When last we met, the regime was sulkily stalling the court-ordered removal of a certain game show host’s name from a certain arts center. Which I loved. You dorks wanna draw the humiliation out? That’s super hot, actually. There’s absolutely nothing sexxxier than autocracy in retreat.

First the scaffolding goes up. Sits there for a bit, coquettishly building anticipation. Clownish last-minute legal appeals only spike my arousal.

Then it turns out the scaffolding is only there to hide the removal from the public. Which is just…thrillingly degrading. We’re sinking to exotic new depths of self-abasement here, folks. The naked emperor attempts the dance of the seven veils.

Not that I don’t get it. If I were an aspiring tyrant, I wouldn’t want such a potent image of my weakness in circulation, either. And if I were a malignant narcissist fresh off getting big-timed by what’s left of Milli Vanilli, I’d be so fucking scared of headlines like Kennedy Center De-Naming Videos Draw Better Ratings Than All of Two-Term President’s State of the Union Addresses Combined that I’d piss myself, and Susie says she’s not getting up in the middle of the night to change me anymore, so I’m on my own.

So I guess this tarp stays up untilllllllllllll…?

…until whatever Enrique Tarrio has planned for that $1.776 billion blows up in our faces? Or until the inevitable Cabinet meeting nap from which no man wakes, no matter how many memorials to other people he glues his name to?

Look, there’s not enough scaffolding in the world to cover what’s coming for you dorks. So why bother?

When you lose enough wars, folks start to notice. In fairness, only the one with Iran is Wikipedia official at press time, but it won’t be long before refs invoke some sort of mercy rule in the Reflecting Pool affair.

Those stories tie together so tidily, don’t they? And the moral is, like, don’t pick stupid, unnecessary fights with Middle Eastern theocracies or with algae. It would make a fantastic children’s book if the main character wasn’t a rapist.

Yeah, Iran grabbed him by the midterms, all right. When you control the Strait of Hormuz, they not only let you do it, they ship you pallets of cash for the privilege.

Maybe I’m not being fair. Maybe I’m just mad because the president promised my childhood baseball card collection to the Supreme Leader in this “memorandum of understanding.” I’m still reading through the terms and conditions, actually…goddammit, does this really obligate every American to do the Truffle Shuffle on command?

I bet I’m the first person to notice the irony of the Art of the Deal guy cutting the worst deal in the history of deals. But that’s why you’re reading this, for the genius-level insight. For my next trick, I will tell you the names of various animals simply by looking at drawings of those animals.

Deal’s such a stinker, they’re trying to lob it onto JD Vance’s sinking ship, which is glorious (and efficient, really). DAD LIKES MARCO BETTER NOW, SORRY, BYE, leaving JD alone on deck with a bucket, scooping futilely and blubbering, “B-but I have my book tour this w-week.”

Yeah, JD’s got a new book out about what a good Christian he is for telling dehumanizing lies about immigrants and starving a few hundred thousand people (so far) to death and building concentration camps and blowing up schoolchildren ANYWAY he should be president so he can do even Christianer stuff.

It was supposed to be the grand unveiling of JD 2028, after god knows how much planning and research, and the people he works with shoved a flaming bag of dog turds in his hands and ran away laughing, and absolutely no one deserves it more.

The knives are OUT, y’all. The ones the Dotard hasn’t accidentally thrown in the trash, anyhow.

Connoisseurs of MAGA tears will not want for options in the days to come, but I suspect the Iran Hawks Reacting to the MOU vintage will be treasured, preserved in small batches for special occasions. It was so kind of them to document the moment the monkey’s paw curled around their balls…just exquisite stuff. You wanna swirl it around in a snifter.

Watch Trey Gowdy. “I didn’t believe it. I thought somebody was spoofing me when I saw it.” Yeah, he’s stupid and venal and treacherous and cowardly and weak and generally unfit for power in a thousand ways. Is that not working out for you anymore?

Hmmm. Perhaps if you had opposed his authoritarian power grabs rather than enabling them, Iran wouldn’t be so much richer and more powerful today. Ah, well. Hindsight.

Rumor has it the Nobel people will award the first-ever Trolling Prize next year, to whoever it was that suggested Versailles for the ceremonial capitulation. So simple. So elegant. The perfect bait.

Look how happy Macron looks in those photos. That’s the smile of a man who finally foisted the burden of a century of surrender jokes onto another culture.

Joke’s on you, Frenchie. We’re manufacturing so many visual metaphors for our nation’s decline, we barely even noticed yours. I assume the Reflecting Pool saga will continue advancing in comedic absurdity until we get clips of Jake Tapper reporting, “The president’s $15 million coat of paint continues flaking off in chunks, which emit what can only be described as ‘fart sounds’ as they float away.”

Say, maybe that pool boy Melania recommended doesn’t know as much about algae as we were led to believe. Perhaps his expertise lies in other fields.

Anyhoo, if all this symbolism is still too subtle for you, you can always watch the guy with the nuclear codes fight a losing battle with the clasp on a medal. Yeah, there are “no limits” to your power, old man, beyond those imposed by the snowballing deterioration of your never particularly impressive brain.

Someone else whose power could use some limits is Chief Warloser Pete Hegseth, who continues to undermine national security in a frankly fascinating variety of ways, from causing flu outbreaks on military bases with anti-vax culture war self-sabotage to directing yet another petulant tantrum at allies who seem increasingly tired of our bullshit.

Except that Giorgia Meloni, who begged for a selfie, helplessly ensorcelled by the raw charisma of a narcoleptic octogenarian with half a pound of makeup on the back of each hand. And sure, that’s a lie, but one well worth straining diplomatic relations over. We can just throw a tarp over Italy for a few years; it’ll be fine.

Remember that time the regime paid hundreds of millions of dollars to an energy company to not build some windmills? They did that again. More than two and a half billion taxpayer dollars have now been spent to abandon existing wind farm contracts. Such government inefficiency never would’ve happened under Big Balls’ watchful eye.

The administration definitely isn’t a cult; they’re just doing wacky, sauerkraut-based fad diets together, so apparently they all smell weird now, too. If anybody’s interested, it’s Bobby Brainworm’s thing, so we can assume whale head juice is allowed.

O, how the ovipositor Stephen Miller uses to lay eggs in his human victims’ chests must have stiffened when he saw that opportunity to suspend habeas corpus! Why, I bet —

Hang on, SUSPEND HABEAS CORPUS? Oh right, the fascism! Sometimes you get so caught up laughing at the incompetence, you don’t notice the police state shit until you’re halfway to the Salvadoran torture gulag.

Like, sure, this crap they’re trying with these Minnesota protesters won’t stick, but it’s the malice that counts.

It’s all they have left, really. Whatever poisonous little chemical surges in the MAGA brain when some dork bellows MICHELLE OBAMA IS A MAN on the White House lawn. Looks fulfilling.

Meanwhile, the Barack Obama Presidential Center opened this week, and they had rock stars and dignity but probably no stale McDonald’s products. All the Cult45ers insist their guy’s presidential center will be way better, but they should probably figure out how to repaint the bottom of a fucking pool before they get cocky.

Yikes. Okay, if you enjoyed the preceding diatribe, why not drop a few bucks into my beer fund (now accepting Cash App, PayPal, and Venmo)? I promise to spend it on beer and not state-sponsored terrorism, even if I’m suddenly handed $300 billion. I like beer that much.

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I’d like to congratulate Kharg Island, the new odds-on favorite heading into the final round of Who Wants to be the 51st State, the hit reality show none of us can ever ever EVER FUCKING TURN OFF, where a somnolent megalomaniac races Vladimir Putin and his own rapidly decomposing brain to carve out something passably legacy-shaped on a real-life Risk board.

Ope! Never mind! Ground invasion’s off! Don’t put those contingency plans for decades of bloody quagmire away just yet, though; we might still need them next time Grandpa decides the pundits aren’t showing proper deference.

This is the Don-roe Doctrine, where a wounded narcissist lashes out with the most terrifying military machinery money can buy, desperate for dopamine between public humiliations as he dodders and wobbles and naps his way through the looooooong overdue And Fall part.

He’s always extra bloodthirsty after peeking outside the wingnut media bubble for a chat, however brief, with an actual journalist, so you knew somebody somewhere was in trouble the minute you saw him scamper away from that Kristen Welker interview. While it’s perhaps a bit early to speak definitively, many historians are calling him the most callously murderous FIFA Peace Prize laureate of all time.

I JUST DROPPED A QUARTER OF A BILLION DOLLARS’ WORTH OF BOMBS ON PEOPLE! IMPRESSED YET, DAD? I BET SALMA HAYEK WILL GO OUT WITH ME NOW! HEY, LET’S GO WAKE UP JEROME POWELL AND TELL HIM HOW MUCH THE BOMBS I JUST DROPPED COST but of course by the time you get his shoes on and get him in the car, he’s all tuckered out.

Two hundred and fifty million. Good thing we didn’t spend that on any woke shit, like monitoring and/or containing screwworm outbreaks. No, Fashy Daddy needs to commit genuine war crimes nowadays, because the Diet Coke button doesn’t hit the way it used to, back before he needed to see 22 different doctors at once.

Twenty-TWO, you say? My, my, my. Sounds like an awful lot of doctors.

Perhaps they came from every corner of the globe to bask in your cognitive radiance. NO! To CHALLENGE it! “I shall expose this charlatan by administering the cognitive test of my people, a far more rigorous dementia screening than those in fashion in the decadent West!”

Only to fall, one after another, until fully two-and-twenty lay strewn haphazardly about the examination room, exhausted, ecstatic…and converted.

Yeah, that’s probably what happened.

Jokes aside, if somebody at Walter Reed could work up some method of, like, stealthily sneaking a few Econ 101 pointers into these apparently regular exams…maybe if he can’t get that “perfect score” without acknowledging the fundamental realities of how tariffs work, we can trick him into assaulting our economy with slightly less vigor?

Not that I’m not enjoying the inflation. I might even go as far as to say, “I love the inflation,” but I’m told that phrase has been trademarked, no doubt by some branding genius who is about to experience the sort of electoral mega-success that only comes from being unusually in touch with voters’ concerns.

Somebody who can cut through the bullshit to understand that while the plebs say they’re worried about gas and groceries, it’s the insufficiently gilded horse statues by the president’s office that really keep ‘em up at night.

Incidentally, the new algae in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool is way Americaner than the algae that was there before the multi-million-dollar renovation. It’s almost hard to believe that before populism, we spent taxpayer money on dumb ol’ health care.

I see some enterprising patriot, swept up in party prep fervor, took it upon themselves to beautify the National Mall ahead of the festivities. Why, that must be the largest 86 47 to date. Won’t be long till they’re visible from space.

Alas, the Arc de Senilité won’t be completed in time for the weekend’s stunted masculinity convention, though we could see it soon enough, thanks to a proposed round-the-clock construction schedule that definitely wasn’t written by someone who’s worried about dying.

He’s also trying to get his impeachments “expunged”, whatever he imagines that means. Then we amend the Constitution to say he won the 2020 election, and shoot, there’s gotta be SOME way to un-conceive Eric.

No shortage of thinkpiecery on the super subtle symbolism of the gladiator pit on the people’s whatever. For my taste, I think the desecration of the Situation Room with panicked Epstein cover-up spitballing captures the rot a little more neatly, but the bit about carelessly blinding incoming pilots was a fantastic detail, I’ll admit.

Pete Hegseth figured what this year’s D-Day commemoration needed was a little both-sidesing of the core ideological conflict. He was so pleased with the results, he accidentally excommunicated the entire Mormon faith from MAGA Christendom ahead of schedule, forgetting they’ll need Mike Lee’s vote during the coming impeachment trial/s.

Don’t forget to leave an offering of curdled mayonnaise on the counter overnight to thank Stephen Miller for protecting the homeland from the ever-looming threat of Somali soccer referees. People don’t remember how things used to be in this country. Roving bands, officiating at will. Why, there were entire neighborhoods where you couldn’t get away with unsporting behavior of any kind.

The various busloads of Antifas really earned their Soros funding this week, shuttling between paid riots at the Delaney Hall ICE facility in New Jersey and election-stealing operations in Los Angeles, where they tricked tens, if not hundreds of thousands of Spencer Pratt voters by making grabbing gestures near their faces, proclaiming “got your nose,” and refusing to return them until after polls had closed.

For years, scientists have lamented the lack of resources to investigate one of the human condition’s great unanswered questions: what would happen if the dorkiest white supremacist alive did a trillion dollars’ worth of ketamine? Well, lament no more! But do we possess instrumentation fine enough to document the new depths of cringe we’re about to unearth?

You know, if I get enough donations, I could be history’s second trillionaire. I promise to spend any money you send (via Venmo, PayPal, or Cash App!) on beer instead of space tourism or stealing food and medicine from hundreds of thousands of the most vulnerable among us.

Okay. As always, stay safe out there, and maybe follow @john_luzar and sign up on my email list while you’re staying safe out there. If you achieve a state of relatively reliable safety, why not ANSWER YOUR KICKSTARTER SURVEY so I can mail you the comic books you bought?

…because I’m about to sell you another comic book, y’know…

Seems like only yesterday he dreamed of joining the titans of history. Alexander. Napoleon. The sort of dudes who make it into Bill & Ted movies, y’know? He was gonna tariff the entire world into submission and conquer Greenland and deport anybody who complained to a Salvadoran torture gulag.

Ah, but even the stooges stop talking about third terms when you’re racking up rewards points at Walter Reed, where the 10th cognitive exam is free.

The mean ol’ courts won’t let him incarcerate protesters or violate transgender troops’ civil rights or even strike down a single flag bearing the four digits every loyal antifa foot soldier uses as a PIN: 86 47.

Plus, given the Kennedy Center’s gleeful embrace of their court-ordered reverse enshittification, we’re about to kick off the statue-toppling/scraping-your-filthy-name-off-shit phase of American history, several years ahead of schedule.

Okay, so maybe “Napoleon” isn’t on the table, realistically. Maybe you don’t get to be one of the “great men.” But don’t you feel like one every time you belittle that lady reporter?

Never lasts, though…does it?

Because suddenly the long-docile Republican Senate majority refuses to fund one itty-bitty ballroom, let alone a triumphal arch or a $1.8 billion slop trough for the dimmest bulbs in the domestic terror firmament. (Losing that money hurts cuz ninety-seven different Capitol rioters have legal fees to deal with from the crimes they committed after receiving all that clemency.)

Gee whiz! It was already hard enough to see a path to any sort of desirable legacy before the swelling spread to his eyes.

So, uh, hey, I got an idea! What if we leave this UFC ring up on the White House lawn forever? A UFC ring can be a legacy, right? OOO! Plus, what if we bulldoze the Statue of Liberty? Less competition that way.

“Y’know, the pool I had renovated is longer than some buildings are tall!”

…is it? Huh. That’s…very nearly interesting.

Oh, and you…you had a chart made? Aw. I’m sure Susie can find room on the fridge, next to the mockup of that $250 bill with your face on it that you’re also not getting.

There’s no need for such fleeting, earthly trinkets anyway. Believe me, between the screwworm and the measles and the whooping cough and the bedbugs and the Ebola, your place in history is secure. A biography composed of parasites and diseases feels entirely appropriate, in fact.

No need to worry about such things, surely. Why, the doctors tell us he has the energy of a rapist half his age. So everybody hopefully typing “cankles” plus “narcolepsy” plus “death splotch on back of hands” into the WebMD search bar can go kick rocks now that Marco Rubio has clarified that the president isn’t actually nodding off in all those meetings, but merely pining for the fjords.

Nah, the regime’s about to turn this whole thing around, now that the second-string kakistocrats are ascending to power. Assuming these trajectories hold, by this time next year, Blanche and Pulte will have flamed out in turn, and Nick Fuentes will be named acting DNI, while DOJ is run by an AI chatbot trained personally by Stephen Miller only to hate.

The Iran War, stubbornly lacking in ballrooms, remains way too boring to pay attention to, especially with so many tantalizing young athletes flitting about with their distracting physiques.

Speaking of the ballroom (and the president may safely be assumed to be speaking about the ballroom unless he is asleep, which, WELL), donors have helped themselves to $50 billion worth of government contracts in just the last six months. So populism is still going according to plan; thanks for asking.

Things really are gonna be different around here, though. Freshly discarded lackeys Bill Cassidy, Thom Tillis, and John Cornyn are finally gonna stand up to this Trump fellow, really put him in his place, show the world what REAL conservatives’re made of…just as soon as they’re done giving him 70 billion extra dollars for his masked secret police force.

According to the latest Two Minutes Hate, Harley-Davidson is woke and gay now, so if you have purchased one of their products, you are obligated to post a video to social media of yourself destroying it, with a crowbar or an assault rifle or a flamethrower, or, if you’re Kid Rock, perhaps you can get the “Secretary of War” to loan you an Apache.

…if he’s not too busy banning journalists from the press room at the Pentagon, that is. That’s right, replacing the actual press corps with blogging incels proved insufficient to shield Petey’s multitudinous mediocrities from the world, so further measures were deemed necessary.

According to the gossip columns, Greg Bovino has elected to summer on the continent, offering nurse-murdering seminars to eager young white nationalists in Portugal before embarking on a tour of camps and bunkers. I imagine he’ll avoid Albania.

Unusually stable geniuses within the Minnesota GOP hit upon the idea of observing a moment of silence for Derek Chauvin at their convention. While public backlash caught party officials off guard, I’m told plans for a commemorative bobblehead have been shelved.

In conclusion, America remains frabjuously great again. Please enjoy your flesh-eating parasites and bedbugs, those traditional harbingers of golden ages.

I’d certainly prefer to keep any organisms subsisting on my blood suitably soused, so feel free to contribute to my beer fund, via Cash App, Venmo, or PayPal, if you are so inclined. There’s an email list you can join at showercapblog.com, as well as a Xwitter account you can follow. As always…stay safe out there, okay?

Oh, and get ready for the second smash issue of GENERAL WASHINGTON AND THE LIBERTY TREE, my epic superhero saga about All This Shit, coming soon to Kickstarter!

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Hello, friends. Forgive my longer-than-expected absence. It’s just that, well, I fancy myself something of a humorist, and to wind up so overwhelmingly, effortlessly out-satired by the very target of my ridicule…it’s been humbling.

“Dumocrats”

GOD, IT WAS RIGHT THERE!

“You take the E out. You don’t use the B,” Trump said. “They are Dumocrats. You know why? Because their policies are dumb.”

I think we can skip the cognitive screening this week, Walter Reed! Although if he’s already there for the cankles or the death splotch or the narcolepsy or the incontinence, I suppose you may as well. He’s always so pleased with himself after the bit with the animal drawings, and wins are getting harder and harder to come by these days.

Sloppy old fop’s neglecting the economy he wrecked and the war he botched to focus on his birthday party, and he can’t even pull that shit off.

Technically it’s America’s birthday party, but spoilers: any and all presents are destined for Mar-a-Lago restrooms. For example, officials from the Department of Idolatry propose a new $250 bill, intended as legal tender for all bribes, hush money payments, and tariffs on imported Russian hooker pee…guess whose face is on it?

When your starting point is The Best We Could Do is Milli Vanilli, you’d think there’d be no way to sink any lower, but these people are impossible to underestimate. Looks like the nation is in for a deep dive into Vanilla Ice’s oeuvre, because apparently Bret Michaels is washing his hair that night.

The humiliation somehow hasn’t slowed the remodeling bender. Shoot, they’re spending so much money gilding and/or rubberizing everything in sight I worry there won’t be enough left in the Treasury to compensate those poor domestic terrorists for that justice they all too briefly faced.

And we wouldn’t want to cheat any insurrectionist child molesters out of their settlements, would we? Shoot, I’d volunteer to pay extra taxes if I weren’t getting fucked six ways from Sunday by the tariffs and the war and the inflation and the corruption.

Although I think I saw someplace that the Iran War ended in total, glorious victory, and hey, if we have to pay a massive bribe to reopen that one strait that was already open before the war we started, just remember the preferred denomination is “pallets of cash.”

Luckily we can afford all these payouts to theocratic regimes and violent seditionists and horse statue gilders because of how strong the economy is. Pay no attention to the inflation report behind the curtain, please. Or to the consumer sentiment survey in the coat closet. It goes without saying how impolite it would be to mention the revised GDP numbers protruding from beneath the bed in the guest room.

No, all things are both hunky and dory. In fact, war is so fun n’ easy we might just blow up Oman next. They got any o’ them “straits” in Oman? Somebody oughta check on that.

You know you’re living in a healthy democracy when Cabinet meetings contain enough ass-kissing to merit statistical analysis. In this day and age, one probably shouldn’t write “it turns out Marco Rubio has the brownest nose,” but the numbers don’t lie.

Speaking of the Cabinet, it seems Markwayne Mullin is finally getting his jackboots under him, rolling out a breathtakingly idiotic plan to divert international flights from (blue) cities who fail to show sufficient deference to the nurse-murdering agents of ICE. We’re lucky the Dumocrats aren’t in charge because they might prioritize the economy over spite, and then where would we be?

I enjoyed my first night of sound sleep in I don’t know how long, secure in the knowledge that steely justice had FINALLY caught up with public enemy number one, E. Jean Carroll. I don’t understand how people can bring children into a world where a woman can sue Donald Trump JUST BECAUSE he raped her.

I’m kinda sad I missed my chance to say Well, Bye to Tulsi Gabbard and Bill Cassidy, but at least I made it back in time for the sad, sputtering end of John Cornyn’s long, feckless meander through the halls of power. John may not’ve been much of a senator, but perhaps we should judge him as a walking exemplar of the theory that weak men create hard times.

Despite rare squawks of independence, Cornyn was a reliable enough stooge, but I guess he just hadn’t helped enough child molesters evade justice to suit the Texas Republican primary electorate. No, Ken Paxton, fraudster, adulterer, traitor, and cake thief, proved more to their liking. They take their Christianity real serious down there.

And James Talarico may not’ve put any pedophiles back on the street or betrayed any constitutions, but he sure is a sissy and a nancy boy and lots of other things I can’t quite say again yet, but just you wait till term three, libtard.

Yes, the Texas Senate race is to be a referendum on masculinity. Stephen Miller and Jesse Watters have convinced themselves of that ground’s favorability, and I am not inclined to interrupt them. Especially amusing of Miller to appoint himself keeper of that particular gate, given that he’s such an ugly little fuck.

Cosmetically, of course, he’s like if a wax dummy of a Xenomorph jerked off on Eva Braun’s ashen remains, but the real ugliness is inside.

Katie Miller hoped to ride the week’s discussion of her mate’s ugly fuckhood to the MAGA griftosphere celebrity that has thus far eluded her, but earned only mockery. I imagine it’s tough to get ahead when everyone assumes you have some horrifying STD that only an exorcist can cure.

A federal judge ordered the Dotard’s filthy name scraped off the Kennedy Center, triggering an unusually embarrassing meltdown from the all-time career leader in embarrassing meltdowns. He may launch nuclear strikes if his new man-crush (NY Giants QB Jaxson Dart) doesn’t return his increasingly desperate texts.

Rapist Jr. must’ve inherited Daddy’s deal-making genes. How else do you explain the uncanny foresight to randomly invest in a random startup that randomly received a $620 million loan from the Pentagon after random arm-twisting from a random White House official named, like, I wanna say Ron Vara?

Following Kash Patel’s thirsty hockey incursion, professional sports teams have learned to dork-proof their locker rooms, and thus was Vivek Ramaswamy repelled from the New York Knicks’ victory party. The impulse to glom onto someone who doesn’t spend their days marinating in loserstink is certainly understandable in this political climate.

Shit, it wasn’t so long ago we were a superpower. We won two world wars and put a man on the freakin’ moon. One game show host later, we’re such a shithole that Milli Vanilli backs out of our semiquincentennial.

Lordy.

Okay. I would once again like to gently remind any Kickstarter backers who have yet to answer their surveys to please do so that I might mail you the comics you bought! They are wonderful comics, and I want you to read them for many reasons, not the least of which is that it’s just about time to start promoting the Kickstarter for issue #2.

If you can’t wait that long to send me money, I understand completely and have established a tip jar accepting PayPal, Cash App, and Venmo for just such emergencies. You are also welcome to join my email list and to follow @john_luzar. No matter what, please-o-please stay safe out there, old chum…

“He’s been talking recently about how he is the most powerful person to ever live.”

Everybody working in the one-sentence horror story field can go ahead and retire.

On balance, I’m cheering for the brain rot to outrace the megalomania, though I suppose if Philadelphia winds up nuked, it doesn’t really matter whether the Mad King targeted his enemies or simply confused the football with the TV remote.

Yes, the news from the presidential cognition front remains rather grim, I’m afraid. The old poop can no longer remember the names of even the countries he’s started wars with, but you can’t expect What if Genghis Khan Were a Game Show Host to focus on such petty details.

No sooner had I composed the preceding paragraph than Grandpa mashed out the latest stanza of the epic poem he’s perpetually composing, praising his mastery of the dementia screening exams he’s taking with increasing regularity for…reasons.

Perhaps he can be convinced to dazzle us all with a command performance at the next Cabinet meeting.

“Person.”

Tulsi Gabbard ooohs a little too loudly.

“Woman.”

Not to be outdone, Marco Rubio begins to moan, as if aroused sexually.

“Man.”

Lutnick can no longer contain himself. YOU ARE LIKE UNTO A GOD, SIR, he bleats, collapsing to the floor, convulsing and speaking in tongues.

“Ca…ca…capybara? Toyota Camry?”

“Camera, sir!” whispers JD Vance ingratiatingly.

“Cameraaaaa…” And though the president nods off before getting anywhere near that fifth word, the room erupts in a standing ovation that doesn’t die down, even when Fox cuts away forty-five minutes later. We eventually learn that Markwayne Mullin was ultimately the first to stop clapping when he is entombed alive in the foundation of the ballroom.

Well, we knew he was a snake when we handed him back the nuclear codes. A snake and a rapist and a con man and a white supremacist and a sleep-farter and very possibly the single dumbest human being alive on the planet right now.

It hasn’t worked out, on a variety of levels. Levels like “inflation” and “civil liberties.” The illegitimate wingnut Supreme Court majority took their expected next bite out of the VRA, and Republicans throughout the South are already planning coming-home parties for Jim Crow.

Even Trump’s assassination attempts are shabby. Some dipshit rando who never got anywhere near his supposed target, even without the highest security protocols in place? How many of those did Obama shrug off? But then, Obama’s not a wuss.

WAHHHHHHHH YOU HAVE TO BUILD ME A BALLROOM NOW!!!

What? Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he’s obsessing over his Barbie Dreamhouse rather than designating the Democrat Party a terrorist organization, but this is not the conclusion of a well-ordered mind.

The entire institutional GOP swiftly agreed that yes, the tariff-and-war-battered American taxpayer should most definitely be forced to buy the billionaire grifter an oligarch-cave to prance about in. Given that polling shows voters are furious about the cost of living and understand full well who’s to blame, I think you kids should worry less about gerrymandering and more about guillotines.

Anyway, I say let the old fop build it. We’re clearly lurching towards a Norma Desmond-y climax here, and the moment demands an appropriate set. It all comes to a head during history’s least comfortable daddy-daughter dance.

Whatsamatter, strongman? Can’t even get a late-night television host suspended, let alone fired, anymore? Caved completely to Thom Tillis’ lame duck power play with Powell? Forced to pull your whackjob surgeon general nominee?

Why it’s almost like you’ve peaked. (Perhaps that’s what that smell is.)

I dunno, man. If you’re the most powerful person in history, why is your head stuck in that paper bag?

Like, the public hates the tariffs. The Supreme Court says the tariffs aren’t legal. The Dotard rolls out replacement super-tariffs, mostly for spite. This is a head-stuck-in-a-paper-bag-level problem.

Okay, so the Iran war is a little trickier.

Although I’m hearing it’s “terminated” now. I tried to explain to the fellow at the gas station how our studly coMANder in chief had so decisively terminated the war, but he still refused to lower the price. I thought I could get him to compromise, maybe toss in a Slim Jim for free, but no dice.

Oh, I see. That was just bullshit to avoid complying with the War Powers Act. Of course, by the time Alina Habba gets laughed out of court trying to defend it, Hegseth will have authorized a secret bombing campaign in Cambodia.

We should hang “Kid Rock Addressing the Pentagon” in the museum of our madness. You probably scrolled right past it at first. Dismissed it as AI or maybe an Onion article about the next phase of the Cabinet purge. “And a substantial upgrade, I’d say!” you chuckled smugly to yourself, enjoying being in on the joke, but no, it’s real. Of course it’s real.

No doubt the Secretary of War picked out extra-fun socks for the occasion. Lookit Pete, fangirling around in a helicopter with the visionary artist behind no less than three of Rolling Stone’s “Top Ten Albums to Do Meth To.”

All in all, I’ve been feeling pretty smug about the midterms, but that was before the greatest political mind of an era hit upon the idea of tacking the word “national” onto the front of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, so that the next time a nurse gets gunned down in the street for exercising their constitutional rights, it’ll be a masked, unaccountable NICE agent doing the gunning.

I mean…how’re you supposed to fight a branding genius?

I see the Golfing for Blood Money show is getting cancelled. Cutting into the journalist-dismembering House of Saud’s bonesaw budget, I’m told.

If you’ve ever wanted a drawing of a rapist on your passport, have I got news for you! In fact, your government has been spending god knows how much of your money to slap this rapist’s face on everything from banners to national park passes to, well…your money.

It’s for America’s 250th birthday, y’see. That’s entirely traditional, by the way. Nobody ever makes it to their 250th wedding anniversary, but if they did, you’re supposed to give them like, a painting or a tapestry or a cute little framed cross-stitch of a rapist. That one goes way back. To like, Two Corinthians.

Jimmy Comey thought he’d get away with selling seashells by the seashore, but he’ll pick his next peck of pickled peppers in prison, if Todd Blanche has anything to say about it.

They’re apparently talking about relaunching The Apprentice, starring Don Jr., for anyone who wants to watch foreign governments bribe the smooth-braindest of all possible nepo babies in order to procure U.S. government contracts.

And from there, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to History’s Next Most Powerful Person to Ever Live…

You can go ahead and play the Twilight Zone outro under that one.

Okay, friends. I’m gonna take next week off to catch up on comic book stuff. If you enjoy these rants, feel free to help me stock the beer fridge for this working staycation via PayPal, Cash App, or even Venmo. I’ve got an email list and a Xwitter account for those who remain unsatiated.

SPEAKING OF COMIC BOOK STUFF…I am still missing a bunch of Kickstarter surveys! Can’t send you your comics if I don’t know your address! Oh, and if you missed GENERAL WASHINGTON AND THE LIBERTY TREE #1, maybe just maybe there’s a whole new Kickstarter for #2 just around the corner…

Stay safe out there so you can find out, okay?

It’s hard to believe we were ever frightened of MAGA, watching them lie, broken, incontinent, and whinging, on the battlefield they themselves so enthusiastically selected. Mid-decade redistricting blew up in their dumb, dumb faces, just like the tariffs and the masked police thugs and the war, for they are stupid people with bad ideas.

And while it’s crucial we continue the rout until every last one of these dorks has been driven into the sea, I think it’s also important to take a moment to savor the lamentation of their women.

Because they wanted to come off all badass and inevitable, right? Gonna fire whoever and invade wherever and if you don’t like it, we’ll deport you to a foreign torture prison or maybe just gun you down in the street, FUCK AROUND N’ FIND OUT, LIBTARDZZZZZZZ…

…

…

…but then the clock strikes midnight and the coach turns back into a pumpkin and the footmen turn back into mice (well, rats) and instead of a beautiful princess in an enchanted dress you’re looking at a never particularly bright old man suffering from late-stage brain rot while failing to adequately appreciate those precious, fleeting final weeks of sphincter control.

And suddenly your long-term prospects seem less secure. Suddenly Grandpa can’t even whip up enough sycophantic fervor to purge a state-level party. Suddenly things’re so bad, voters want Democrats in charge of the economy, and you start to wonder, “Perhaps it is I who have FAed and must now FO?”

Anyway, the Iran War/Special Military Excurjamagig is going…well, who the fuck knows? One Ayotallah keeps issuing maniacal claims utterly divorced from reality and immediately disproven; the other hasn’t been seen in weeks.

It’s actually damn near impossible to figure out what’s going on. Last time I checked the official White House social media accounts, they claimed Iran had been cast into the Phantom Zone, and thus doomed to a nightmarish, eternal half-life, but even Newsmax hasn’t verified that one yet, so who can say?

Must be going well, or the Dotard wouldn’t be attempting to award himself the Medal of Honor. War should have more shiny baubles and fewer, like…irreversible geopolitical catastrophes to blunder recklessly into, don’t you think?

At least our brave warfighters can look forward to beefing up their dwindling rations with a side order of influenza, thanks to the ongoing heroism of the fellow from all those (ironically non-viral) push-up videos.

We were told Dear Leader rescued eight of the hottest women in all of Iran, seriously, 7.5s and above, from a burning building (that was burning because he bombed it), but the medieval theocracy says it never happened, and the whole thing probably turns out to be some sort of digital honeypot op to facilitate further generation of AI Lego propaganda content.

He’s gonna need those Iranian women at that big, big negotiation that’s just around the corner. With Saint Peter, right? Old man, you blew up a fucking school. You think that kind of blood washes off?

I see the generals’re cutting him out of the loop again; that’s a positive development. Might be best to load his calendar up with ballroom minutiae, maybe slip a cankling agent into the Diet Coke supply to nudge things along.

Look, I understand the president must be kept in a bubble snug enough to permit him the authority to rewrite the fundamental laws of mathematics on a whim, but if somebody could steer the old coot back to objective reality (and keep him awake) long enough to address the fertilizer crisis before it metastasizes into a starvation crisis, that’d be peachy keen.

As for the energy crisis, while I’m anything but happy about what I’m paying at the pump, I’ve decided to live vicariously through the United Arab Emirates’ bailout. As a lowly U.S. citizen and taxpayer, I naturally would never ask my president to prioritize my insignificant struggles over those of his billionaire autocrat business partners.

Honestly, for all the plebs’ bellyachin’, if you ask the grifters, times’re fucking fantastic. Turns out kakistocrats can get really quite creative when it comes to inventing excuses to dip into the federal treasury. A settlement here, a Pentagon contract there…before long, you’re looking at real money.

Who knew the United States government had so many potential profit centers? Why, there’re tens of millions to be made off sanctions relief alone. Probably not the best way to conduct international diplomacy, but that’s a problem for somebody who can look at their own right hand without contemplating death.

I assume the pardon pipeline is fully automated by now. Sure, give Ghislaine Maxwell one, why the fuck not? That’s gotta open at least one of the seven seals. Let’s get this party started.

Apparently you have to publicly swear fealty to the Big Lie before you’re allowed to chair the Federal Reserve now. So not all symptoms are improving, but the election nerds say there’s a solid chance we can get our democracy back up on its feet and into rehab as early as November, assuming nobody orders widespread nuclear strikes on blue cities.

…which Polymarket has at like, 36%, so we should be fine.

Always nice to see counterterrorism officials seeking “sugar daddies” online. Hard-working foreign intelligence operatives seeking to infiltrate the highest reaches of the United States government deserve a break now and then, too.

Lori Chavez-DeRemer resigned to spend more time with wine and strip joints. Devin Nunes is back on the job market, too; so if anybody has any pigs that need fucking, give him a look.

Sources tell me the leading candidate to replace Chavez-DeRemer as labor secretary is AI-generated bikini model Emily Hart, who, as a non-existent being created by an Indian med student to part horny wingnuts from their money, would rank among the most accomplished members of the president’s second-term Cabinet.

Instead of honoring our commitments to the Afghans who risked their lives to aid our nation’s cause, the Reich wants to ship them to Congo, a country in the middle of an existing refugee crisis, because such genuine, undeniable courage sorta undermines the whole “white supremacy” shtick. I’m sure the Stephen Millers of this world find their existence unbearable.

The visionary legal fabulists behind such classic assaults on American democracy as “Mike Pence can overturn the election” and “Jerome Powell runs a renovation ring out of the Fed” have somehow convinced themselves that they’re smart enough to frame the Southern Poverty Law Center as some secret, under-the-mask-in-a-Scooby-Doo-cartoon cabal financing a vast conspiracy to trick people into believing that racism exists.

Charlottesville was a hoax, y’see. Outside of the odd hate crime, anyway. Those pasty young men with the tiki torches all had (and have!) essentially normal-sized penises, no matter what you may’ve heard from the fake news media.

Anyway, I hear the FBI is staffing up as it completes a historic mission shift. Yeah, crime-fighting was already out, but obviously way more manpower will be required to protect Kash Patel’s reputation.

How much more? I mean, if we’re gonna need to hire federal agents to investigate every single journalist who ever gets a tip about Kash Patel doing something stupid, who’ll be left to farm and fly airplanes and such?

Now he’s suing The Atlantic over an admittedly humiliating profile of a dipshit drowning in his own mediocrity. And of course the fantasy of a discovery phase dances in the imagination like a ticket to the Wonka Factory. Probably won’t happen, but it sure didn’t take long to dig up those previous drunken arrests, huh?

Yeah, I don’t think we’re destined to lack for top-drawer content as the MAGA ragewad decomposes into its component turds. Their civil war is playing out more or less exactly as I’d have staged it with my action figures on the floor of my childhood closet.

NOW LAURA LOOMER AND CANDACE OWENS ARE FIGHTING RARRRRRRRRR! You smash the Nancy Mace doll and the Cory Mills doll together, making ‘splodey noises. Which is actually significantly more dignified than their real-life spat.

I dig that Dersho picked this of all moments to climb aboard the Titanic. The iceberg was an hour ago, bro; Leo’s halfway down the Mariana Trench by now.

Hey, if you contributed to the latest comic book Kickstarter and you have yet to respond to the shipping survey, I cannot mail you your comics! And I want you to have your comics! I made ‘em for you!

If you missed the last Kickstarter, well, we’re about to launch our scintillating second issue, so be on the lookout for news on that front.

In the meantime, feel free to buy your favorite masked blogger a beer (via Venmo, PayPal, or Cash App!), if you’re able. Or your second-favorite masked blogger anyway. C’mon, surely I crack the top five…

Bah. Well, stay safe out there all the same.

I’ve always been skeptical of American remakes of European projects, but I think this Hungarian election thing has potential. Let’s give it a massive budget. Brad Pitt in the Péter Magyar role. Spielberg directs, at least through the trials, at which point we hand the reins over to, say, a James Wan or an Eli Roth.

Tell Vicky Orbán to save some space on the trash heap of history; he’ll have plenty of company soon enough, especially now that he’s not around to launder Russian money for the American far Right. Why, with CPAC funding cut off, one wonders how Matt Schlapp will find dudes to molest.

Watching ‘em dance in the streets of Budapest, I feel like a child with his nose pressed to a department store window in the first reel of an old Xmas movie, longing for a bicycle he knows his parents can’t afford. And part of me wants to fast forward to the end, but then I’d miss three solid years of JD Vance stepping on rakes.

Fuck that. This is the fun part. Faust with Eyeliner, having fucked around, finds out. The rest of his life will revolve around failing to clean up his dipshit boss’ messes until he loses the big one and slinks away to the MAGA version of whatever happened to Mike Dukakis.

Can’t prop up a flailing autocrat, or negotiate an end to the Iran warscursion, or even draw a crowd at a TPUSA event. Dork.

And JD…you have not yet BEGUN to lose, little man.

Although I have to admit Iran completely capitulated, agreeing to every single one of the Turd Reich’s terms…according to Donnie Two Dolls’ social media posts, anyway. And sure, maybe that wasn’t technically “the truth,” but you’re just stuck in that outmoded way of thinking where you assume the government works for the citizenry, rather than insiders placing last-minute bets on Polymarket.

Why, you’re so out of touch, you probably think “corner stores” are real. And “groceries.” Have fun riding your horse-and-buggy to the waistcoat factory, nerd.

Well, the MAGA Reformation kicked off in earnest this week, when persons unknown affixed 95 sacrilegious memes to a men’s room stall door at Rate Field with what is believed to be a petrified raccoon penis.

The REAL Jesus, we’re told, thinks war is fun and easy and generally rad all around and also is a rapist. But at least he has awesome laser hands.

I like that they waited until his brain started leaking out of his ears to go full Jim Jones, y’know? You turn on the TV and see Dr. Oz saying the Dotard thinks Diet Coke cures cancer, then you flip to a different station, and there’s Troy Nehls saying he’s “almost the second coming.”

I wanna hear more about this dumbass messiah. “Drink this bleach, for it is my blood.”

So much blasphemy you’ll get tired of blasphemy. Even Marjorie Taylor Greene recognizes the “Antichrist spirit” at work here, but if there were any actual Christians within MAGA, this whole shitshow would’ve shut down after “Two Corinthians.”

But there aren’t, so it didn’t, which is how the whole dang United States military fell into the supremely subpar hands of a malevolent manchild who thinks Quentin Tarantino wrote the New Testament.

Naturally, they’re tripping over one another to offer the Pope Bible lessons. JD’s working up a lecture on the innate righteousness of blowing up schoolchildren, and Hannity gets whatever’s left.

To clarify, the aforementioned petrified raccoon penis was from RFK Jr.’s private collection of roadkill genitalia. I’d worry what future generations will think of us, but of course the AIs will wipe our misbegotten species out the moment they understand we placed a corpse-cock-carving clown in charge of our health care.

Hey you guys, Steve Bannon definitely didn’t piss himself. He smells like that all the time.

Showmanship is supposed to be his strongest suit, but the Offal in the Oval can no longer successfully stage so much as a DoorDash delivery. I bet this much-ballyhooed White House MMA fight turns out to be Hassett and Bessent Jell-O wrestling for a spot on the Federal Reserve Board.

Sure, the Oath Loaders n’ Glad Lads had their seditious conspiracy sentences commuted already, but their convictions are technically still in place, which causes all sorts of problems with their ICE applications, to say nothing of the chat rooms where they swap child pornography, so the “Justice” Department moved to un-prosecute them.

In their place, Tulsi Gabbard hopes to jail a whistleblower and a former intelligence community inspector general for stooging out the criminal conduct that triggered Fashy Daddy’s first impeachment. Or at least she’s going through the motions, hoping to stave off joining Noem and Bondi on the scrap heap for another week or two.

I wouldn’t worry. He’s far too distracted because the mean ol’ judiciary won’t let him build his precious ballroom, which is vital for national security because he’s picked out the prettiest dress for his cotillion. Seriously, you guys, Putin won’t be able to resist.

Maybe he can move his bunker to the triumphal arch, which is now planned to be a mega-tacky 250 feet high, complete with a gift shop and brothel. I’m all for it. The bigger the arch, the more satisfying the implosion video.

Pretty grim out there. I bet you could use a little palate cleanser, yeah? Cat video or some shit? OOOO, I know! Mike Johnson tried to legislate again; isn’t that adorable? Yeah, tried to extend FISA with his ever-shrinking majority. D’awwwwwww!

Plus John Eastman got disbarred and Wee Don had another lawsuit thrown out and one of the shittiest ICE agents from the Battle of Minneapolis got charged with second-degree aggravated assault.

It seems Lori Chavez-DeRemer has transformed the Department of Labor into a dating service for her father and husband. Those are two different people, incidentally. I feel the need to clarify, in a world where the HHS secretary cuts the weenies off dead animals. Morality is pretty fuckin’ fluid in the United States these days.

SPEAKING OF FLUID, HOLY FUCK I NEED A BEER.

Wanna buy me one? Click here; I take Cash App, Venmo, and PayPal!

Meanwhile, Kickstarter orders have started to ship! If you’ve received your comic books, I’d love to hear what you think! Unless you don’t like ‘em, in which case, keep your whore mouth shut!

That said, if you haven’t answered your Kickstarter survey, I can’t mail you your stuff, because I don’t have your address! Get on that! Also, join my email list, and follow @john_luzar! And for the luvva Pete, STAY SAFE OUT THERE!!!!!

PS – The latest Kash Patel nooz broke too late for me to write a gag. Something about being drinking buddies with Hegseth, probably, right?

When I saw him talking about killing a whole civilization, I just assumed he meant ours. That the Project 2025 termites had finally gnawed through enough support beams to bring the whole motherfucker down around our ears.

Then I remembered Donnie Dotard’s late-onset megalomania.

“Oh right! We handed command of the most awesome goddamn military force in human history to an amoral narcissist who grows more desperate to rewrite his legacy with each fresh application of concealer to the ever-expanding death splotch on his left hand.”

“Open the Fuckin’ Strait, you crazy bastards, or you’ll be living in Hell,” he mashed out with his stunted, ineffectual fingers, no doubt hoping random miscapitalizations would make his madman act seem extra madman-y.

And maybe Catturd was impressed, but the Iranians sure weren’t. If their centuries-old culture did indeed face genocide, at least they’d troll their annihilator with surprisingly amusing AI Lego videos first. And let me say, I was already plenty ashamed of my country before we lost a meme war to medieval theocrats.

He needed a little help from Pakistan to chicken out this time, but Power Plant Day and Bridge Day are best left unobserved, don’t you think? I never know what to bring to the parties. War crimes? Olive oil? Maybe I’ll just hang out in the corner and watch the Ayatollah play with his new toy.

Yes, this holiday season, every autocrat in your life will be clamoring for a Strait of Hormuz of their very own. Who needs more than two dolls when you can make the global economy dance to your merest whim? Why, even the President of the United States of America can’t help but fantasize about all that sweet, sweet toll revenue.

…all he has to do is work out the details with the religious fanatic whose father he killed. How hard could it be for the master dealmaker? I’ve already preordered the challenge coin.

Until then, we’ll just have to tide ourselves over with all this inflation. Luckily, there’s plenty to go ‘round.

Everybody assumes our “next conquest” will be the invasion of Cuba, or maybe even Greenland, but my money’s on the Vatican. That’s right, if this so-called Pope insists upon preaching peace, Uncle Sam might have to get Avignon on his anointed ass.

Although at the rate we’re going, there won’t be any military left to do the conquerin’. Shit, if Hegseth keeps purging the Pentagon of all personnel more impressive than himself, who’ll do the vacuuming, for starters?

Am I a hypocrite for wanting peace in the Middle East while simultaneously hoping this MAGA civil war slides into mutually assured destruction territory as soon as humanly possible? Trump, Tucker, Candace, Megyn, Alex Jones…let’s dig these kids some trenches and let ‘em work their shit out. There’s gotta be some old mustard gas lying around someplace, right?

JD Vance flew to Hungary to campaign for Viktor Orbán, because convincing an electorate to sign on for a second helping of shit is integral to his own political future. Oddly, the Vice President declined to visit any other NATO allies on his trip, just the flailing Putin puppet. Hmm. And his speeches are usually such big hits on th’continent, too.

I suppose I should be madder to see Russian propagandists cavorting around the White House lawn at the Easter Egg Roll, but if you really wanna spend your leisure time around a decomposing rapist while he rants at children about the autopen, knock yourselves out, dorks.

Turd Reich apparatchiks probably shouldn’t place too much faith in their boss’ (alleged) promise to hand out blanket pardons on the way out the door, because there’s no fucking way the old man’s reading and writing skills survive another three years.

Acting AG Todd Blanche will love him no matter what, though. But not in a Fatal Attraction sort of way, or…y’know what? In an extremely Fatal Attraction sort of way, actually. Don’t tell Lindsey Graham, or the battle for the spot at the foot of the bed might get bloody.

After a reeeeeeeal rough stretch, it looks like Bryon Noem is finally back on the path to a quiet, simple life of normalcy and digniOPE, NEVER MIND.

Goddammit, Donald Trump didn’t launch a 200-front trade war just so Donald Trump could build his ballroom out of European steel! Or wait, since the aforementioned Eurosteel was clearly a bribe to get out from under tariffs, maybe the system is working precisely as intended. MURICA FIRST!

Melania wants you to know that Jeffrey Epstein didn’t swap her to the Donald for fifty bucks and a case of beer. Called a whole-ass press conference to say so, in fact. Say, speaking of the Epstein files, wasn’t there something about a game show host sexually assaulting a 13-year-old girl? I wonder whatever happened to that guy…

Marjorie Taylor Greene seems to know! I wasn’t exactly a fan of Marj’s work in Congress, but I think she’s found her calling. If she keeps it up, I say we let her fire the space laser. Just once. On her birthday, maybe.

The CDC doesn’t want the public to know that Covid vaccines work, which strikes me as maybe not the most efficient way of controlling diseases, though I suppose we should be thankful they’re not promoting ivermectin. Or bleach.

The regime announced the end of the U.S. Forest Service, which is obsolete now that we understand all of our woodlands’ problems can be solved with six or seven brooms.

A little light this week because THE NEW COMIC BOOK ARRIVED FROM THE PRINTERS!

That’s right, GENERAL WASHINGTON AND THE LIBERTY TREE #1 is here! In fact, it’s ALL OVER MY APARTMENT, as I prepare packages for shipping!

Now, because I am not necessarily the brightest masked blogger on the block, I neglected to send out my Kickstarter backer surveys until this week. So if you haven’t already, check your email for your survey so I can get your rewards shipped to you!

And if you didn’t back the last Kickstarter, FEAR NOT, because GENERAL WASHINGTON AND THE LIBERTY TREE #2 is riiiiiiiiiight around the corner!

But if you just can’t wait to give me some of your money, why not toss a few bucks into the ol’ tip jar (via Cash App, PayPal, or Venmo) to keep me in beer while I work? Joining the email list and following @john_luzar are still free, of course! Thanks for reading, and stay safe out there, friend-o…

“Trump officials cite white supremacists in bid to end birthright citizenship”

Gross.

And we shrug. “Sounds like something the United States government would do, yeah.”

That said, I think the last year or so conclusively disproves the concept of white supremacy and all theories flowing from it. That science is fuckin’ settled. If I had just two words to describe life under the thumb of this new master race, they wouldn’t be “golden age,” y’know? Maybe “turd geyser” or something.

And surprise, surprise, all the latest polling confirms historic majorities now identify as Just About Done With This Shit, Thanks For Asking.

Maybe the American people don’t want to be great again. I mean sure, shockwaves from the self-inflicted fuel crisis reverberate further throughout the economy damn near hourly, but the imaginary marker negotiations have never gone better.

Folks’re mad at Paula White for comparing the world’s most famous rapist to Jesus Christ, but honestly, what deals did Jesus ever make? Nailed to a cross for OTHER people’s sins? Definitely on the sucker/loser spectrum.

Did Jesus ever take one single cognitive test? And the Bible would absolutely mention that, because they’d want you to know how smart He is.

Why, I bet there isn’t any evidence at all of Jesus sexually assaulting a 13-year-old girl, let alone new evidence corroborating existing testimony. Unlike some people I could mention.

Hey, somebody tell Pam Bondi to keep an eye out for any stray Epstein files while she’s cleaning out her desk. Yes, the Pamster is leaving us for the private sector, where rumor has it she’ll be replacing either Diamond or Silk whichever one died who cares?

Didn’t take long for Pam to find her place in history, I see. I’m sure it was super worth it. Who needs a soul, anyway?

And so the weighty task of smearing the halls of justice with poo now falls to another. Perhaps Lee Zeldin or Alina Habba, who I’m told is reading at a seventh-grade level now.

The most intriguing possibility is Judge Jeanine, who has apparently been angling for the gig all along. Yeah, every time she got laughed out of court by a grand jury, she was actually auditioning for a promotion. Kakistocracy seems funny from the outside sometimes, but I think it’s important that we respect their culture.

The defenestration ritual is, of course, central to a religion that worships such a subpar deity. A steady stream of high priests must be excommunicated/immolated to maintain the illusion that there’s anybody anywhere in the whole damn cult that doesn’t absolutely suck.

Tulsi’s next, we’re told, or Lutnick, or perhaps even Hegseth.   

Oh right, the war!

Historically, it’s been traditional to determine war aims before the commencement of the actual war, but we don’t go for your fancy, coastal, elitist “planning” shit ‘round these parts.

We’re trying out more of a going-in-guns-blazing, murdering-hundreds-of-children, inadvertently-gifting-our-adversary-a-massive-financial-windfall kind of thing these days. Don’t worry, we’re safe in the hands of dudes who think we won Vietnam.

Oh well. At least we taught this new Ayatollah how to take the global economy hostage whenever he wants.

Poor Donnie. Pete swore fighting a war in the Middle East was a simple matter of doing push-ups until the enemy fled the field in the face of your fearsome swoleness, and he was wearing his trustworthiest socks at the time, too.

Personally, I think Pete’s taking the blame for the shortcomings of the U.S. military, which is warfighting far too wokely, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Why, despite ongoing purges, some of the officers are still women, or even Black. How’s a fellow supposed to blow up schools under such conditions?

Shucks, how’s he supposed to bomb a whole country “back to the Stone Age” when they keep stubbornly shooting down our planes with those air defenses we totally annihilated weeks ago?

You know, I bet when he sent his broker out on that war profiteering bender, it was more “invest in companies that produce ticker tape for parades” than “back manufacturers of cutting-edge military tech because the idiot Defense Secretary has an established history of making massively expensive mistakes.”

Anyway, while the Dotard managed to get through his little war address without shitting his pants or declaring war on NATO, larger issues, such as “Wait, why the fuck are we even doing this?” and “Could this guy tell a cow apart from a horse right now if his life depended on it?” remain.

Still, I think we should give the boys this trillion and a half dollars they’re asking for. Why spend money on health care, housing, and education when the two biggest dipshits in the history of narcissism have so many war crimes yet to commit and so many messianic delusions yet to explore?

We just gotta find ourselves a new war aim is all. Something manageable. Find some low-level cleric willing to finance the delivery of a single burrito, via helicopter, to Kid Rock’s house, spike the football, and get the fuck out.

The Offal in the Oval took another flaccid swipe at our constitutional rights with an executive order on voting rights that isn’t expected to survive contact with any federal judge not named Aileen Cannon. I look forward to explaining all the nuances to the masked secret policeman at my polling station.

Speaking of ICE, they’re allegedly setting up shop outside Marine Corps graduation ceremonies in South Carolina, not, as you might imagine, to demonstrate their world-renowned water bottle handing-out skills, but to poke around amidst the assembled families for brown people to kidnap. Have fun in Iran, grads!

The wily Eric Swalwell narrowly eluded the FBI’s clutches when, at the pivotal moment, just as he was about to procure concrete evidence of Swalwell’s many crimes, which are big and serious and so, so real, Director Patel was forced to pause operations to wait for a jacket that fit.

A planned operation to deploy the president himself to intimidate the Supreme Court during oral arguments for the birthright citizenship case was forced to abort at the last minute when handlers feared a repeat of the notorious sleep-farting incident from his 2024 trial.

I don’t usually get emotionally invested in celebrity gossip, but I don’t think the Noems are going to make it, you guys. Maybe if Corey n’ Kristi make it legal, they’ll be permitted conjugal visits, which could provide necessary spice for the Oliver Stone biopic.

Aren’t you glad you’re not Bryon Noem? That dude is on the sort of run that seldom occurs outside of William H. Macy films.

And not to join the dogpile, but I’ve decided to run for Congress on a platform of a single piece of legislation mandating the replacement of every banner and statue and coin depicting Donald Trump with the already iconic image of poor Bryon, with his sad, broken eyes and immense, tragicomically misaligned falsies.

I just think it captures the spirit of MAGA more accurately, is all.

I see JD Vance has written a book about his faith. I’ll get to that one once I finish Josh Hawley’s book on manhood and that series of YouTube videos Dennis Hastert made offering tips for coaching high school wrestling.

Normally, there’s nothing I enjoy more than watching Donald Trump lose in court, but if these activist judges steal from us the cultural catharsis of tearing the fat bastard’s precious ballroom down brick by brick with our bare hands, I may be forced to exercise my constitutional right to riot.

In my fantasy, he’s holed up in that bunker beneath it, pissing his way through an adult diaper stockpile that was supposed to last decades in mere weeks, driven mad by the jubilant singing of a joyful nation diligently scraping through however many feet of solid steel. With spoons if necessary, you piece of crap.

With spoons.

So yeah, if you still believe in white supremacy after watching these pasty dorks at work, I don’t know what to tell ya. I do have some NFTs for sale that you may be interested in, however.

Okay, that’s enough for one week. I promise to spend any donations on beer rather than self-aggrandizing memoirs composed by unimpressive hypocrites, so donate freely via Venmo, PayPal, or Cash App as you see fit. Join the cool kids on my email list, or @john_luzar, and stay safe out there, old chum…

PS, we’ve got an update on that guy from last week who says he teleported. Turns out, he didn’t. Imagine that.