Rich Lowry emerged, bloodied and barely alive, but beaming, from the deepest, darkest recesses of the Take Jungle, having been presumed forever lost in the dense underbrush of the DeSantis Can Still Pull This Thing Off, Dangit columns of the long-forgotten Republican primary, like some less impressive, in-fact-almost-never-right-about-anything Allan Quartermain.

“Stop the bloody presses!” Lowry bellowed, in an English accent, leaning into the Quartermain thing for whatever reason, waving his Take high in the air for all to see.

“Eureka!” proclaimed the opinion editor at the New York Times. And thus was the Take transmitted, by caravan, carrier pigeon, and steamship, back to civilization.

Lowry returned in triumph to the family estate, (called Blithering Heights or Dumbfucket or something) to rearrange the big game trophies in his study, in order to clear space for the inevitable Pulitzer.

Finally, on the twenty-sixth day of the eighth month in the year of our Lord two thousand and twenty-four, the Take was published for all to see:

“Trump Can Win on Character.”

And then, not two minutes later, Lil’ Donnie One-Term waddled out to desecrate a cemetery.

Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery, to be precise.

Sure didn’t take long for the famed “Lewandowski Touch” to reappear, did it? (For the uninitiated, “the Lewandowski Touch” refers to “physically assaulting a woman for doing her job.”)

Fading fast in the polls, the very worst human beings alive concocted an imbecilic scheme, to not only defile the graves of our fallen heroes with a cheap campaign stunt, but to spin their profanation as some sort of official memorial ceremony their dastardly Dem opponents refused to attend, opting instead to spend the day changing the kitty litter in gender neutral furry restrooms in blue state public schools, probably.

But alas, there was barely enough time to snap a few quick pics of the soft, sloppy fop, with his nubby little thumb in the air, grinning like he just heard Aileen Cannon’s latest ruling, before some killjoy ANC employee emerged, with blood coming out of her wherever, hemming and hawing about how they were breaking the law and had to stop, which is a shame, because they had this whole second setup worked out, where he’d be standing on a grave in a big cloud of tear gas, clutching this Bible, it woulda been so fucking sweet, you guys.

Plus, they had to scrap a bunch of ads they’d planned to shoot, for his new digital trading cards (“the official NFTs of suckers and losers!”) his new picture book, My Ear Got Nicked for Your Sins, Now Won’t Somebody Please KILL ZUCKERBERG, and his upcoming adult coloring book, Not My Type, depicting each of his twenty-six known sexual misconduct allegations, plus a bonus page illustrating what he’d like to do to Ivanka.

So they shoved the ANC employee out of the way, and launched a big, fat warning shot from the MAGA harassment cannon, to intimidate her out of pressing charges. Which worked, because who wants to spend the rest of their brief, precious life looking over their shoulder for hammer and/or nail gun-wielding psychos? Oh well, I’m sure the proto-fascist bullies will stop there.   

Still, all this talk of laws and their enforcement has been exhausting for the adjudicated rapist who already had that superseding indictment from Jack Smith to deal with, further depleting those finite energy reserves of his. (And, as the oldest presidential nominee in history, there’s only so much exercise left to avoid.)

Seems like only yesterday when my phone would tremble and shake, emitting terrifying weather alert noises every single time Joe Biden stammered, but I guess the public doesn’t need to know the other guy’s lurching along the side of the highway in a backwards hospital gown, bleating that Jesus thought he won California, and people don’t eat bacon anymore because of wind farms.

He’s also proposing sweeping changes to the U.S. Constitution, wherein flag burning would be punishable with jail time, but the first thirty-four felony counts for falsifying business records are free.

As for how he plans to vote on Florida’s abortion rights ballot measure, well, he’s forgainst it. Wait, I see he walked that back, now he sopporses it. That Kamala Harris sure is a flip-flopper though, amirite?

The Michigan GOP’s cold civil war turned hot, or at least lukewarm, like a Tupperware container of clam chowder you forgot in the car overnight, as ousted former Chairfreak Kristina Karamo led her crackpot battalion against the almost-as-buffoonish-but-not-quite forces of Pete Hoekstra, setting off what historians are already calling the Battle of People You Pretend Not to Know When You Run Into Them at the Grocery Store.

Quick update, I’m amending my prediction from a few paragraphs ago, in light of new developments regarding Texas AG Ken Paxton’s law enforcement raids of Latino Democratic campaign volunteers’ homes, but I’m confident the proto-fascist bullies will stop here, for real this time, give or take an insurrectionist riot or two.

Scandal continues to dog (GET IT?) embattled Democratic vice presidential nominee Tim Walz, as James O’Keefe released illicitly obtained footage from the antifa puppy mill he runs out of the Minnesota Governor’s Mansion subbasement, where canines deemed insufficiently photogenic for the all-too-temporary role of “Scout” are sold to gay, communist meatpackers.   

Walz furthermore refuses to denounce so-called “son” Gus Walz, despite the latter’s now infamous display of familial affection at last week’s Democratic National Convention, and…aaaaaaaaaand I don’t suppose I could convince anybody to get mad about the 20-year-old Nebraska Chamber of Commerce thing? Any chance at all? Megyn Kelly’d really appreciate if you could give the tampon thing another look…anyone? Bueller?

Meanwhile, while JD Vance didn’t have to face anything as challenging as ordering some donuts this week, he did manage to get booed by a firefighters union. Yeah, bit of a rough stretch for Peter Thiel’s third-favorite pet dork, but he finally started to look more like his old self once he retreated to his comfort zone: sneeringly repellent misogyny.

Speaking of which, the nation gained unwanted insight into Jesse Watters’ Pornhub search history, following comments vile enough to draw rebuke from odious Th’Five cohost Jeanine Pirro, so congratulations on slithering beneath that low, low hurdle.

Tulsi Gabbard’s long journey around the horseshoe led her at last to the if not Promised, at least Settled-For Land: Off-Brand Orbán’s hopefully unnecessary transition team. Golly, who knows which other poisonous, faux leftists could join her in a restored Turd Reich? Might it be Matt Taibbi’s voice indignantly squawking out the latest crowd size fibs from the bushes on the White House lawn? Or Glenn Greenwald’s, perhaps?

It’s a tantalizing deal, certainly. The last mold-chewed remnants of your good name and/or soul, in exchange for a few months of groveling, until you’re discarded as a “terrible, stupid person.”

Hey, if the pot’s not sweet enough, what would you say to all the rotting beached whale meat you can eat? Cuz RFK Jr.’s been invited to this party too, y’all! (Though it does appear as though that cranial parasite ate the part of the brain in charge of regulating whether or not you end your ratfucking campaign in time to actually get removed from swing state ballots, so maybe bring your own roadkill, just to be safe.)

I saw a bunch of headlines about a Republican group claiming the notorious Dred Scott decision means Vice President Harris is ineligible for the presidency, and I got mad, because I assumed somebody was plagiarizing an old blog of mine, but no, that’s real news from the real world.

Moms for Liberty finally revealed their plans for all those school library bookshelves they’ve been so feverishly emptying. See, once the Rosa Parks biographies have all been burned to ash, they’re to be replaced, with Glenn Beck’s new teen novel: Are You There God? It’s Me, Stephen Miller, about a very special white nationalist boy, who learns to overcome early-onset baldness with a magical can of spray-on hair.

H.R. McMaster’s new book details the ease with which the world’s dictators manipulated the Dotard into serving their interests. Nothing tricky to it, of course. You flatter him a little, you find a prostitute with a passing resemblance to his daughter, you get her to pee on him, and BAM: classified intel falls into your lap, right in the Oval Office.

But he can still win. On “character.” Rich Lowry told me so.

Ok, that’s more than enough of that. For now, my short-term goal is to drink until I forget I live in a world where Rich Lowry gets to write for the paper of record, so if you would like to aid me in that noble quest, know that my digital tip jar now accepts PayPal, Venmo, and Cash App, and that your kind donation will be converted directly into beer, at the speed of fucking light.

Or, you can share this post on social media, follow @john_luzar over on Elon’s Busted, Unprofitable Wasteland, or sign up on the email list at showercapblog.com for freeeeee! Or you can do none of those things, proving yourself part of Mitt Romney’s 47%, ya filthy taker! Either way, stay safe out there, old chum…