Let’s address the elephant in the room. Obviously, all the RFK Jr. brainworm jokes were long gone hours before my Friday night posting time. I don’t have some awesome, worth-the-wait, totally original, unheard RFK Jr. brainworm joke for you. Apologies. For about ten minutes, you delude yourself that no one else will notice the ivermectin bank shot, but who’re you kidding?

Dune jokes. Tequila jokes. Shazam aficionados seized the moment for Mr. Mind. You wouldn’t be reading this if you hadn’t heard five thousand RFK Jr. brainworm jokes by now. I have nothing to contribute to the discourse. Except maybe this…looking back on the headline that launched a thousand gags, let us raise a glass to the simple, comedic purity of the story as it broke:

R.F.K. Jr. Says Doctors Found a Dead Worm in His Brain

Perfect.

Subheadline: “The presidential candidate has faced previously undisclosed health issues, including a parasite that he said ate part of his brain.”

Oh, the chaos agent who might just haphazardly swat the souvenir snow globe of American democracy to the floor, shattering it for all time, had an ACTUAL FUCKING WORM living inside his skull, eating parts of his ACTUAL FUCKING BRAIN, until it died, presumably poisoned?

Sounds about right.

I just assume we’re being punished by God at this point.

Golly I hope the brainworm guy doesn’t tip the election to that rapist.

You know the rapist I’m talking about. Always cold, likes to print out chunks of the internet to wave around? You’d recognize him from that interview where he talks about leading the “party of fertilization,” (he’s a branding genius, this rapist) or that time he whined about being cold or maybe that other time he whined about being cold or even that other other time he whined about being cold.

I bet it sucks to be so cold when you’re living through your worst nightmare.

Because that’s what this is, y’know.

When you’re a narcissist, it’s probably not a lot of fun to listen to any woman talk about how unappealing and unsatisfying you are sexually, but imagine how the torment deepens when A) it’s happening during your felony trial and B) the entire planet is watching.

Emasculation on a scale that never would’ve been possible had he not sought and obtained the presidency. That’s some Sophocles shit, right there. For Donald Trump, this is what’s in Room 101.

Of course, he’ll kill us all for witnessing it, given the chance. He’ll finish the oath of office, demand the nuclear football, and mash away at the button with those stubby digits until all life on Earth ends, because it’s the only way he can be sure there’s no one left who knows.

Yeah, Stormy Daniels Week was definitely American history’s dignifiedest yet.

Surprising no one, all the defense could muster was a spiteful burst of slut-shaming, which was revolting enough, but the real dry-heaving started when the story took its inevitable turn down the dank, mildewy alley where all tales of Donald Trump’s sexuality eventually lead: his attraction to his daughter, Ivanka.

Seems like that thought’s never too far from the front of his mind, y’know? He talks about how much he wants to fuck his own daughter…a lot. More than anyone I’ve ever met. Way more. It’s one of the things that makes him such an odd choice to build a cult of personality around, in my opinion.

And times’re certainly tough for the Children of the Candy Corn, in the blinding glare of the God Emperor’s public degradation. You turn on Fox, and it’s this shame-drenched circle jerk, Jesse Watters moaning about the Dotard’s potential prison gym bod, while Gutfeld paws at his own groin with steel wool, squeaking “he’s a sex god!” Laura Ingraham pacing to and fro in the background, muttering “orange turd” in disgust, stopping periodically to flog Gutfeld.

In addition to the courtroom humiliations, everybody’s pointing and laughing at Wee Don’s latest feeble showing against Nikki Haley, but it coulda been worse. Imagine if he’d had to arm-wrestle her.

At least we finally figured out why he’s struggling to stay awake in court. Begging oil executives for bribes can really tucker you out, especially when you’re already woozy from the bronzer fumes.

He needs the money to pay Paul Manafort, y’see. Apparently, everyone’s favorite Kremlin conduit is headed back to the campaign trail, after a lucrative post-pardon stint influence peddling with the Chinese Communist Party. “America first,” though.

Oh, and congrats to Judge Aileen Cannon, on repeating as Trump Org employee of the month! Bet you’re in line for one of the very best parking spots in the Reich to come!

The week’s lowest point was definitely the moment Kristi Noem finally figured out it was within her power to just…stop making media hits. Like Mom unplugging the TV set right in the middle of Darkwing Duck. I watching that, dammit.

Kristi Makes it Worse. Best show on television. Water cooler moment after water cooler moment. “Didja see where Kristi threatened to murder another dog?” “I heard it was the President’s dog!” “It WAS!”

It’s a really specific genre, but there’s a market for this content. Let’s call it Watching a Terrible Person Fail to Extract Their Head From a Bag. James Comer is the Michael Jordan of this. The Excruciatingly Paced Downfall of Rudy Giuliani has already earned a loyal audience, I’m hearing it might even get picked up for another season.

And Kristi’s the star that burned half as long but twice as hilariously. How did she come to believe any of this was going to work out for her? Why draw attention to your puppy homicide at all? HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO GET YOUR HEAD STUCK IN THE BAG IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Turns out, her team tried to talk her out of it, but she was so sure Cricket’s execution would launch her to glory (or at least the NRA) that she would not be deterred. Somehow that certainty held right up until the moment she realized “My God, I’m getting clowned by a fucking Newsmax host,” at which point her soul just…dissipated into the ether. You’ll have to check the Whichever Dakota constitution to see if it’s even legal for a husk to govern the state, I won’t pretend to know.

I miss her already.

The veepstakes is all dreary now. Sure, this makes Doug Bugman undisputed Prime Dakotan, but that and five bucks gets you a cup of livestock dewormer. Tim Scott’s an okay groveler, I guess, but I gotta be honest, I don’t see a breakout star.   

The Republican-controlled U.S. House of Representatives continues to resemble nothing so much as a Lollapalooza outhouse crammed to bursting with clowns. But not fun clowns. Clowns from Tom Waits songs.

What a fucking madhouse. Chip Roy rails about the elves who want to impose Sharia law but refuse to mend his shoes while he sleeps. Steve Scalise shouts out increasingly desperate impeachment justifications, like a drunk at an improv show. Mike Collins opines on, wow, a wide variety of topics. Distant shrieks indicate Nancy Mace just flayed the latest wave of interns.

Oh, and Doc Ronny’s under Ethics Committee investigation, allegedly for distributing drugs that illegally enhance one’s ability to tell a drawing of a horsie apart from a drawing of a lion.

We got all hyped up for Moses v Marj, but the whole thing ultimately lasted about a minute, and her subsequent tantrum got drowned out by brainworm gags. Nice to see MTG on the appropriate end of a heckling for once, though.

Anyway, Mikey’s sure feelin’ himself now that he’s survived a motion to vacate. Throwing his shoulders back when he walks, so everybody gets an eyeful of that Slightly Better Than Kevin McCarthy merit badge. He’s got a new bill that outlaws something that’s already illegal. “That’s okay, baby, I couldn’t pass it anyway! I just wanna demonize some immigrants for a bit, baby! POLITICS!” and then he throws a smoke bomb but he forgets to walk away so he’s still there when the smoke clears.

Over in the Senate, Katie Britt wants a national pregnancy database, which she pinkie swears not to abuse. All she wants is an app that sends her an alert anytime some whore/incubator crosses a state line into a jurisdiction where her bodily autonomy rights are recognized.

Let’s check in on the circus freaks looking to join Katie in Washington, and help her implement her vision, shall we?

I guess Dave McCormick thinks most Pennsylvanians are divorced. Strong Milhouse’s Dad energy with Dave.

In Montana, Tim Sheehy’s filling out his staff with anti-Semites, who get caught liking posts that say shit like “Don’t follow me for my cute cat posting if you can’t stand by me when I deny the Holocaust.”

“Don’t follow me for my cute cat posting if you can’t stand by me when I deny the Holocaust.”

“R.F.K. Jr. Says Doctors Found a Dead Worm in His Brain.”

“New Hampshire Pol Who Called Teens ‘Ripe’ Won’t Apologize to His Haters.”

I am…unnecessary. Obsolete. Out-competed in the absurdity marketplace by the real-world news.

I’ve never encountered a more distressingly flashy meet-cute than When Vivek Ramaswamy Met Ann Coulter. Still, there’s an undeniable sort of incel live-streamer chemistry there, and a certain part of me wants Werner Herzog to document what would surely amount to terrifying copulation, if only for science’s sake, but why don’t we talk about something else?

I know everybody’s excited to see Bannon report to prison, but I honestly doubt there’s a cell that can hold him, given all the corrosive secretions.

Kevin McCarthy is definitely living his best life, as an abnormally well-connected and well-funded mosquito, stabbing, for hate’s sake, at the doughiest bits of Matt Gaetz’s anatomy. God knows legislating wasn’t his calling.    

Hey, RIP FreedomWorks! Man, remember when the weirdest Republicans were old White people in tricorn hats? You never had to worry about bear spray or zip ties with the Tea Party, y’know?

On that note, I need a freakin’ beer. And I’m drinking for two tonight! No, Katie Britt, I’m not pregnant, I’m talking about the parasite I invited into my cranium, hoping to obliterate all memory of the last seven years or so, except maybe the ice cream and pro wrestling.

If you’d like to support my quest for sweet obliteration, the tip jar now takes PayPal, Cash App and Venmo; I promise to spend your donation only on things that kill brain cells. Also, follow @john_luzar, and sign up on the email list! As we hurtle down this mad, mad, mad, mad path, I sincerely hope you are still able to stay safe out there, my friend. See you soon.