Category: Politics, Religion, and Social Commentary

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The Closetocracy

Trump-MAGA-Republicans love to excoriate liberals -- including, for example, James Talarico who is running for U.S. Senate in Texas -- frequently implying they're gay.

Okay. On the theory that "where there's smoke there's fire" this is the picture Senator Josh Hawley (R-MO) posted with BFF Harrison "Buttkicker" Butker of the Kansas City Chiefs on National Coming Out Day in 2024. Surely a totally-str8-no-homo coincidence. Buttkicker (l) and Hawley (r).

[source]

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Offensive

I drive past this sign every morning on the way home from getting coffee. Considering what's happening with Palestine, I find it incredibly offensive. Protect Jews from whom? It seems that history repeats and oppressed have become the oppressor.

Unpopular opinion: I support the Israeli people and have no animosity toward them, but—much like our own—their government leading the Palestinian eradication has to go. Like, yesterday.

So this morning I stopped to snap a photo in order to make some changes. I had to do it manually because ChatGPT refused because of its built-in guardrails. My first thought was to ironically compare Jews to Nazis in this context. But not all Jews, obviously. I don't consider myself the least bit anti-Semetic and didn't want to come across that way. But at the same time, genocide is genocide, no matter what the group doing it is called.

But I didn't think what I was trying to express was clear with such a ham-fisted allusion that very people were likely to pick up on. So I went off in a slightly different direction and just called the fuckers out.

Calling out Israel explicitly—and by definition the Israeli government—I think I got my point across.

So now the question remains, how many readers will I lose with this post?

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Oh HELL No!

I got this email today:

So why not just put money directly into his grift, amirite?

Do you honestly think a penny of this money is ever going to be distributed to anyone other than Donald J. Trump?

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And The Bullshit Continues

WHERE IS OUR BIG BEAUTIFUL HEADLINE?!

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you heard me right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was fucking glorious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

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

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

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

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

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Absolutely True

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

I voted the other day and physically dropped off the ballot in a drop box at the Maricopa County Elections Center downtown yesterday. Even though we're still two weeks out from Election Day, I wasn't going to take any chances with possible USPS shenanigans. I got text notification today that my ballot had been received and the signature verified.

Source: The Resistance

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Protesters hold signs that say "no king for us"
Photo by Barbara Burgess on Unsplash

No King’s Day Episode 4 went off pretty much as predicted.

Cities all over America were filled with a massive, ebullient mob of families, schoolteachers, ministers, parents, grocery store clerks, college students, business owners, grandparents, and toddlers on shoulders.

Highways and overpasses were lined with exuberant, sign-waving throngs of joyfully defiant human beings loudly declaring their shared disdain for a wannabe dictator.

Local parks exploded in a kaleidoscopic display of disparate humanity, converging to declare their solidarity and their collective rejection of authoritarianism.

Republican lawmakers’ offices were surrounded by a spirited show of resistance from pissed-off, fed-up constituents demanding accountability.

The vibes were positive.

The chants were spirited.

The dance lines were jubilant.

The sign game was strong.

And it was all, well… really nice.

We gathered together. We made some noise. We gave speeches. We raised our fists. We encouraged one another. We put the Republican Party on notice.

And when it was over, we all felt the emotional intoxication that events like these usually yield.

But if we’re honest with ourselves, was it all the equivalent of a strongly-worded letter to powerful, corrupt people who threw it directly in the trash the moment it arrived?

Here we are after the fourth of these gatherings.

The Constitutional crises are still piling up.
We’re still immersed in an unnecessary, unwinnable war halfway across the world.
This Administration’s disregard for legality and morality is still escalating.
The complete Epstein files are still concealed, the monsters within them still evading their reckoning.
ICE is still ravaging our communities with impunity and with taxpayer funding.
Our traitorous, cognitively-decimated, sociopathic Predator-In-Chief is still unstable and violent.
We’re still a hair’s breadth from full-on fascism.

And in the aftermath of Saturday’s protests, the United States is less than three weeks away from a nation-altering election that the current Administration is clearly doing everything to rig and disrupt, and has no intention of honoring, should the votes of the people not be in their favor.

Regardless of the results at the polls, we are almost certainly going to be thrust into chaos by this sitting president; one that we have never experienced in our 250-year-history. I wonder if we have it in us to do what we might be required to do to ensure the will of the voters is honored, and the directives of the Constitution are followed.

Though I want more than anything to be wrong, as I look at the fierce, fiery protests that have shut down France and those we’ve seen in Spain and Italy and elsewhere, I’m terribly worried that Americans may be too soft and too polite to meet the moment that is likely coming.

The last three No Kings Day protests didn’t stave off the chaos that is now here, and it won’t prevent what this regime has planned. We’re going to need a mass display of sustained civil disobedience that we haven’t seen since the 1960s, and that isn’t something we seem capable of.

The painful truth is that fascist dictators are rarely voted out, and monstrous authoritarian regimes don’t leave simply because they’re politely asked to.

Practically speaking, as meaningful and uplifting as our collective efforts on Saturday were to us, they didn’t matter even a little bit to Trump and his sycophantic gaggle of ghouls. Like so many times before, they allowed us to have an afternoon where we all felt a false sense of power, blew off steam, and then largely returned to our lives currently in progress, while they continued to dismantle our Republic largely unabated.

Yes, we registered people to vote, we equipped them with the tools to make their voices heard, and we implored them to show up in numbers too big to manipulate, at least in theory.

But what happens if we wake up on November 4th and we find ourselves with a presidential administration that refuses to release the stranglehold on this nation?

I’m not advocating for violence or inciting wide-scale property damage, but I sure as hell know that if the American people are the only thing standing between our Republic and a cadre of lawless, violent, deranged traitors who show every sign that they’re not leaving voluntarily, signs and chants aren’t gonna cut it.

We need to remember that transformative activism is found in sustained and forceful movements, not in soothing moments, and unless we actually strike fear into the oppressors and oligarchs, we may get the very king we claimed for four times in two years that we’d never tolerate.

John and I both would really like to hear your honest thoughts on all of this. 

Do you share the same concerns that we have about our willingness to make a more sustained and disruptive response should this Administration do what has been unthinkable?

Do you worry that we are too passive and polite a people to push back the way that people in Europe and Central and South America have?

Is a post-election No King’s Day going to need to be different, and are we capable of it?

Let me know in the comments.

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

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

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

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

And Las Cruces, New Mexico.

In New York City.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how convenient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tommy: “Okay, Tommy.”

El-Sayed: “Hi, Tommy. How are you?”

Tommy: “I’m great.”

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

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

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

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

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

Tommy: “Yes.”

El-Sayed: “Why not?”

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

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

Tommy: “I disavow them.”

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

Tommy: “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

European customers.

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

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

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

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

You don’t fucking KNOW?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is THIS what being “great again” looks like?

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

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

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

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

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

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

IF THEY ARE?!

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

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

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

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

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

Concede? Motherfucker, I LIVE HERE.

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

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

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

Oh, how very far we have fallen.

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

Remember when we fought fascism?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And once again, he’s betting wrong.

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

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

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

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

💙 Jo

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