Welp, pretty normal day, honestly. Of course, lately “normal” means “a complete and total failure of government has left the United States utterly paralyzed before a pandemic much of the rest of the world has contained, also there’s a debate about whether or not to get a bunch of children killed,” so y’know…context is everything, really.

In an attempt to address his relative weakness with younger voters, Smilin’ Joe Biden hacked Lil’ Donnie-Two Scoops’ Twitter account and threatened to ban TikTok, a move sure to increase youth turnout this Novem-wait, what? He actually said it himself? Out loud? That Trump boy doesn’t have a lick of sense.

So, word on the street is, the Republican National Convention might be closed to the press, leaving America to wonder whether this is another example of the GOP’s slide into speech-crushing fascism, or just a handful of event planners trying to keep the Herman Cain count down this time. I say, why’s it gotta be “or?”

Tantalizing new filings out of the Manhattan district attorney’s office suggest a certain Grand Wizard Grifter is under investigation for even biglier crimes than we initially thought, including bank and insurance fraud, and if somebody could get Nate Silver to work up a model projecting the odds that my dearest wish is someday granted, meaning America actually gets to watch this sphincter-mouthed Nazi pig die in prison, I’d be eternally grateful. Ok, I’d be grateful for a day or two, but you’d probably get a six-pack out of it, anyway.

You could be forgiven for losing track of precisely which sorts of mail-in voting are dastardly antifa assaults on our very way of life and which are the pride and joy of every patriotic ‘Murican. One minute Strawberry Shartcake balls up his tiny, inadequate fists and whines about the new Nevada law which will automatically send a mail-in ballot to every voter, the next he’s begging his dwindling base of Florida Men to pretty please vote by mail, because what’s bad in Nevada is awesome in Florida for Reasons Which Definitely Exist. This apparent hypocrisy bothers the president nearly as much as the coronavirus death toll, which is to say not at all.

Merritt Corrigan is confused. The whole reason she was invited to join the Turdmaggot Administration in the first place, despite her glaring lack of qualifications, is that it’s a white supremacist hate cult, full of mediocre bigots like herself, and now she’s been fired for hate speech? “Consistency is all I ask!” Corrigan bellowed, just kidding she tweeted a whole bunch of profoundly heinous shit and, of course, proclaimed herself The Real Victim. Bye, Merritt!

Hey, speaking of Th’Best People, President Crotchrot’s attempt to get some drooling loon called Anthony Tata confirmed to an important Pentagon gig fell apart when Tata’s penchant for tinfoil-hat deep state conspiracy theories and virulent Islamophobia got outed in the media. Unfortunately, because we’re in After Three Years in Office the One Thing I’ve Learned is How Slowly the Fucking Courts Work mode now, Shartboy deployed a little bureaucratic razzle-dazzle to bypass Senate confirmation and give the skeevy creep essentially the same job. The lame-duck days will just be crime for crime’s sake, running naked through the halls of the Smithsonian, defacing national treasures with ketchup and spray paint, feverishly screeching, “Made it Ma! Top of the world!” until he’s tackled by security.

Hey, have you filled out the census yet? I mention this because Team Treasonweasel suddenly decided to cut the Census Bureau’s field operations off a month earlier than planned, probably to give Stephen Miller more time to personally burn forms from urban zip codes. Seriously though, these evil fucks are doing their damndest to leave a big fat white supremacist stain in the fabric of American governance, one we won’t get a chance to wash out for ten long years. Don’t let ‘em get away with it. Fill out your dang census!

Look, if the ever-growing corpse mountain isn’t enough to convince you that a second Trump term is the worst idea since George Lazenby drinking New Coke, maybe you need to get strapped into a chair and forced, Clockwork Orange-style, to watch Tangerine Idi Amin’s new interview with Axios’ Jonathan Swan until you scream, “Holy fuck, this visibly deteriorating wad of tanning lotion and resentment isn’t fit to serve as a Walmart greeter MY GOD WHAT HAVE WE DONE?”

Yes, Pumpkin Spice Pol Pot continues to express more empathy for a child sex trafficker than for the 160,000 killed by COVID-19, or their families, or any of the millions of Americans forced into unemployment by his murderous negligence. If you were to play video of his o-so-principled stand for Ghislaine Maxwell’s presumption of innocence alongside his “shit happens, I’m great” assessment of his coronavirus response at the Lincoln memorial, Honest Abe would double over and start puking blood-red marble.

The exchange on John Lewis exposed Gameshow Göring’s brokenness with a dramatist’s precision; how deeply, hopelessly warped do you have to be to distill that great life down to “he didn’t come to my inauguration?” I think we can lay to rest all those earnest arguments on the ethics of armchair psychiatric diagnosis, at least in this one extreme and extremely well-documented case; yes, the man is a narcissist, shit, I once found the myth of Narcissus implausibly allegorical, but now it hits me like kitchen-sink Arthur Miller realism.

Ugh. I guess we should talk about the bit with the charts. All the bad news is fake news, insisted the Marmalade Shartcannon, I assure you I’m one nasty nickname* away from taming the pandemic once and for all, and here are some carefully-tortured metrics I’d really like you trust over your own lying eyes. Like, how defective is the brain that believes a couple of Crayola-colored graphs will send the American people skipping back into restaurants and arenas, smiling from ear to ear as we take deep, joyous breaths, filling our lungs with the coronavirus which is Totally Under Control Trust Me? It’s like watching a child squinting his eyes super tight to prove he’s really asleep, only it’s less about staying up ten more minutes playing with your phone than getting human beings killed by the tens of thousands.

And yeah, the Dopey Dotard With Diminutive Digits can’t pronounce “Yosemite,” lacking familiarity, it seems, with both the national park and the cantankerous Bugs Bunny antagonist. This is a small story, yes, but the President of the United States should be able to pronounce “Yosemite.” The president should know, at the very least, the basic facts about the country that’re taught to every schoolchild (remotely, at least for now) and the president should like those things.

THE PRESIDENT SHOULD LIKE AMERICA! That’s what I’m reduced to screaming, alone in my apartment, as Election Day approaches. Strange days, Resisters…strange days.

Anyway, it’s President Obama’s birthday, and I hope he gets to celebrate his next one at Joe Biden’s new place, assuming they can ever get the smell of experimental hair tonic and overdone steak farts outta the joint.

Ok, that’s enough for now, I suppose. Guess I’ll get back to my mega-awesome life, trapped on my couch, waiting for either a vaccine or the peaceful transfer of power, whichever comes first. Wheeeeeeeeee.

*Crooked Covid? Nasty Nineteen? C’MON PEOPLE, THIS IS IMPORTANT!