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Listen, I know. Believe me, I fucking know.

I know this country is coming apart at the fucking seams at an astonishing, almost industrial rate.

I know we are trapped in a protracted bullshit war that apparently isn’t a war, run by a malignant, megalomaniacal, morally gangrenous sociopath who doesn’t give a single solitary fuck whether another American service member comes home alive — burning through missiles until the day this administration shrugs and says, “Gee, sorry, Ukraine, cupboards are bare,” handing Vladimir Putin exactly what he wanted on a silver goddamn platter.

Because, as Nancy Pelosi once said, all roads lead to Putin.

And why would he care? Donald Trump has no discernible regard for human life beyond whether it can flatter him, enrich him, vote for him, or be arranged photogenically behind him at a rally — and he does not think beyond the next headline, the next grievance, or the next opportunity for one of his two spectacularly stupid eldest spawn to turn a body count into a fucking revenue stream.

The entire foreign-policy doctrine: Can Don Jr. monetize it? Can Eric stand beside it with his mouth hanging open? Can somebody wrap the whole fetid, flagrantly felonious fuckfest in a flag and call it patriotism before lunch?

Then fire away.

I know children are hungry. I know people cannot afford their medicine. I know families are choosing between groceries and utilities while the American food supply plays Russian roulette beneath fluorescent grocery-store lighting.

I know there are a thousand scandals, corruption schemes, and constitutional crises unfolding at any given moment thanks to this teeny-tiny tyrant and the suppurating circle of sycophants orbiting him like flies around a gas-station hot dog.

I know.

But today, I don’t want to talk about any of it — not Iran, not Putin, not the economy, not the never-ending national emergency being run by a man whose entire governing philosophy appears to be:

“What if the dumbest fucking guy at the country club controlled the Pentagon?”

Today I want to be gloriously, unapologetically petty. Today I’m cashing in one emotional sick day from democracy.

Today I want to ignore every burning building long enough to laugh at the pustulent little pyromaniac wearing a piss-blond pubic pompadour.

Because every once in a while, the universe hands you a gift, and last night it handed us an eighty-year-old, nuclear-orange narcissist who apparently looked in the mirror, saw a strawberry-blonde Sam Sheepdog pelt glued to his scalp, nodded approvingly, and thought:

“Yeah. Nobody’s gonna notice this.”

Because what in the lemon-chiffon, swoop-de-loop, shellac-soaked, candy-coated cornmeal catastrophe is that?

LOOK. AT. THIS. FUCKING. PHOTO.

Donald Trump, that blotched, bloated, bronzer-basted, bargain-basement Baron Harkonnen of bullshit, shuffled into that Vegas ballroom wearing what can only be described as a federally subsidized merkin, a crusty, musty, dusty crotch curtain that got promoted to head office, waddling beneath the casino lights looking like somebody taxidermied the Cowardly Lion’s taint, bleached it with Sun-In, shellacked it with Aqua Net, and stapled the poor bastard sideways across his forehead.

The man’s scalp got skull-fucked by a breeze on Sunday — bent over on a tarmac, cheeks spread, bald spot gaping at God and C-SPAN — and instead of taking the L like a person with a functioning shame gland, he showed up three days later wearing his mommy’s hair like the world’s most Oedipal glory-hole disguise, a lace-front so thirsty it’s basically edging the entire press pool.

Some poor White House staffer got dispatched to the wig store with a government credit card and one breathtakingly vague instruction: “Make him look like his mother.”

And they did.

They fucking did.

That isn’t hair. Hair doesn’t just fucking materialize on Wednesday when it wasn’t there Tuesday.

Call it a wig, a rug, a syrup, a topper, a postiche, a forehead futon, a dome duvet, a keratin Ponzi scheme, a strawberry-blonde merkin, or whatever euphemism the industry invented to avoid saying, “We glued somebody else’s pubes to your skull.”

Call it whatever the fuck you want.

It is very obviously not growing out of that man’s head.

He stood up there in what can only be described as a pube parka, a taint tarp, a glued-on gooch garnish, lecturing America while looking like he skinned the shag carpet from a 1978 conversion van that hosted activities no forensic team could ever fully reconstruct. That thing is a scalp-mounted thirst trap for the assisted-living demographic, the follicular equivalent of stuffing a sock down your pants, except the sock is on his head, the pants are the presidency, and everybody around him has been ordered to admire the bulge.

It looks so much like roadkill I’m genuinely worried Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is going to wander over with a hacksaw, decapitate it, cut its balls off, dump it beside a bicycle in Central Park, and spend the next decade insisting that’s just what outdoorsmen do. Somebody needs to put a fluorescent orange hunting vest on Trump’s hair before Bobby mistakes it for protected wildlife.

And the color. Sweet merciful Christ.

His face is radioactive traffic cone. His neck is deli ham. His ears are boiled bratwurst. His eyelids are undercooked salmon. Then, without warning, BAM: discount butterscotch Labradoodle.

Who signed off on this fucking palette? The front is buttercream beige. The sides are nicotine nougat. The back is dehydrated corn silk. The crown is whatever color a motel comforter turns after thirty years of cigarette smoke and broken dreams. Nothing matches. Not his face, not his neck, not his eyebrows, not reality.

From the eyebrows down, he’s Sweetums from The Muppets after forty years of Marlboros, mayonnaise, and Medicare fraud. From the eyebrows up, he’s a freshly bleached alpaca undercarriage after a chemical peel and a bitter divorce.

Because this isn’t hairstyling. This is civil engineering.

Every surviving follicle has been forcibly evicted from whatever lonely patch of scalp still supported life, dragged across six square miles of barren forehead, stretched tighter than a banjo string at a bluegrass festival, varnished into submission, and ordered to swear under oath that it has always fucking lived there.

His hairline has been gerrymandered harder than a swing state. There are strands voting in congressional districts they haven’t physically occupied since Bill Clinton was president.

Every man eventually meets his hairline in the wind and makes a choice: dignity or denial.

Shave it. Buzz it. Wear a hat. Get plugs. Buy a wig. Glue a peacock to your forehead. Nobody gives a fuck.

But this leathery, lacquered, spray-tanned sarcophagus chose to hot-glue what appears to be the freshly shampooed hindquarters of an elderly Shih Tzu to his skull and call it genetics.

Just think about the poor fucking bastard whose job this actually is. Imagine being Trump Hair Guy. Imagine explaining that career choice at Thanksgiving.

“So…what do you do?”

“Well…every morning I reattach confidence to an eighty-year-old narcissist before Fox & Friends.”

“Oh, you’re a therapist?”

“No. Much worse. I color-match synthetic pubes to industrial bronzer, secure them with enough adhesive to survive a tropical storm, and convince the president of the United States that the bleached asshole of a golden retriever reads as ‘natural volume.’”

There had to be a moment backstage: the stylist fluffing, spraying, tamping, squinting, presenting the mirror — then the long, bowel-tightening silence of one adult waiting to see whether another adult believes the thing suctioned to his scalp looks remotely biological.

And then the old fuck smiles.

“Perfect.”

Perfect?

Motherfucker, this looks less like a hairstyle than evidence. CSI would place numbered markers around it. Animal Control would approach with a catchpole. The coroner would estimate time of death. A priest would be summoned, take one look, and quietly recommend cremation.

Donald Trump stared into that mirror, saw a pale, matted carcass making one final crawl toward his ear, and thought, “Nailed it.”

The staggering thing isn’t the rug. It’s the conviction — the industrial-strength certainty of a creature visibly deteriorating beneath seven separate cosmetic interventions who still believes he is projecting raw sexual dynamism, stepping beneath the lights with the swagger of a man expecting women to faint into the shrimp cocktail.

Dude, you do not look seductive. You look like a subpoena developed edema.

You do not look vigorous. You look like something a county assessor found unconscious inside a tanning booth.

You do not look younger. You look like somebody entered “wealthy cadaver, business casual” into an off-brand image generator and selected the version with extra hair.

And every spineless, sniveling, sycophantic, sphincter-polishing ass-kisser around him has to participate in the hallucination.

“Sir, you look incredible.”

“Sir, completely natural.”

“Sir, twenty years younger.”

Twenty years younger than what? The Dead Sea Scrolls?

Motherfucker, you look like the grand-prize entry in a church-basement taxidermy raffle judged by three widows on boxed wine.

Nobody nearby believes it. The only organism on Earth genuinely convinced that this glazed shag remnant erupted naturally from Donald Trump’s scalp is the swollen orange vanity blister underneath it.

He’s spent years manufacturing bogeymen out of drag queens reading children’s books and making up stories about teachers grooming kindergartners into becoming furries — and meanwhile this fucking cooked-shrimp colostomy bag shows up in Vegas looking like the world’s worst mashup of both.

But of course, for himself, there are no fucking limits. Paint the face. Cinch the torso. Elevate the heels. Reinforce the shoulders. Conceal the scalp. Spray, shellac, strap, stuff, squeeze, spackle, pad, paste, prop, powder, press, lacquer, laminate, and load-bearing-wall the whole bloated bundle until an eighty-year-old authoritarian marshmallow can lumber onstage identifying as a virile thirty-nine-year-old Manhattan sex panther.

That is gender-affirming care.

It just only counts when it affirms his gender.

When Donald wants two extra inches, the lifts are natural. When Donald wants a narrower waist, the girdle is tailoring. When Donald wants broader shoulders, the padding is genetics. When Donald wants a brand-new hairline delivered overnight like a replacement carburetor, the bleached pubic poncho is suddenly the lush, luxuriant, lineage-blessed follicular bounty of superior masculine genes.

But let somebody else ask to live honestly inside their own body and this cosmetically cross-braced, chemically colored, corseted old fraud suddenly discovers biology.

Nature handed you baldness, Donald. Nature handed you gravity. Nature handed you a body shaped like a sack of wet laundry slumped against a hotel ice machine.

You rejected all three.

Nobody would give a fuck if you simply admitted it. Wear the rug. Own the rug. Name the rug. Have the Marine Band play “Hail to the Hairpiece” every time the blond bastard enters a room.

The vanity isn’t the problem.

The fucking lie is the problem.

Donald Trump has spent his entire life demanding that everyone around him deny what their own eyes can plainly see: the debt, the decline, the crimes, the crowds, the losses, the lies, the weight, the weakness, the widening vacancy beneath that counterfeit cranial thatch.

The whole rotten presidency is sitting right there on top of his skull: cheap synthetic fiber sold as hereditary magnificence, obvious depletion disguised as abundance, and a bleached, bristling, bargain-bin pube pavilion passed off as the natural mane of a youthful fucking lion.

That is Trumpism reduced to its purest form: frightened, fawning, follicle-affirming fuckwits staring directly at an obvious fraud and competing to see who can flatter it most extravagantly.

“Sir, tremendous volume.”

“Sir, astonishing density.”

“Sir, nobody has ever had hair like this.”

Correct.

Nobody fucking has.

Because most people do not staple a strawberry-blonde church-lady séance to their forehead, paint themselves the color of buffalo-wing sauce, strap on orthopedic elevator shoes, squeeze their abdomen into reinforced shapewear, and emerge convinced the total effect is youthful, commanding, and sexually catastrophic.

That is not confidence.

That is narcissism with a glue gun.

And there it fucking is. The entire diseased, delusional, democracy-devouring spectacle reduced to one perfect image: an insecure orange fraud trying to outrun a mirror while wearing his dead mother’s church swoop on his head.

The wig isn’t the most embarrassing thing on Donald Trump.

It may actually be the most honest.

At least the wig admits it’s fucking fake.

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“How Do You Feel About Spending A Few Days In The Hospital?”

Keep in mind I look like this all the way up to my neck – but I’ll spare you those pix. Fuck Cancer! Fuck Keytruda!

“Absolutely not. I want to exhaust every other option first.”

She must have seen the look on my face before I spoke a single word, because after I said no, she immediately said, “I understand completely and will respect your wishes. But know that IV steroids will be the fastest way to clear this up.”

I said I didn’t care; that I’d seen enough of the inside of that damned hospital.

She brought in her senior colleague, and between the three of us we came up with a course of treatment: that did not require any further hospitalization—at least not for now.

      • Double Duplixent dosage (every week instead of every two weeks)
      • Go back on a high dose of prednisone for the next six weeks, gradually lowering the dose and then, if successful, begin a long-term, low dose regimen.
      • Continue with the red-capped pain killer if effective and she will write a new script if I need it for longer than what I have on hand will cover.
      • Ordered a tub of the Triamcinolone ointment for all over toso use and a tube of Clobetasol for between my fingers/toes.
      • Refilled the “magic mouthwash’ I got from my oncologist several months ago.
      • Followup in two weeks, and two weeks thereafter.

If things don’t improve after the course of prednisone (six weeks) at that point we wil reluctantly agree to the intravenous route. Both doctors pointed out that this may be available on an outpatient basis (since I had that midline and tolerated it well).

As I told my doc today, “It’s not the itching. It’s not the blisters. It’s not the general ugliness of this condition. It’s my utter lack of being able to concentrate on anything because every waking thought is consumed with this condition. (Even now, it’s taken me nearly two hours to write this one, simple post.)

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Fuck Cancer

Even though I’ve been off Keytruda for six months, its effects continue to rear their ugly, ugly heads.

You may have noticed I haven’t been posting with the same wanton abandon as usual these past few days. It’s because I have been consumed 24/7 with the itching and the recent, sudden breakout of blisters from the Bullous pemphigoid, the Keytruda-induced rash that has every inch of my body from shoulders to knees now looking like a pepperoini pizza.

I’ve been camped out in front of the television rotting my brain with Youtube videos during waking hours and not really in much of a mood to post anything.

Bullous pemphigoid induced by pembrolizumab (Keytruda)

(Not my photo, but a very accurate portrayal of your host from shoulders to knees.)

The rash is forming because the protein strings that normally form to bind the epidermis to the dermis are being attached by my own immune system, thanks to Keytruda. I suppose this shows it’s doing its job against any errant cancer cells, but c’mon guys…these are your own cells you’re attacking.

Again my thoughts return to last October: “A skin rash is the most common side effect of Keytruda therapy. Skin rash? How bad can it be?”

It’s been six weeks since my dermatologist put me on the biweekly injections of Duplixent for the rash and I can’t say there’s been any improvement whatsoever. If anything, it’s gotten worse because the signature blisters that had been conspicuously absent up to that point were now appearing with alarming regularity. And the itching! OMG. My palms itch. The space between my fingers itch. Every damn blister and bit of rash itches. By Thursday it had gotten so bad (and the usual home remedies, hydrocortisone cream, etc. were completely ineffective) I tried to get in to see my dermatologist. It normally wouldn’t have been a problem, but she was out of the office all week. I’m seeing her Tuesday.

Today it’s so bad I’m almost watching the blisters—blisters that rupture incredibly easily after having been strangely quiescent for a few days now—appear almost in real time. And the intense itching they bring combined with their easily friable nature do not good bedfellows make! If you pop the blisters (which is apparently okay to do) the itching stops, but then you have the usual pain of a popped blister to deal with. And the same reason these damn blisters appear in the first place is also the reason it takes them weeks and weeks to heal. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. And right now I’m feeling very, very damned.

I’m at the point tonight where I just want to sit and cry.

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Former reality TeeVee show competitor, sometime lumberjack, and noted taxpayer-funded RV-vacationer Sean Duffy takes his role as the US Road Ruler very seriously:

“Out of all the sins of the Trump administration — wars, ICE raids, anti-vax lunacy and the return of measles, the empowering of Kash Patel and Stephen Miller, and so much more — Secretary of Transportation Sean Duffy declaring war on “DEI bike lanes” is surely a small thing. But it’s also such a monumentally stupid act, so counterproductive, so anti-MAHA as to be completely maddening. NPR recently reported that staff at the Federal Highway Administration have been asked to purge any references to bikes and bike lanes from the agency’s website.“

Wait. What? DEI bike lanes?

“What bike lanes have to do with DEI is unclear. Likely this is the Biden administration’s fault for some admittedly political language touting the infrastructure bill’s grants. The Biden team announced they would “consider how projects can address climate change, ensure racial equity, and remove barriers to opportunity.” Which could be seen as lofty goals when many Americans were desperate for pot hole and bridge repairs. But that’s not really the issue here. If the Biden people were for something, then the Trump people must always be against it. This is a ridiculous calculus, counterproductive, and why voters are so sick and tired of our broken political system.”

I guess the assumption is that bikes are for poor people (and if you ever price check bikes, not even electric ones you will see how ridiculous this is), and therefore DEI, because we all know that poor people are not our kind (as rich white people used to politely say when being racist and /or classist).

Car-driving commuters say that one less person on the road makes their commutes better.

Seattle drivers are notoriously passive-aggressive and openly hostile to bikers at least according to bicyclists. And even the bike-riding hoards agree that our bike lanes are dangerous the way that they share the road with cars. A single car door opening inopportunely can send a biker to the hospital or morgue and turning right on red lights without looking for bikes is probably even worse.

So maybe better bike lanes might be something for Sean Duffy to think about the next time he gets in his behemoth RV for another taxpayer-funded Road Trip? Bikes are not going away nor are cars so maybe Duffy can see this as an opportunity to improve commutes or just getter around for everyone. The more people out of cars, the better and the funner:

“[My bike] gave me the freedom to not only get to places, but to access things that otherwise would have been out of reach. Even now, riding a bike makes me feel like a kid again. There’s nothing like feeling the air on your face and that freedom to just ride.”

—LeBron James

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We’re more than five hundred and fifty goddamn days into Season Two of The Donald Trump Shit Show: five hundred and fifty rancid episodes of a renewal nobody with a frontal lobe, pulse, or functioning remote control fucking ordered.

More than five hundred and fifty days of Cabinet sycophants mistaking ass-kissing for a résumé, billionaire boot-lickers marinating in oligarch gravy, political whores and donor-purchased meat puppets who couldn’t organize a two-car funeral procession, an economy stapled together with tariff grease and warm bureaucratic sludge, foreign policy conducted like a drunk Craigslist handjob, and a Republican Congress so spineless, supine, and erotically devoted to voluntary vertebrae extraction it should come with satin pillows, a drool bib, and a little bedside bell.

Everything is going spectacularly, catastrophically, Titan-submersible wrong.

And yet… somehow… through a feat of chronological acrobatics so strenuous it would make a Cirque du Soleil contortionist rupture three discs and reconsider their career choices…

It is still Joe Biden’s fault.

Trump appoints another gloriously unqualified dipshit whose only discernible qualification is a willingness to clap like a trained seal every time the Great Orange Sleep Apnea Pumpkin waddles into the room?

You guessed it… Biden.

These are Trump’s judges. Trump’s Cabinet. Trump’s economy. Every screwup, every scandal, every own goal, every international humiliation, every bureaucratic tire fire bears his fingerprints like a wet slab of cement somebody staggered across on their way out of a bar.

And yet…

The economy? Joe Biden.

Grocery prices? Joe Biden.

Inflation running hotter than every other country in the G7 after Trump was handed one of the strongest recoveries on the planet? Somehow… Joe Biden.

Trump slaps tariffs on everything that isn’t bolted to the fucking floor, lights global supply chains on fire with a blowtorch and a Sharpie, and suddenly your eggs cost the GDP of a small island nation?

Joe. Fucking. Biden.

Trump’s administration is emptying our weapons stockpiles by the warehouse, burning through interceptor missiles that cost millions of dollars apiece to knock Iranian drones and ballistic missiles out of the sky before they can turn an American base into a smoking crater?

Believe it or not…

Still Joe Biden.

At this point Donald Trump could back a golf cart into the Lincoln Memorial, declare war on the moon, appoint a decorative gourd as Secretary of Defense, and accidentally staple his own necktie to a Cabinet secretary, and within thirty-seven seconds some Republican congressman would sprint to the closest television camera, veins bulging like overcooked bratwurst, to explain that the real culprit here was Joe Biden.

Hell, Barack Obama still catches stray bullets from this asshole’s excuse factory. I’m genuinely surprised he hasn’t blamed Jimmy Carter for dropped calls, Abraham Lincoln for airline baggage fees, and Ulysses S. Grant for the fact that his Diet Coke keeps going flat.

Because the buck doesn’t stop with Donald Trump.

The buck files the paperwork to change its name, crosses state lines, assumes a half-dozen fake identities, and hires Todd Blanche to argue it never existed at all.

Remember during COVID, when that slack-jawed blame vacuum turned every White House briefing into another round of Presidential Pin the Blame on Literally Anybody Else.

China.

Democratic governors.

The media.

Anthony Fauci.

Blue states.

Windmills.

Anybody with a heartbeat and a name tag.

Anybody except the wheezing, blame-hoarding huckster standing behind the presidential seal. That bloated, grievance-gargling gasbag. That self-pitying, self-fellating monument to unearned mediocrity and industrial-strength narcissism. The only man in recorded history who wants all the authority of the White House, all the applause, all the parades, all the credit, all the fucking paintings, but reacts to accountability the way a vampire reacts to sunlight.

That’s not leadership.

That’s a toddler wearing enough bargain-bin polyester to shade a county fair livestock pavilion who still thinks “I know you are, but what am I?” is a governing philosophy.

Has there ever been a bigger whiner? A more prolific pissbaby? A more decorated professional victim in the recorded annals of human civilization? Somewhere on the wall of a cave in France there’s a thirty-thousand-year-old painting of one hunter pointing at another guy after the mammoth got away, and even that prehistoric buck-passer would take one look at Donald Trump, rub some charcoal off his hands, and mutter, “Jesus Christ, man… just take the fucking L.”

Not me.

Not mine.

I didn’t do it.

It was the other guy.

The election was stolen.

The virus came from somewhere else.

The economy would’ve been perfect if not for…

Fill in the fucking blank.

Because there’s always another villain. Always another sacrificial goat waiting patiently in the wings, powdered, pressed, and camera-ready for the moment this scapegoat-collecting bullshit artist needs a warm body to eat the fallout.

Donald Trump doesn’t solve problems.

He outsources blame.

It’s the one promise he’s never broken.

This is an eighty-year-old head of state. The President of the United States. And this… this is what passes for leadership in MAGA world: an overgrown fucking toddler who won’t cop to coloring all over the living room wall while he’s still standing there, diaper sagging under the gravitational pull of his own horseshit, clutching the fucking Sharpie in one fist and jabbing a finger at the babysitter with the other, swearing on his mother’s grave the dog learned cursive.

Leadership isn’t planting yourself behind a podium to gorge on applause when things go right and then vaporizing into a noxious fog of denials the second reality comes collecting its debt.

Leadership is ownership.

Leadership is possessing the vertebrae, the intestinal fortitude, the basic fucking decency to say, “This happened on my watch, and I’m responsible for fixing it.”

Donald Trump treats accountability like it’s a process server carrying child-support papers and an IRS auditor with a battering ram rolled into one. The instant it lumbers into his ZIP code, he’s already halfway over the back fence, bathrobe flapping, hair meringue listing to port, shrieking, sniveling, sputtering, and blame-spewing into the night that it was China, or Joe Biden, or the fucking wind, leaving behind nothing but a banging screen door, a chemical contrail of Aqua Net and spray tan, and the unmistakable stench of cowardice marinated in cheap vanity.

He inherited an economy moving in the right direction the first time. He inherited an economy moving in the right direction the second time. Both fucking times, he wrapped those bruised, blotchy, burger-greased little mitts around the wheel, mashed the accelerator with all the foresight of a drunken lawn mower, and steered us straight toward the nearest fiscal fucking sinkhole.

That’s on him.

He owns every market convulsion, every boardroom anxiety attack, every supply-chain migraine, every economic aftershock flowing directly from the policies he chose.

He also owns an obscene share of our national debt. Across just a term and a half, he racked up roughly twenty-eight percent of all the red ink accumulated since the founding of the republic. In a nation that’s been keeping books since powdered wigs and quill pens.

He did that.

He owns that.

And yet…

Still Joe Biden.

Barack Obama is not the president. Joe Biden is not the president. Donald Trump is the president. The economy you’re living in today? That’s him. The appointments. The pardons. The purges. The priorities. The consequences. Every signature. Every wound he carved into this country himself.

His.

At some point the training wheels come off, the alibis expire, and you either govern or you don’t.

Unless your name is Donald Trump, in which case every disaster arrives with a laminated list of alternate suspects ready for whichever quivering, expendable toady draws the short straw and gets shoved in front of the cameras.

The buck never stops with Donald Trump.

It never even slows the fuck down.

If he stubs his fucking toe, it’s Joe Biden’s coffee table. If he bites his tongue, it’s Joe Biden’s teeth. If he gets a paper cut, it’s Joe Biden’s envelope.

I genuinely believe we are two weeks, three tops, from that incontinent insult to upholstery shitting his pants on a tarmac, staring down in bewilderment like his own ass just staged a coup, and demanding a congressional investigation into Joe Biden’s role in Operation Brown Thunder. There’ll be hearings. Fox will book a gastroenterologist. Jim Jordan will subpoena a pair of Dockers. Todd Blanche will insist the underwear was weaponized by the radical left.

Anybody except the wheezing, blame-hoarding huckster standing behind the presidential seal. That bloated, grievance-gargling gasbag. That self-pitying, self-fellating monument to unearned mediocrity and industrial-strength narcissism. The only man in recorded history who wants all the authority of the White House, all the applause, all the parades, all the credit, all the fucking paintings, but reacts to accountability the way a vampire reacts to sunlight.

That’s not leadership.

That’s a toddler wearing enough bargain-bin polyester to shade a county fair livestock pavilion who still thinks “I know you are, but what am I?” is a governing philosophy.

Has there ever been a bigger whiner? A more prolific pissbaby? A more decorated professional victim in the recorded annals of human civilization? Somewhere on the wall of a cave in France there’s a thirty-thousand-year-old painting of one hunter pointing at another guy after the mammoth got away, and even that prehistoric buck-passer would take one look at Donald Trump, rub some charcoal off his hands, and mutter, “Jesus Christ, man… just take the fucking L.”

Not me.

Not mine.

I didn’t do it.

It was the other guy.

The election was stolen.

The virus came from somewhere else.

The economy would’ve been perfect if not for…

Fill in the fucking blank.

Because there’s always another villain. Always another sacrificial goat waiting patiently in the wings, powdered, pressed, and camera-ready for the moment this scapegoat-collecting bullshit artist needs a warm body to eat the fallout.

Donald Trump doesn’t solve problems.

He outsources blame.

It’s the one promise he’s never broken.

This is an eighty-year-old head of state. The President of the United States. And this… this is what passes for leadership in MAGA world: an overgrown fucking toddler who won’t cop to coloring all over the living room wall while he’s still standing there, diaper sagging under the gravitational pull of his own horseshit, clutching the fucking Sharpie in one fist and jabbing a finger at the babysitter with the other, swearing on his mother’s grave the dog learned cursive.

Leadership isn’t planting yourself behind a podium to gorge on applause when things go right and then vaporizing into a noxious fog of denials the second reality comes collecting its debt.

Leadership is ownership.

Leadership is possessing the vertebrae, the intestinal fortitude, the basic fucking decency to say, “This happened on my watch, and I’m responsible for fixing it.”

Donald Trump treats accountability like it’s a process server carrying child-support papers and an IRS auditor with a battering ram rolled into one. The instant it lumbers into his ZIP code, he’s already halfway over the back fence, bathrobe flapping, hair meringue listing to port, shrieking, sniveling, sputtering, and blame-spewing into the night that it was China, or Joe Biden, or the fucking wind, leaving behind nothing but a banging screen door, a chemical contrail of Aqua Net and spray tan, and the unmistakable stench of cowardice marinated in cheap vanity.

He inherited an economy moving in the right direction the first time. He inherited an economy moving in the right direction the second time. Both fucking times, he wrapped those bruised, blotchy, burger-greased little mitts around the wheel, mashed the accelerator with all the foresight of a drunken lawn mower, and steered us straight toward the nearest fiscal fucking sinkhole.

That’s on him.

He owns every market convulsion, every boardroom anxiety attack, every supply-chain migraine, every economic aftershock flowing directly from the policies he chose.

He also owns an obscene share of our national debt. Across just a term and a half, he racked up roughly twenty-eight percent of all the red ink accumulated since the founding of the republic. In a nation that’s been keeping books since powdered wigs and quill pens.

He did that.

He owns that.

And yet…

Still Joe Biden.

Barack Obama is not the president. Joe Biden is not the president. Donald Trump is the president. The economy you’re living in today? That’s him. The appointments. The pardons. The purges. The priorities. The consequences. Every signature. Every wound he carved into this country himself.

His.

At some point the training wheels come off, the alibis expire, and you either govern or you don’t.

Unless your name is Donald Trump, in which case every disaster arrives with a laminated list of alternate suspects ready for whichever quivering, expendable toady draws the short straw and gets shoved in front of the cameras.

The buck never stops with Donald Trump.

It never even slows the fuck down.

If he stubs his fucking toe, it’s Joe Biden’s coffee table. If he bites his tongue, it’s Joe Biden’s teeth. If he gets a paper cut, it’s Joe Biden’s envelope.

I genuinely believe we are two weeks, three tops, from that incontinent insult to upholstery shitting his pants on a tarmac, staring down in bewilderment like his own ass just staged a coup, and demanding a congressional investigation into Joe Biden’s role in Operation Brown Thunder. There’ll be hearings. Fox will book a gastroenterologist. Jim Jordan will subpoena a pair of Dockers. Todd Blanche will insist the underwear was weaponized by the radical left.

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I Wish He’d Posted The Second Floor

Another one from Timur Karinov.

I really wish he’d posted the second floor plan, although it wouldn’t be that difficult to infer the layout.

I like this one. It seems well laid out, although I’d push the door from the downstairs hall to the living room closer to the front of the house to maximize wall space in the main living area. If there’s an indoor dining area as well (I really like the al fresco patio dining) I’d tuck that into the bay window area.

The downstairs guest bedroom would also make a great home office.

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