapist, is expressing sympathy for the accused, with no such regard for their accuser.

Men all over the country are flooding social media with their crude Neanderthal hot takes on her supposed culpability. 

Conservative male content creators like Matt Walsh and Michael Tracey are assassinating her character in tweets, YouTube videos, and reckless think pieces, championing countersuits and calling for her doxxing.

And women like Megyn Kelly are leveraging hours of programming on their massive platforms to perpetuate a narrative that is right out of the misogynist’s playbook: blame the victim.

Kelly has spent the past two weeks running extensive hit pieces on Jane Doe, criticizing her drinking habits, doing drive-by psychotherapy, and questioning the two-week delay in Doe’s reporting of the incident, despite Kelly herself seemingly taking a full decade to disclose alleged sexual harassment by then Fox News CEO Roger Ailes.

Rather than educate her audience on the pressures women face at every turn; the sexism saturating media, the Evangelical Church, and the GOP ecosystem; and the widespread sexual violence permeating our culture, Megyn Kelly would rather throw raw meat to the snarling, unevolved rabble.

Kelly, like all perpetually performative Conservatives who continually sermonize about “protecting women” in college sports, doesn’t seem at all interested in defending them when they step off the field and onto their campuses. Once they have exhausted their use as pawns in a Right-Wing culture war, they’re thrown to the wolves.

As thousands of women take to social media to declare solidarity with Jane Doe (#iamjanedoe), counting themselves among the 81 percent of women in the US who testify to having been sexually assaulted or harassed in their lifetimes, they too are being met with ridicule, insults, and vulgarity. 

This is why more survivors of sexual assault don’t come forward; because they know that in doing so, they will find themselves facing violence and indignities from strangers that compound their wounds and amplify the shame of their initial trauma.

They understand that they will face a microscopic scrutiny of their dating histories, clothing choices, and public conduct that places the burden of the violence visited upon them squarely on their shoulders and never on those who authored it.

The United States has a long-gestating rape culture that ensures that the Jane Does will always be hounded and that the Cornell 7s will always be sheltered. This not only makes survivors more reticent to report their trauma, but it emboldens unwell men who are more apt to act out on the monstrous things in their minds, believing accountability will never come.

Until this nation stops electing predators and politically rewarding abusers, they will continue to be prolific in their atrocities.

Until men of conscience police the men around them, no rapist will ever feel as unsafe as those he harms.

Until law enforcement and university boards decide to root toxic masculinity from their ranks, survivors will continue to remain silent. 

Until internalized misogynists like Megyn Kelly stop partnering in their own subjugation, young women will continue to question their worth and carry unnecessary shame.

Until Conservative parents stop coddling their sons and diminishing their daughters, campuses and workplaces will be where young men believe they can embrace the darkest evils harbored in their hearts.

And unless we abolish a pervasive rape culture that extends all the way up to the Supreme Court and the White House, every Jane Doe in America will know that if they do choose to expose the unspeakable violence committed against them, they will be further assaulted by a sprawling crowd who would rather practice or excuse violence against women than confront it.

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