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From Blobby, because he expressed this so much better than I could:

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I don’t know if this is true or not – nor do I care.

MAGA and the GOP are fine with making up stories and lies to further whatever agenda they might have – or just for the fun of it.

But it is said that BLOTUS became VonShitzinPantz a few days back – in the oval office filled with people.

There is allegedly auditory and olfactory “evidence” of this event.

I hope to g-d it’s true.

Say what you will about Pappy Joe and his age, I never heard that he fell asleep in meetings or behind the desk, let alone crapped his trousers.

It got me thinking how many identical suits, shirts and ties VSP has in closets all over the White House. Plus the power washer to clean out that crevASSe. Oh, and the incinerator to put all those Depends and bio-hazard bags into the fire.

I mean you know he probably shits himself several times per day. So, there has to be this huge wardrobe and on-site dry cleaner working 24/7 – though they probably LOVE it when he goes golfing. Open the windows and air the place out.

I understand they do (or can) change out the carpet in the oval office – and I hear it matters which way the eagles head is facing and which talon holds the arrows et al. But now, they probably just have to swap that out now and again to Bissell the fecal stains out of the fibers.

Truth be told, I did search out the video, but I couldn’t hear “the accident”. Though people in the room were ushered out quickly.

g-d, I’d love to see the résumé of these aides whose sole job it is to scoot people out of harm’s way.

And let us remember that years ago Bob Woodward already let the world know this.

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When I got my new old Yamaha CD player back in December, I was kind of disappointed to discover it didn’t like playing CDs over 74 minutes in length (the original CD standard) or CDRs of any length.

I wrote it off due to the vintage of the machine. Built in 1990, 80-minute CDs were just starting to show up, and CDRs were still a couple years away. Yamaha can be forgiven, I kept telling myself.

But it nagged me, y’know?

So the other day I pulled out the stack of CDRs I’d burned prior to my MiniDisc obsession to take with me to work. I tried playing one (a different one than I’d tried initially when I got the CD player) and wouldn’t you know…it read the table of contents and played just fine. I threw in another. And another. And yet another—and they all played just fine. It was only that one particular disc that I’d initially tried that had issues.

It was more an experiment than anything else, because I don’t have anything on CDR that I don’t have an original CD copy of—with the exception of that one disc that wouldn’t play (a mix CD sent to me by a friend several years ago).

All this got me thinking about the commercial 80-minute CD issue this afternoon. I don’t have that many; in fact, they’re all from the Euphoria house/dance music series. I threw the original disk I’d tried back in the player, and yeah, it still lost its mind somewhere around track 14 (which pushed it past the 74-minute mark). The same thing happened with Disc 2 from that particular release.

But then I tried a different release: Ibiza Euphoria And wouldn’t you know, both CDs in the set played perfectly from beginning to end. I tried another Euphoria recording, and yup…played perfectly. So it wasn’t the player at all; it was just that particular release and it affected both discs in the set. Factory pressing issue? Who knows.

All I know is that I’m relieved that it’s not hardware, but in this case, the software is what’s at fault.

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When it’s time to eat the rich, this motherfucker goes first.

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Sometimes you don’t have to work to figure out where the racists are. Sometimes they out themselves.

Back in the Fall, within nanoseconds of the NFL announcing that Latin rapper Bad Bunny would be performing the Super Bowl Halftime Show, the Trump cult tore itself away from Charlie Kirk martyrdom, MAGA church shooter retcons, restaurant logo crusades, and pro-ICE posturing to launch into a full-on frenzy of performative histrionics in protest.

Since then, they’ve continued their tortured pearl-clutching unabated, with the white supremacist stalwarts at Turning Point USA recently announcing an “alternative” halftime show (called, of course, The All-American Halftime Show), featuring Olympic-level cultural appropriator-turned MAGA bootlicker Kid Rock and an undercard of similarly pigmented, patriotism-peddling, Bible-brandishing, shameless deep South virtue signalers.

You see the “alternative” they’re offering here, right?

If you’re over 25 and, like many older white folks, have remained permanently trapped in the amber of Classic Rock radio, you may have never even heard of Bad Bunny, whose birth name is Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio. (I’d be willing to bet my house that 90 percent of the Conservatives who are currently rending their garments online hadn’t, either.)

Born and raised in Puerto Rico (which a terrifying number of MAGAs don’t seem to know is an American territory), his father was a truck driver and his mother a school teacher. He spent his formative years singing in the choir in a Roman Catholic Church his family attended, and began writing his own music at the age of 14. Bunny was signed to a record label at the age of 20 after being discovered online.

Today, Bad Bunny is an international superstar, the second most-streamed artist of all time, with 100 billion streamed songs. He is a multiple Grammy winner, has crossed over into professional wrestling and acting, is a coveted brand ambassador, and does millions of dollars in philanthropic work through his Good Bunny Foundation (Fundación el Buen Conejo), which he started in 2018.

Ocasio is the literal embodiment of the American Dream that the GOP has spent decades waving in our faces and flying up the flagpole.

So, what’s the problem?

Let’s just say it’s primarily a melanin issue, with a side order of MAGA cultism, a heaping portion of Christian nationalism, and a healthy dash of homophobia thrown in.

As a self-described gender-fluid Latin musician who sings predominantly in Spanish, has previously criticized Donald Trump, and repeatedly lamented the inhumanity of ICE as recently as during his Grammy acceptance speech last week, Ocasio must be condemned, vilified, and eradicated because membership in the mindless death cult of white American intolerance they now call home requires it. This asinine mob mentality vitriol is what Trump’s movement has fostered and fomented, and what it demands.

Ocasio opened his recent Grammy speech with these words:

“Before I say thanks to God, I’m going to say: ICE out,” he said. “We’re not savages. We’re not animals. We’re not aliens. We are humans, and we are Americans.”

This is supposed to be what America stands for: decency, diversity, humanity, and yet it is precisely the message MAGA is burdened to shout down and suffocate.

The fact that the Right feels compelled to create an “alternative” to Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl appearance speaks eloquently about their desire to secede from a culturally and racially diverse nation, how committed they are to perpetuating the myth of oppressed white Christians, and how determined they are to manipulate every event into a racist holy war in order to keep their rank-and-file foaming at the mouth.

Turning Point USA spokesman Andrew Kolvet said in a statement that the show “is an opportunity for all Americans to enjoy a halftime show with no agenda other than to celebrate faith, family, and freedom.”

But whose faith are they celebrating?

Not the spiritual beliefs of Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Sikhs, Unitarians, or non-MAGA Evangelical Christians.

Whose family are they talking about?

Not Latino families, or black families, or immigrant families, or LGBTQ families, that’s for damn sure.

And exactly whose freedom will take center stage on Sunday?

Not the people with brown skin being relentlessly terrorized by ICE, not the thousands of sexual assault survivors brutalized by Jeffrey Epstein and his collaborators, not the tens of millions of women who deserve autonomy over their own bodies, and not the migrants and refugees being persecuted by these cosplaying Christians.

The Turning Point halftime show, like every venture in the MAGA/Trump ecosystem, is a grim, sinister, mean-spirited fight against progress, evolution, and diversity disguised as sincere virtue.

This isn’t about Bad Bunny.
This isn’t about a halftime show.
It’s about who we collectively want to be, the kind of nation we dream of living in, and the future we want those who follow us to inherit.
It’s about the cost of standing up to the bullies, of rejecting racism, of being intolerant of intolerance.
This is about what we will demand and what we will not accept when it comes to the rights and voices of people of color.

Trump and his supporters don’t want an alternative halftime show; they want an alternative white, gated community nation where only they benefit.

In these days, we are in a brutal battle for an America where everyone will find opportunity, safety, and welcome.

It’s time we all got in the game.

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You can read it here.

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OH MY GOD, YES! Go ahead and sue, you orange bag of shit. Discovery will force the release of all the Epstein documents!

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it’s one o’clock in the morning. the world’s most-fragile diaperload is awake — and he’s melting all the way down on his shithole app.

oh dear, it seems that someone’s hurt the colicky rage-baby’s fragile fee-fees again.

The Grammy Awards are the WORST, virtually unwatchable!

and yet the stupid shit sat there and monitored the whole thing, so he could find out if anyone was talking about him. and, sure enough—

Noah said, INCORRECTLY about me, that Donald Trump and Bill Clinton spent time on Epstein Island. WRONG!!! I can’t speak for Bill, but I have never been to Epstein Island, nor anywhere close.

now, because I’m a responsible journalist and everything, I googled ‘where is Epstein Island,’ and I learned that it’s a tiny island within the Virgin Islands, and its actual name is Little Saint James Island.

according to Donny, he’s never been ‘anywhere close’ to Epstein Island. so he’s never been to Christmas Cove, and he’s never been to the St. Thomas Ritz-Carlton — and he’s never been to Chocolate Hole, which, I’m sorry, but that definitely sounds like a place Donny’s been.

Donny’s handlers should never let him watch awards shows. he always ends up cranky, because he absolutely cannot deal with seeing other people receive awards — awards which, in his impaired mind, should rightfully be going to him. never mind that the Grammy awards are for music, and Donny’s only contribution to that field is the pungent aroma of ass music he creates every time he falls asleep in public. where’s Donny’s Grammy, goddammit!

FIFA could actually be doing the world a huge solid right now, by announcing that Donny has won their FIFA Music Award for Most Melodious Farts, and then invite him on stage to hang another dumb-ass medal around his neckgina.

because that would shut him the fuck up for at least a day or so.

by the way, this is Trevor Noah’s joke that had Donny power-loading all the diapers.

“that is a Grammy that every artist wants… almost as much as Trump wants Greenland. which makes sense, I mean, because Epstein’s island is gone, he needs a new one to hang out with Bill Clinton, so…”

big fucking deal, am I right? it was one throwaway laugh-line in an hours-long broadcast full of throw-away laugh-lines. any normal person would have heard it and then gotten on with their lives — but we’re not talking about a normal person. we’re talking about the most broken-inside burst trash bag of personality defects ever. so, naturally —

Noah, a total loser, better get his facts straight, and get them straight fast. It looks like I’ll be sending my lawyers to sue this poor, pathetic, talentless, dope of an M.C., and suing him for plenty$.

Donny’s gonna sue the shit out of Trevor Noah, for ‘plenty$’ dollars — as one does, when one is the thinnest-skinned bastard ever to walk the face of the earth.

he’s such a fucking embarrassment, throwing childish tantrums in the middle of the night, and siccing his lawyers on a comedian, for telling jokes.

oh, and let me just put this here, for no particular reason.

“nobody gets angrier than a narcissist being accused of something they definitely did.”

now, because I’m still wearing my Responsible Journalist hat, I looked it up. the internet tell me that’s a quote from Omar Hussain’s ‘Thoughts and Feelings, Volume One’ — but the internet also tells me that such a book doesn’t exist.

what the fuck? can I borrow one of Donny’s ace team of parking garage lawyers and sue the shit out of the internet?

Omar Hussain is real. maybe I’ll sue him.

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so, for those of you keeping score at home, Donny is suing Trevor Noah. at the same time, he’s suing The New York Times — also for hurting his feelings.

Donald Trump has said he is expanding his defamation suit against the New York Times after an unfavorable opinion poll.

He wrote: “The Times Siena Poll, which is always tremendously negative to me, especially just before the Election of 2024, where I won in a Landslide, will be added to my lawsuit against The Failing New York Times.”

fuck me, Donny’s not only a sore loser — he’s a sore winner. and if this ‘I’m suing you for bad polling’ business sounds familiar, that’s because he’s also suing the Des Moines Register for — you guessed it — hurting his feelings

A Polk County district court judge heard arguments Friday about whether President Donald Trump’s lawsuit against the Des Moines Register can move fo

rward.

Trump sued over a November 2024 poll that found likely voters preferred then-Vice President Kamala Harris over Trump days before he won the election and carried Iowa by 13 points.

His lawsuit says the poll is consumer fraud.

my god. could people please stop hurting Dear Leader’s precious fee-fees? we’re in grave danger of depleting our National Strategic Reserve of Lawyers.

and then there’s Donny’s lawsuit against the IRS. he’s demanding they pay him TEN BILLIONS OF PLENTY$ for that time a former IRS contractor leaked years of Donny’s tax returns to the media — hurting his feeling in the process by revealing that for years, the cheater got away with paying only $750 in taxes.

President Donald Trump is suing the IRS and the Treasury Department for $10 billion, alleging they failed to take necessary steps to prevent a former IRS employee from improperly disclosing his tax returns, and those of his sons and his company, to news outlets.

The Times published exclusive reporting in 2020 that showed Trump had paid only $750 in federal income taxes in 2016 and 2017.

of course, this lawsuit is pure corruption at its finest. Donny is basically suing his own administration. no way they’re going to fight this fucking lawsuit in court. the current head of the IRS is Frank J. Bisignano — one of Donny’s cronies. Soybean Scott Bessent is the Acting IRS commissioner. these loyal flunkies are going to roll over and hand Donny whatever he wants.

Donny’s come up with an all-new way of funneling money from the Treasury, straight into his greedy pockets — by suing the shit out of, basically, himself.

don’t you wish Dear Leader would work this hard to make life easier for average American? you get two dolls and five pencils, while Donny uses the US Government as his own personal ATM.

and don’t forget that Donny’s also suing his own Department of What Used To Be Justice, because that mean old poopy-head Jack Smith hurt his feelings by trying to convict Donny for the very real crimes of insurrecting and stealing state secrets.

I mean, what’s the point of even being president, if you can’t rob the country blind, and enrich yourself at the public’s expense?

isn’t it great how Dear Leader has combined two of his favorite activities — filing nuisance lawsuits, and forever grifting — into one neat and tidy profit center?

who says America isn’t the land of opportunity?

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and now, it’s hero time.

yesterday, Texas Congressman Joaquin Castro traveled to the hellhole detention center where five-year-old Liam Ramos and his father Adrian were being confined, and personally escorted them back home to Minnesota.

thank you, Congressman.

in any sane country, it wouldn’t requite the concerted effort of a government official to spring a five-year-old from prison. but like the man says, shitty timelines gonna shitty timeline.

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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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“Despite the efforts of pedophile and felon Trump and his fascist cult followers, racism can not be denied by taking down signs in Philadelphia or anywhere else! February ushed in Black History Month and I am hornoring Paul Revere Williams (1894–1980), the pioneering African American architect who helped shape the look of Los Angeles, but was not allowed to live in or even stay overnight in many of the premier, white-only neighborhoods and homes he designed. Despite being one of the most celebrated architects for Hollywood celebrities, he was restricted by legally enforced, racist land covenants that held sway in LA until the late 1940s and early 1950s.”

[source]

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…and others I simply do not. Buck and Eddie from 9-1-1, yes. The attraction and the chemistry is obviously there even if the writers never go in that direction. But Robbie and Whitaker? I don’t see that at all; just a lot of wishful thinking on the part of fangirls. But I do enjoy the fangirl artwork…

BTW, if you aren’t watching The Pitt, you should be…it’s damn good television.

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An old friend and former housemate from San Francisco currently living in Oregon came to town to attend a family funeral yesterday. We managed to steal him away for a few hours today to share coffee and reminisce a bit. But surprisingly, “two old retired guys who’ve known each other going on 35 years” had very little to talk about since we text each other almost daily. But it was still great to physically see him again. That’s been twenty years or so…

I met Michael in San Francisco one morning in June ’92 on the J-Train heading downtown. He got on, we made eye contact multiple times and I finally got up the nerve to hand him one of my “Woof” cards (yeah, they actually had that printed on one side with my number on the other). He called shortly thereafter and we started hanging out and even had a brief affair. I don’t remember why it didn’t work out on that level, but we remained good friends over the years and after I’d moved back to Tucson in 1995—and six months later realized what a horrible mistake I’d made—he offered me a place to stay until I got resettled—and even flew down to drive my car back while I piloted the U-Haul.

Even after I’d found work and had a steady income again, we remained housemates. The location wasn’t ideal (he lived out in the Avenues), so the commute downtown became a pain in the ass, but the rent was reasonable, the company (including three adorable pugs) was excellent, and most importantly, we simply got along.

Everything was fine until Michael met his future husband in ’97. Raymond and I did not get along, and while Michael was hoping for a “Three Muskateers” sort of friendship, it proved impossible (at least for me). I ended up moving out and back to Phoenix in ’98. Tensions were high, and I didn’t even say goodbye.

We remained incommunicado for many years, even upon my return to The City a year later. After my first cancer diagnosis, bygones became bygones after I returned to Phoenix again (for the last time) and we reconnected.

Funny the directions life takes you…

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Source

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It’s been one year since my retirement, and unexpected health issues notwithstanding, it’s been what I’d hoped for. I don’t miss working at all. Dreams of sleeping in every morning were quickly forgotten since Ben still has to be up and out of here by 7 am. I do occasionally go back to bed after he’s left for the day, but it’s been rare. It’s far more common for me to lay down in the afternoon for a couple hour nap—assuming the dogs let me.

The mere thought of going back to work gives me a case of the icks.

Most surprising since I had what I thought were good relationships with my immediate supervisor and colleagues is the absolute indifference and radio silence I’ve gotten from them when I have reached out. I mean, I considered them friends—work friends, yes, but still friends. I called to wish my old sup happy birthday last spring and it was almost as if he couldn’t be bothered. I reached out to another colleague prior to my surgery last September and he wished me well, in the most dispassionate, disconnected tone I’ve ever heard. I haven’t bothered following up with either of them, and of course, no one has reached out to me. So fuck ’em.

I have friends from previous employment who have stayed with me over the years, most notably my friend Cindy, whom I met while working at Phoenix Baptist hospital those many years ago. We chat every few days and—at least prior to my swallowing issues—used to get together every other month or so to share Mexican food. I’m her tech go-to, and she’s my medical go-to.

My days have settled back into a semi-routine. Not having one was the most difficult thing I faced. Yes, the world is my oyster as they say, but I still like some regularity.

After I pull myself out of bed, “eat,” and get ready, every other day (because a large iced latte will last me two days) I run out with the doggos for caffeine and pup cups and then spend the rest of the morning in my “office,” online, either working on this here blog thingie, or subjecting myself to Reddit, Tumblr, Instagram, and the news from various sources,

Sometimes I run downtown to the library and see if there’s anything in their CD collection I might want to hear. Back in the day, it was how I substantially expanded my musical tastes. I occasionally will burn a few Minidiscs when I get home, or make labels for ones I’ve already recorded.

After “lunch,” I generally retire to the living room and get some serious cuddle time with the doggos while watching YouTube or Netflix or whatever catches my attention.

Then there’s the infrequent afternoon naps…

Every week I have two PT appointments, always back to back on the same day (although not necessarily on the same day of the week) which actually helps me keep track of what fucking day of the week it is. (An ability that apparently atrophies when you’re not always counting down the days until Friday.)

My one goal—originally manufactured to answer the question I was often asked prior to retiring, “What are you going to do?” (because apparently you are expected to be doing something after retirement and “taking each day as it comes” was an unacceptable answer) was to get out and do more photography. I even bought new batteries for my DSLR, hoping to dust it off and put it to use. But practically that would involve getting out to begin with and with everything going on in the world, I have no desire to be out and about.

A lot of people will say this is boring, and I completely understand. But for me, it’s perfect, and what I was looking forward to for many years prior to retiring.

 

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…the Tarot card readers (yeah, yeah I know) that I occasionally stumble across on YouTube warned that when all this Epstein shit came all came out it would be much, much worse than we ever imagined. It seems that—unlike their predictions for a landslide victory for Kamala Harris—they were right about this.

Just when I think I can’t hate him any more than I already do, I constantly find myself re-evaluating that stance.

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Which is exactly why CDs and MiniDiscs slow down as the laser goes from the center of the disc to the outside edge. It’s to guarantee a uniform data stream speed…

Look it up!

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But I rather like the overall plan and exteriors. And that Studio…????????‍????????

From the source:

Architect Wallace Neff’s third house for opera star Amelita Galli-Curci⁠ was located in San Diego’s bucolic Rancho Santa Fe community. Rancho Santa Fe, technically a census-designated place, transports you into the California of yesteryear, and provided just the artistic respite Galli-Curci desired.⁠
⁠
My favorite aspect of this home are the garage’s generous overhangs, which provide both protection from the elements as well as adding visual interest to an otherwise stark facade.⁠ This home’s design expertly straddles the Spanish Colonial and midcentury modern forms, creating a home that combines the best of both worlds.⁠
⁠
And is there anything more romantic than a home situated within its own private eucalyptus grove? While I prefer native plants, I grew up with eucalyptus trees in my backyard, which will always afford them a special place in my heart and imagination.⁠
⁠
The home was located on Las Planideras, yet has since been demolished. ⁠
⁠
Project: Residence of Mr. Homer Samuels and Mrs. Amelita Galli-Curci⁠, 1947
Architect: Wallace Neff⁠
Location: Rancho Santa Fe, California⁠
Photographer: Maynard L. Parker⁠

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I leave it to you, my faithful readers. Because I can’t today…

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(Originally appeared on Voenix Rising 26 May 2016)

Ben and I were heading home the other day and as we were driving down Lincoln and crossed 22nd Street, I was reminded of a time—a lifetime ago, it seems—when my family almost bought a house in that neighborhood.

It was during eighth grade—or perhaps shortly after I’d graduated. Dad was rightfully proud of the work he’d recently done for Hallcraft on their new Biltmore Highlands subdivision, so one sunny Saturday we headed over to what seemed at the time to me like the far east side of the valley to check it out. I don’t know how the talk started, but before I knew it we went from looking at the model homes to being shown one house in particular a few streets over that my parents were actually considering buying. It was a large, beautiful three bedroom, two bath place with a courtyard entrance, a spacious kitchen and a large family room with a fireplace. The bedroom that was to be mine was significantly larger than my current room, eliciting no small amount of excitement on my part. The room also had two windows instead of one.

My enthusiasm was tempered somewhat by the fact that it would now actually cost to phone my best friend (apparently calling from certain Phoenix exchanges to certain Glendale exchanges back in the day incurred wasn’t free).

This move also meant that my sister and I would be transferring to a new school district, something I think caused my parents’ eventual decision to bail on that house and that particular subdivision.

We did end up moving into a new home a few months later, actually only about a half mile south of where we had been living, so the seed had definitely been planted. I’m sure economics were also a factor; we got a much larger house for less money in Hallcraft’s Bethany Heights than we would’ve gotten if we’d moved to Biltmore Highlands.

Ironically, even though my best buddy and I now actually lived closer to each other than we had previously with this move, after high school started we drifted apart and each went our separate ways. (I found out many, many years later that Neal—whom I’d known since 4th grade—transitioned to Angela sometime in our twenties. He’d always told me he’d felt like a girl trapped in a boy’s body, so this did not come as a huge surprise.)

What does all this have to do with the title of this post? Well, I got to thinking how different (or perhaps not) my life would’ve been had we actually moved to Biltmore Highlands and my sister and I had been forced into a new school district.

Obviously, I would never have met the people or made the friends I did if I’d gone to a different school than the one I did, but I wonder if life post-high school would’ve actually been that different. I’d still have undoubtedly gone to the University of Arizona in Tucson and had similar experiences. Or would I?

A currently popular idea in cosmology is that there are an infinite number of universes, each one calving off and growing on its own, depending upon what choices are made. And not just your choices, but multiply that by the billions of other souls on this rock and it boggles the mind. Multiply that by the number of possible planets and potentially sentient beings in the universe, and it truly becomes an unimaginable number.

So it’s always an interesting “what if” game to play. What if I’d actually gone to ASU instead of UofA, stayed in school and gotten my degree? What if I’d kept on going the night I walked out of The Joshua Tree and never met Dennis? What if Bernie and I never visited San Francisco—much less moved there?

I suppose there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that if this multiverse idea is in fact reality that somewhere, maybe as close as the orbit of an electron—there are universes where Hitler was never born; where JFK was never assassinated; where you are just as likely to be President of the United States as you are to be living in a cardboard box under an overpass; a world where the Dark Ages never occurred and Christianity never gained a foothold; a world where you actually bought that Apple stock in the 90s; a world where mankind has already colonized the solar system and is moving out to the stars…

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once again, everything in the news is so unbelievably stupid that I don’t even know where to start. so I’m just going to spin the Big Wheel of Moron™ and see where it lands. ready? here we go.

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oh my god, could Preznit Fuckwit please shut his rancid anus-mouth?

Just spoke to Pres. Trump. I asked him if he had seen the video of Rep. Omar being attacked and sprayed by a substance.

“No. I don’t think about her. I think she’s a fraud. I really don’t think about that. She probably had herself sprayed, knowing her,” the president said.

I asked again if he had seen the video.

“I haven’t seen it. No, no. I hope I don’t have to bother.”

and just like that, Donny Convict continues his 79-year-long unbroken streak of being the worst fucking person on the planet.

can we get Wonkette’s Rebecca Schoenkopf in here for a minute? she’s so good at putting into words what we’re all feeling right now.

thanks, Rebecca.

this fucking guy. he admits he hasn’t seen — and doesn’t want to see — the video of the assault, but that doesn’t keep him from running his ignorant mouth about it.

he thinks the attack on Rep. Omar is a hoax, because of course he does. Donny hates Omar — because he’s a fucking racist — and, because he doesn’t have a single ounce of decency in his rotting body, he can’t even mumble some halfhearted third-grade-level statement about ‘bad. so bad. we’re all wishing her well.’

what kind festering cum-sock hears about a woman being sprayed with some noxious liquid and goes ‘oh yeah, I’ll bet she did it to herself.’ who the fuck even thinks like that?

you know what? I’ll bet by crying ‘hoax!’, Donny’s telling on himself again — because with as always with this shithead, every accusation is a confession.

look, I don’t want to be a conspiracy guy. it’s really not my thing. but for the life of me, I’m still trying to figure out how Donny’s blown-to-bits ear magically regenerated itself.

oh wait, we’re not done with Donny. Rachel Scott has another question for him.

More from my interview with President Trump last night: I asked the president about Sens. Tillis and Murkowski calling for Sec. Noem to step down.

“Well, they’re both losers. You know, what can I tell you? They’re terrible senators. One is gone and the other should be gone,” he said.

he’s such a charmer. once again, Donny can’t just brush it off and go, ‘yeah well, that’s just your opinion, man.’

he’s so spite-fueled and broken-inside that he has to go scorched earth.

you simply must check out Senator Tillis’ reaction to being called a loser.

CNN’s Manu Raju: “the president called you a loser.”

Tillis: “I am thrilled about that. that makes me qualified to be Homeland Security Secretary *and* senior adviser to the president.”

let’s be clear-eyed about this, Thom Tillis is not our friend. he’s as xenophobic as they come. he’s totally down with ICE rounding up immigrants and shipping them to who the fuck cares, and he thinks they should be doing more of that shit. he’s just mad at ICE Barbie and Nosferatu McGoebbels for fucking up.

still, his response to Donny is so perfect that it’s hard not to be heartbroken about it.

well, that was fun. let’s give another spin to the Big Wheel of Moron™.

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after his humiliating shitcanning and banishment from Minneapolis, you might have hoped that Obergruppenführer Greg Bovino would have had the decency to scamper back into his cigar box, close the lid, and never be heard from again.

fat chance. the Itsy-Bitsy Nazi is so high on his own supply that he stopped off at Mount Rushmore and took a victory lap.

“team, behind me are a few individuals there. that’s the original ‘turn and burn,’ the folks that help make American. but you know what? I’m very proud of what you, the ‘mean green machine,’ are doing in Minneapolis right now, just like you’ve done it across the United States over these past tough nine months. and I want you to know, you’re the modern day equivalent of ‘turn and burn.’ it makes me very proud. I also want you to know that I’ve got your back now, and always. I love you. I support you, and I salute you.”

I’ll bet that speech is even more impressive in its original German.

‘turn and burn,’ by the way, is Gestapo Greg’s pet name for the fascist shit he’s pulled in Minneapolis, Los Angeles and elsewhere. and this racist little fireplug is so arrogant, he thinks the dudes carved into Rushmore — George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln — would be totally be high-fiving him for his lawless behavior.

how delusional is that?

free clue for the Fascist In A Teacup: no, no, no, no, and fuck no. none of those homeys would approve of your banty rooster antics. stop shitting all the over Constitution and pick up a fucking history book, Greg. you might learn something.

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ok, let’s spin Big Wheel of Moron™ one last time.

tonight, Donny and his Slovenian rent-a-wife are attending a Kennedy Center screening of the Melania movie — the so-called ‘film’ that everyone knows is going to be a twenty-megaton box office disaster.

at its London premiere, it sold one ticket.

one ticket! now comes the part where we throw our heads back in laughter. ready?

and now comes the part where the worthless scribblers of The New York Times corruptionwash that shit.

come on, Grey Lady — stop pulling your punches. nobody is ‘questioning’Amazon’s motives. everyone knows exactly what this is all about: naked corruption. it’s Jeff Bezos burning through millions of dollars in order to curry favor with Dear Leader.

Melania Convict is the least-interesting person on the planet, and nobody — absolutely nobody — was clamoring for a documentary about her.

despite that, Bezos gave Melania FORTY MILLION DOLLARS for the rights to her ‘story.’ Amazon spent five million dollars on production, and another thirty-five million on promotion. that’s eighty fucking million dollars for a film which is predicted to take in about one million at the box office.

one hand washes the other, am I right? blatant corruption doesn’t get any more blatantly corrupt than that.

oh, and in England, where the premiere sold one ticket? rejoice, everyone — UK ticket sales have skyrocketed to six!

Vue, a major European cinema operator, is offering nine showings (451 seats in all) at its multiplex in York, England, from Friday through Sunday, one analyst noted. As of Wednesday, it had sold six seats.

now here’s a question for you all: do you think these two lovebirds will take separate cars to the screening?

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and now for your hero of the day — some obscure songwriter who probably no one’s ever heard of, Bruce Springsteen.

 

I wrote this song on Saturday, recorded it yesterday and released it to you today in response to the state terror being visited on the city of Minneapolis. It’s dedicated to the people of Minneapolis, our innocent immigrant neighbors and in memory of Alex Pretti and Renee Good.

Stay free.

and just like that, Springsteen continues his seventy-six-year-long unbroken streak of being fucking awesome.

let’s give it a listen.

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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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