Oh, hello! I didn’t hear you come in! I was out back, burying my country. Yeah, we’re gonna do a little service on Sunday, nothing fancy, but bring a casserole or a pie or something. Let’s round up the news real quick, because I have some serious drinking to get to.

All hail Jared “the Shart of the Deal, Jr.” Kushner for rolling out his long-anticipated Middle East peace plan! Jar-Jar painstakingly transcribed Bibi Netanyahu’s wettest dreams onto the back of a cocktail napkin, handed it to the other stakeholders, and said “take it or leave it, dorks!” Careful, Jared, if you win a Nobel before your stool-sample-in-law, holidays could get awkward real quick.

Oddly enough, the “plan” was immediately rejected by the Palestinians, but that’s when the master negotiator played his trump card; rising to his full height and unleashing the power of a voice that would perhaps seem commanding in a room filled with marmots, Kushner proclaimed, “I have read five-and-twenty books on the subject of Israeli-Palestinian relations, and thus, by the ancient laws of our forefathers, you must – hey. Hey, stop laughing. I read 25 books! Ok, 19 books and a few pamphlets, but STILL! Do you know how long that takes? A LONG TIME STOP LAUGHING AT MEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

A collection has been taken up backstage at Fux Nooz, to replace all the veins that popped in Sean Hannity’s forehead when he found out Mitt Romney would vote to allow witnesses at the impeachment trial. Erecting even the tiniest speed bump in the Turd Emperor’s coverup highway, in the name of truth, or the rule of law, or even just putting on a respectable show before caving, is now an excommunicable sin for Cult45. Indeed, no sooner was the final vote cast, than Willard was formally disinvited to the annual gathering of rabid assclowns known as CPAC. Party in the Romney family car elevator that weekend!

America has never been more divided, and this week even saw the rise of two competing metaphors for the buffoonish failure of Trumpism via the Big Dumb Border Wall. Countless Americans think the “newly-installed border wall panels blew over in the first strong wind and landed in Mexico, which did not pay for them” story is more fittingly hilarious, while rival factions prefer to point and laugh at the “enormous floodgates, which must be left wide fucking open for months, rendering the Wall completely ineffective as a wall, will be required to keep the Wall from falling over” story. My friends, we must not let our differences tear us apart. Let us join hands, and mock both these failings with one, unified, voice.

Now, Team Treasonweasel’s legal defense team did, in fairness, face an impossible task in the impeachment trial, what with their client’s obvious, documented, guilt and all. It was all fun and games, watching them hem and haw and screech and moan and trip over their ridiculous arguments, until Alan Dershowitz came along with his mega-creepy “The Donald is the state and thus all acts which inconvenience him even slightly are treasons, I’m looking at YOU, Guy Who Designed the Golf Pants That Make His Ass Look Big.” Yes, Alan is looking for a king to crown, declaring crimez aren’t crimez, so long as the criminal views his re-election as being “in the national interest.”

Dersho is always extremely eager to dismiss serious wrongdoing, ain’t he? Wonder what that’s all about? “Surely, if the President decided that receiving a massage from a minor at a known sex trafficker’s house was in the national interest, that would be no crime, so long as he kept his underwear on! And actually, if he didn’t strictly ‘keep his underwear on,’ and if there were, say, ‘photographs of him committing sex crimes in someone’s safe’ would that not also be in the national interest? Asking for a friend.”

I see Over-Juiced Prune Wilbur Ross woke up just long enough for some unseemly drooling over the opportunities presented by the coronavirus outbreak to further line his tomb with precious jewels and exotic foreign spices, because he is a ghoul whose heart pumps not blood but viscous distilled greed.

In the midst of all this this apocalyptic, Will Democracy Even Survive news, let’s pause to appreciate the fact that the entire institutional Republican Party has debased itself and abandoned every principle for a drooling manchild who honestly seems to believe that our stealth fighters are literally invisible. Like Wonder Woman’s plane.

Onetime Whistleblower Advocate Rand Paul now devotes himself full time to outing, stalking, and otherwise harassing the alleged whistleblower in the Ukraine affair. Rand wants to out the whistleblower like that one rabbit wants a big fat fuckin’ bowl of Trix, y’all. Rand Paul broke into the whistleblower’s house, opened the fridge, stuck his dick in the ranch, and then left a note on the fridge reading “I stuck my dick in one thing in your fridge, but I won’t tell you which one, Mister Whistleblower Man, HAPPY HUNTING!” Stuck the note to the fridge with the whistleblower’s favorite magnet, a souvenir from REDACTED, too. Ass.

For those who follow the news cycle ‘round the clock, there was a fun little stretch Thursday evening when retiring Senator Lamar Alexander teased everyone that, free as he now is from the burdens of electoral politics, he might just behave honorably and provide a key vote to hear witnesses in the impeachment trial. Lamar chuckled to himself at the futile hopes of the peasant classes, before taking his evening constitutional along the banks of the Potomac, tossing a pillowcase filled with newborn puppies into the river, as is his custom. Tell you what, next time you feel like waiting for Lamar freakin’ Alexander to do the right thing, I’ll wait for Godot, and we’ll race.

Indeed, Alexander busted out the special occasion, artisanal, straight-from-the-doomsday-prep-bucket-he-bought-from-Glenn-Beck salt to rub into America’s wounds, saying, “We don’t need to see witnesses because the House totally made their case; Tangerine Idi Amin did everything he’s accused of, I just don’t give a fuck, and I’m a Senator and you’re not, serrrrrrrrrrrfs!”

To be clear, Lamar’s spin here is that while illegally withholding congressionally-appropriated military aid from a besieged ally in order to blackmail them into fabricating dirt on a domestic political foe does indeed register on the Noot Gingrich Naughtiness Scale, it does not qualify as an “impeachable offense.” See, an impeachable offense would be like if Barack Obama changed lanes without using a turn signal, or if Donald Trump ordered the Air Force to drop a nuclear bomb on Boston. Maybe not that second one.

Marco Rubio took the craven cowardice even further (truly, he is a master of the form, the Da Vinci of Disappointment, the Stravinsky of Sycophancy, the Botticelli of Crawling on his Belly) mumbling something about how just because a presidential crime spree is technically impeachable doesn’t mean the cheap thug president should actually be removed, I mean, what if he LIKES committing crimes and extorting allies? Anyhow, it turns out that the Florida state Constitution doesn’t actually stipulate that their Senators must legally possess vertebrae, so I guess Marco’s safe for now.

But the Gaslighting Gold goes to Lisa Murkowski, who voted against a fair trial because, she claimed, the trial wouldn’t be fair. Seriously. Zombie George Orwell crawled out of his grave and shambled over to her office just to shake her hand for that one. Yes, Murkowski, having spent the past three years observing, and frequently assisting her colleagues as they’ve assaulted the fundamental structures of American democracy with sledgehammers and power saws and, ahem, tiki torches, now expresses shock and outrage that our institutions have failed. Gosh. Lisa should write her fucking Senator.

“Let the Voters Decide (Not the Black Ones, Obviously)!” some Republicans cry, invoking Federalist No 22.65, which states “Oh fuck yea, the President can commit all the crimes he wants in an election year, or, y’know, the year before an election year, or really whenever, so long as your whole party is a hopelessly corrupt flock of traitors.” Anyway, they know their excuses are bullshit, they just don’t care. They have a massive multimedia propaganda-and-smog-spewing machine doing their bidding; millions of Americans haven’t heard a shred of the evidence against Pumpkin Spice Pol Pot; instead, they’re getting fed memes of Adam Schiff’s face on a donkey’s butt or some shit.

It’s not even party before country. It’s Oozing Pile of Festering Pubes Pulled From the Bathtub Drain Plus There’s a Tumor in the Center before country. All available polling, and there was a fuckton of it, showed overwhelming public support for calling witnesses, the kind of numbers you usually only see for secret Beyoncé album drops and new marshmallows in Lucky Charms. These fucks understand they don’t have the will of the majority of the American public; they’re going with other tactics now. Gerrymandering, voter suppression, poll taxes, foreign interference, disinformation campaigns…and there’s no reason to imagine they’ll stop there.

…you’d hate to see, like, the world’s eighth-greatest deliberative body, right? Like, the Lord of the Flies kids have gotta be in the top ten, by the standards we’re using. But the joke’s on you, Republican enablers! Since you’re too lazy to even put a show trial (outworked by the North Koreans? Embarrassing!) actual exoneration is impossible! All you’ve accomplished is getting the stench of Shart Garfunkel’s corruption all over yourselves…and it never washes out, campers. “Trump stooge” will be the lead in every one of your obituaries.

You have to wonder if future generations of Americans will debate the ethics of traveling through time to smother Baby McConnell in the crib, or at least leave some ethics-based children’s books nearby.

And the Bolton leaks just keep on coming, like poo squirts from a genocidal diaper. Tearing down the mile-high walls of bullshit being constructed by desperate Republicans, what we ultimately have in John-John is an eyewitness to a vast criminal conspiracy operating out of the Oval Office, the biggest scandal in American history, and thanks to procedural loopholes and parliamentary shenanigans, Senators are legally allowed to refuse to hear his testimony. NEAT. We also discovered that Pusillanimous Pat Cipollone isn’t just the lawyer for the Hair Club for Traitors, he’s also a co-conspirator!

…I’m still not buying your fucking book, jackass.

But Murderstache isn’t the only one thirsty to testify. Lev Parnas is apparently stumbling around D.C., offering armloads of evidence to anyone who’ll listen, including a recording of him chillin’ with the Marmalade Shartcannon himself, and folks, if a third-rate goon like Parnas can record the President of the United States, the issue isn’t whether the pee tape is real, it’s whether the pee tape isn’t merely the (yellow snow) tip of the iceberg when it comes to blackmail-worthy recordings of the Kompromat Kid.

Brexit was today too? Lordy. It’s the Year Zero of a whole new dirtbag white boy calendar.

And just to take one last dump on today’s turd sundae, I see President Crotchvoid is bringing land mines back. Fucking LAND MINES.

Pretty shitty day, folks, one of the darkest in American history. We’ve known all along the Senate GOP was gonna drive Fat Q*Bert’s getaway car, but it’s still quite something to watch the fucks sell out their country in real time. Can’t say I’m a fan.

So, here we are. We’re the only party that believes in the foundational principles of the United States of America. Fuck, we’re the only party with principles of any kind. It’s gonna be one helluva fight, friends. Still, we have literally 100% of decent folks on our side, and that’s not nothin’. I dunno about you, but I really feel like kicking a white supremacist hate cult’s ass right now. So here’s the plan:

Take their power away.

Never give it back.

(And if you’re looking for something to help you unwind as you battle for your nation’s soul, why not buy…MY COMIC BOOK? Yeah, it’s an inappropriate time, but I’m gonna shill my shit. Sue me.)