I’d like to dedicate this week’s blog to all those puritanical pundits out there, clutching their pearls to powder over the exuberant outpouring of couchfucker jokes from the rejuvenated American Left. Sure, JD Vance spends his entire professional life spreading vicious lies in service to a dork supremacist movement that seeks the end of American democracy, but are we any better if we ourselves hump sofas?

Well…yes. Yes we are. Lots better. And judging by the polls, the electorate agrees.

Yes, things went from catastrophic to worse for the Committee for the Re-Election of the Rapist, as the already surging Vice President unleashed HELL ON EARTH, in the form of Minnesota Governor Tim Walz, who somehow navigated his introduction onto the national stage without causing voters to go, “Say, this guy seems like the sort of fellow who would copulate with furniture.”

Now the Children of the Candy Corn don’t know whether to shit or go blind, withering before Tim’s weapons-grade dad vibes like b-movie vampires when the sun comes up. “TAMPON TIM,” they feebly bleat, desperately clinging to the 20-year-old toy swift boats they played with when they were young, and tomorrow belonged to them.

While Harris and Walz rock stadiums with wholesomeness n’ hope, JD lurks in nearby parking lots, trailing a pitiful coterie of pasty bros, fantasizing about defiling the upholstery on Air Force Two. Vance may not be able to draw crowds of his own, but the mere mention of his name elicits enthusiastic chants at ours. Granted, they’re “HE’S A WEIRDO” chants, but there’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?

(Checks JD’s approval ratings) Okay, there’s definitely such a thing as bad publicity.

Want some more? Okay, here’s 20 months’ worth of text correspondence with Holocaust-denying taintfungus Charles Johnson. Shit, if the little freak did fuck couches, it’d be the most likable thing about him.

All this is extra hilarious since JD’s the only one on the GOP ticket anywhere near the campaign trail, while Grampa catches up on naps down at Marm-a-Lago, with well under 100 days to go. The Dotard did manage to briefly drag his visibly decomposing ass as far as Georgia, to push the once reliably red state back into the election nerds’ toss-up column, by praising Putin, and shitting on popular Republican Governor Brian Kemp.

You know they’re in full meltdown mode whenever they let Stephen Miller out of his crate, but I don’t think we’ve seen that particular creep this rattled since the spray-on hair incident. Oh, “Joe Biden and Kamala Harris are the number one traffickers of children—girls into sex slavery on planet Earth,” you say? Okay, groomer.

Such delectable desperation. Time’s running out, and the next But Her Emails/Hunter’s Laptop is nowhere in sight.

By far my favorite current delusion is Off-Brand Orbán’s own sad, flaccid effort to goad Joe Biden into storming the DNC, swinging a steel folding chair, to reclaim the nomination. It’s yet another page right out of fellow rapist Vince McMahon’s book, from the ultra-stable genius who hoped to ride Hulk Hogan’s dusty, skulleted coattails back to the White House.

Which brings us to the “press conference.” If anybody out there was wondering what four additional years of inhaling cheap bronzer fumes had done to the brain that told the nation to inject Lysol during the pandemic…wonder no more.

Donnie One-Term proclaiming himself the survivor of an imaginary helicopter crash was apparently not enough to merit any breathless speculation regarding cognitive fitness from the media that sent me push notifications every time Joe Biden stammered; if anything, they praised him for “taking questions,” as opposed to Kamala, who spent the last three weeks (aka her entire campaign) playing Call of Duty, I guess.

He claimed the incel insurrection he incited drew a larger crowd than Martin Luther King Jr.’s March on Washington, which seems unlikely to me, though this figure was confirmed, by a suspiciously Sean Spicer-like voice emanating from the bushes.

Beyond that, he told the usual lies and spewed the usual bigotry, before retreating to the comfort of the wingnut media bubble, where he found Jesse Watters waiting, like always, with a hamberder and a handjob.

“That abortion question was masterfully evaded, sir!” fawned the sycophants, “I can’t imagine that one’ll come up ever again!” And then they all took turns congratulating him on his nebulously racist but ultimately gibberish “Kamabla” nickname. It’s a really cool cult, you guys. I bet there’s a waiting list.

Especially now that y’all’ve launched Normies for Trump, to counter the weirdness allegations, consecrated by His Holiness Jon Voight, in a sermon brimming with regular guyspeak like, “It’s a war crime that Obama is directing and Kamala Harris will be the cackling hyena that just listens and repeats,” and led by self-proclaimed white nationalist Laura Loomer, who is prepared to handcuff herself to every swing voter in the Rust Belt if necessary.

Ah, but perhaps Team Rapist has taken the weirdo vote for granted! Turns out, you can spend decades ranting about Hannibal Lecter and toilet water pressure and how much you wanna bang your own daughter, but suddenly, at last possible moment, some nepo baby with a cranial parasite and a freezer full of roadkill can swoop in and out-batshit the Joe Rogan endorsement right out from under you.

Which, as you can imagine, REALLY upset Catturd*. In fact, we may be on the brink of what historians are already calling the dorkiest of all possible civil wars, unless cooler heads prevail, or Mom cuts off internet access.

Oh, by the way, RFK Jr. is officially peeling more votes away from Trump than Harris now, which probably explains the conniption Individual One pitched at the Failing New York Times over the fake helicopter crash. I’d be upset too, if I realized I was going to die in prison.

Almost as panicked is David Nicholas Dempsey, who was really counting on getting pardoned out from under that 20-year sentence he just received for assaulting all those cops at the Capitol Riot. Oh well. Fuck ‘im.

Anyway, I dropped by my local 7-Eleven for a buffalo chicken roller and some pornography, but my card was declined, because of the Xwitter ads I was forced to purchase after Elon Musk successfully sued under the secret Eleventeenth Amendment to the Constitution Jimmy Madison scribbled on the back of the Bill of Rights, which clearly states “Thou Shalt be Forced to Advertise Upon Any Platform Whose Owner Tells You to Go Fuck Yourself.”

The FBI seized Tennessee Congressdope Andy Ogles’ cellphone, as part of their investigation into whether or not such an obviously braindead nitwit can even read. It’ll give him something to talk about with Scott Perry, I suppose. When they’re cellmates.

I guess Jenna Ellis had such a blast flipping on the fake elector conspiracy in Georgia, she’s signed up for a whole ‘nother round in Arizona. And looka here, she’s already got company.

Shocking new reporting uncovers a single breakfast burrito purchased by Clarence Thomas, in March of 2009, using his own money, rather than Harlan Crow’s. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s simply a matter of misfiled reimbursement paperwork.   

Ok, that’s more than enough for one week. Think I’ll take a little impromptu road trip up to Minnesota this weekend, maybe meet up with Laura Ingraham in Milwaukee for drinks and a quick geography lesson.

And, as always, if ya feel like chipping in for my beers, and maybe an atlas, you can toss a few bucks in the ol’ tip jar, (now accepting Cash App, Venmo, and PayPal!) or support these rants for free by sharing on social media, signing up on the email list at showercapblog.com, or following @john_luzar! Either way, you stay safe out there, ol’ chum…

*Ten, twenty years from now, third grade American history tests are gonna be WILD.