​It’s time to move on

Time get goin’

What lies ahead I have no way of knowin’

But under my feet, baby, grass is growin’

It’s time to move on, time to get goin’

We’ll get to the fun stuff in a minute, but first, an announcement:

Readers with exceptional subtext-detecting skills have probably already deduced what I’m getting at from the preceding “rock music” lyric, though only the true, drawings-of-farm-animals-identifying cognitive elite.

To be direct, then: the time has come to set down the ceremonial bathrobe-and-luchador mask of my office and retire to a farm upstate where I’ll have plenty of room to run around.

Like most political humor bloggers, I import the lion’s share of my cankles jokes from sweatshops in the developing world, and these tariffs are fucking killing me.

Truth be told, after so many years of spending several hours daily staring directly into MAGA’s puckered butthole…I would very much like to look at other things. Things that suck less. Posies. Cat videos. Latte art.

I have been Very (VERY) Online for a very long time now, and I’m pretty sure it’s time to be Very Anything Else. I miss my attention span. I have heard tales of a wondrous substance called “grass,” renowned for its touchability. Sounds like a deep state psyop to me, but I’m gonna look into it, just in case.

I spent, what, about seventeen years waiting by the phone for auditions that never came, and then another ten hunched over various electronic devices, grinding it out in the content mines, and I think it’s time to finally see some more of this country that I love so much.

So in 2027, the plan is to hit the road and see if I can make it on the comic book convention circuit! I have no fucking idea what I’m doing (my natural state, as you are aware), but I’d love to see you out there. I’d love to have the opportunity to thank you face to face.

There is a great deal of thanking of you to be done, actually, but it turns out “expressing heartfelt gratitude” requires an entirely different wordsmithing skillset than “composing scatological gags about rapists who don’t understand how tariffs work.”

That’s okay, though. We can save that for the end of the farewell tour. This is the beginning. It’s going to take some time to get around to laughing at all the fascist taint remoras who got shitcanned this week, and I want to be thorough.

Plus I desperately want your money when I launch the Kickstarter for the second issue of GENERAL WASHINGTON AND THE LIBERTY TREE. I’m thinking January.

For now…seriously, thank you. Thank you for tiptoeing through the tulips of tyranny with me. But also, buy my book. I’ll still be grateful if you don’t buy my book, just…less. You ungrateful cheapskate.

Though I suppose I’d understand if you were light on cash after donating to Scott Colom’s legal fund, because apparently a certain Blue Wave crested high enough to flush away even stubborn, hard-to-reach turds like Cindy Hyde-Smith.

In the end, our butts were simply too strong for them. Too firm. As John Jay said in Federalist No. 4, “My constitutional republic don’t want none unless you got buns, hun.” In hindsight (GET IT?), they never stood a chance. Hell, we had a freakin’ Prada model on our team.

Why, the GOP fielded such inferior posteriors that Katie Miller didn’t even vote. Even the other Dan Sullivan out-cheeked the Republican incumbent. (Many people don’t know this, but under Alaska’s ranked choice voting system, what they’re ranking by is ass quality.)

Ultimately, in what pundits agreed was an ass election, too many Republican candidates brought only the hole part.

Speaking of which, “Amy Acton sends Vivek Ramaswamy’s concession call straight to voicemail” is a lovely addition to our national mythology, don’tcha think? I could be talked into purchasing some sort of collectible coin depicting Amy Acton sending Vivek Ramaswamy’s concession call straight to voicemail.

Or OOO, one of Ken Paxton retreating from the Alamo! Now that I think about it, we’re gonna need an entire commemorative plate series. “Losers of the Blue Wave.” There are a couple of perfect freeze frames in the, um, let’s call it “ill-advised” ad Roger Marshall cut at the last minute, where you can see the panic in his eyes. It’d look lovely over the hearth.

How about one depicting a newly unemployed Susan Collins crashing on Kavanaugh’s couch? Actually, y’know what? There may not be enough porcelain in the world.

So much MAGA losing you could almost get tired of MAGA losing were such a phenomenon scientifically possible, which of course it is not. I worried about Conrad Veidt-like permagrin when I saw the shit where some of our candidates won by such massive margins in early voting that they didn’t even need any Election Day votes, but I find I still have plenty of room in my heart to enjoy the post-whoopin’ wingnut circular firing squad.

As for the architect of Dirtbag Waterloo himself, he has retreated into his role as Redecorator in Chief, leaving the tedious work of running the boring ol’ federal government to his new Chief of Staff…Stephen Miller.

See, that’s just a (tiny, stunted) middle finger to the electorate. Stephen Miller’s ass is 90% fistula, which he covers with spray-on hair at Katie’s request. There is also the issue of the evil, of course. Looks like nurse is back on the menu, boys.

We brought it on ourselves. We just don’t appreciate greatness. Why, it only took him five or six tries to renovate that Reflecting Pool, and look at it now. Do you have any idea the raw genius it takes to remove a 350-foot gash that was never there in the first place?

The mean ol’ courts won’t let him have his arch, but the Oval Office is to remain enshittified for all time, by imperial decree. It’s extra official because Susie put it up on the break room fridge before she resigned.

I guess they tried to pawn Petey Push-ups off on Tennessee, but even Marsha Blackburn would rather appoint a dude who got concussions for a living to her old Senate seat than throw it away on the guy who lost a war to Iran. Staffing in a kakistocracy is…tricky.

Gosh, I don’t know how it all went so wrong for you dorks. I guess you just didn’t Anakin-maxx hard enough.

So it’s our America now. An America without LIV Golf or the Cybertruck. It’s all on the table, bitches. EVEN OHIO STATEHOOD.

While I would love to take the time to rub salt in the wounds of every defeated traitor individually, the top half of tonight’s post was surprisingly emotionally draining, but when you tell your friends about this blog, pretend I wrote awesome, pithy takedowns of Scotts DesJarlais and Perry in particular. And Jeff Van Drew, the treacherous little shitweasel. And the “children are cum trophies” creep. My old friend KKKris KKKobach. And Max Miller. And Van Orden. And…see what I mean? You can’t get tired of it.

I’ll hype the comic book more in weeks to come (don’t you worry), but in the meantime, feel free to read the first issue for free! And then sign up on the prelaunch page for the next Kickstarter! Even if you don’t plan on actually backing the project (because of the abovementioned ungrateful cheapskateness), getting that number up helps us with promotion.

And I really am unbelievably grateful that you’ve let me put on these little shows for all these years. Thank you for resisting with me. We’ve got the bastards on the run at last.

I require no fewer than four beers now. If you enjoyed this rant, this is the part where I rattle the tip jar (accepting Cash App, Venmo, and PayPal) for beer money, but you know that by now. I’m still at @john_luzar on the hellsite. OH! And I’m trying to build up an Instagram account now, too, because I don’t spend enough time online. @notanotherjohnluzar.

Ok. See you next week. Stay safe out there.

And one more time…thank you.