Hello, friends. Hope you’re well. I am writing to you tonight from CECOT, having been deported for reposting chicken memes on social media. The delousings are a little more frequent than I’d like, but I got to meet Kristi Noem.

I suppose it’s theoretically possible that the Boston Tea Party was as much fun as watching that reporter ask that TACO question, but I doubt it. It’s like that old Simpsons bit where Bart slows down the tape to pinpoint the precise second when Lisa rips Ralph Wiggum’s heart in half, only with the painfully public piercing of a narcissistic bubble.

“Excuse me, Mr. Scary Strongman, sir, people are saying you’re such a habitual cuck as to warrant your own personalized acronym, because as a culture, we simply lack the time to say ‘Wow, Lil’ Donnie wussed out AGAIN’ every single time you run away crying. Your thoughts?”

Lookit the impotent rage in his eyes. He’d like to throttle the reporter, but he knows his hands are too tiny and weak.

“N-no! They actually say I’m T-TOO t-t-t-tough.”

Aw. Is that what Lutnick told you? Or Lindsey Graham? Did the “human printer” hand you another stack of Catturd tweets?

Did it help? No?

Gosh, you’ll have to call another Cabinet meeting, won’tcha? Shit, go ahead. Sit there basking in the bootlicking of the unimpressive men you’ve broken, if you think it’ll wash away the knowledge that people have developed an entire investment strategy around your reliable cowardice.

…but it won’t.

Because the Ls are starting to pile up, aren’t they?

Especially in court. Lately, Stephen Miller won’t stop mewling about “judicial tyranny,” which is his cutesy little nickname for the rule of law. All these tricksy judges with their arcane legal loopholes, like “human being possess certain fundamental civil rights” and “really, really wanting to impose tariffs does not constitute an emergency.” Why, even judges appointed by the Dotard himself, during his First Desecration, stubbornly refuse to shred the Constitution on his behalf.

And so it came to pass, dear reader, that the face-eating leopard paid an overdue visit to the Federalist Society. I’ll admit I laughed at that time traveler when he told me I’d be upset to see the end of Leonard Leo’s influence over the judiciary, but I’ve grudgingly come to accept his assessment that I’d live to regret wishing for a Cubs World Series victory on that monkey’s paw.

Because now it’s time for lifetime appointments for a career criminal’s personal attorneys. We’re talking about a club you have to be less ethical than Michael Cohen to join. Can’t wait t’be harangued by Susan Collins as she casts the decisive vote confirming Alina Habba to the Supreme Court.

I’d like to think I’m joking about that, but the kakistocrat staffing agency dug up known anti-Semites Kingsley “Great Replacement Theory” Wilson and Paul “Andrew Tate’s Lawyer” Ingrassia for key posts just this week.

I suppose it’s true what they say about a fish rotting from the head. Though a decomposing fish head would have more class than to ramble about trophy wives at West Point, or vomit up the annual spite-filled Memorial Day diatribe, or revel in a political opponent’s cancer diagnosis.

Wouldn’t crash the global economy or steal nuclear secrets or turn our private data over to Peter Thiel, either. Hmm. It’s a little early to formally endorse, but I’m definitely considering backing Rotting Fish Head in the 2028 GOP primary. Depends on how Brian Kemp polls in Iowa.

Poor Donnie Two-Dolls just can’t figure out what’s happened to his ol’ pal, Pooty. Where’s the fun-loving fellow who was always standing by with a laugh and a piss hooker? Why, it’s almost as if the guy who’s on his eleventeenth war of aggression doesn’t want peace.

I confess I’m enjoying the wave of “Elon Musk Thought He Bought the Entire Federal Government; Now He’s Fleeing Washington With His Own Chainsaw Embedded in His Colon” articles. They’re quite informative. For example, I learned about the side effects of ketamine abuse today, which was delightful. People who steal food and medicine from millions of impoverished children don’t deserve bladder control.

Musk leaves government with Stephen Miller’s wife in tow, prompting tawdry speculation, which I shan’t engage in here, mostly because I’d like to keep my lunch down.

Incidentally, he’s come out against the Bleak, Bloated Bill, so if this divorce wants to get messy, I’ll just be over in the corner, not complaining.

Unhappily, it turns out brainworms can multitask, and RFK Jr. seems to hit upon new methods to poison the public almost hourly. He’s trying to import 400 bird flu-infected ostriches from Canada, which would be strange enough if he hadn’t just canceled a contract to develop a bird flu vaccine, which of course he has.

As expected, he’s also testing the decapitated whale carcass-infested waters around vaccine recommendations, justifying his quackery with AI-generated reports citing nonexistent scientific studies. Once upon a time, faking science would’ve ended a public health official’s career, but nowadays you can just shrug, mumble “formatting error,” and go back to trafficking diseased ratites.

One crucial aspect of th’Art of th’Deal is knowing when to sweeten the pot. Sure, Mark Carney’s playing hard to get on the whole “ceding sovereignty to a rapist golf cheat” thing, but how could he possibly resist sharing the shelter of the Golden Dome (That Will Never Ever Ever Actually Get Built)?

Might need to throw in a toaster oven, since you’re asking our neighbors to the north to shackle themselves to the economy you’re already shrinking, though it was the “envy of the world” as recently as January.

Pretty much the only corner of the Trump Administration functioning with anything resembling efficiency is the Department of Fuck Harvard, no doubt owing to MAGA’s deep, abiding commitment to status envy. The ban on foreign students got held up in court, but they’ve directed all federal agencies to cancel their remaining contracts with the university, plus Walt Nauta has been dispatched to pee in the Cinnamon Toast Crunch dispenser in the student cafeteria.

Pete Hegseth stands accused of spying on his own staff via warrantless wiretaps, which doesn’t strike me as particularly necessary, given the state of information security at the Pentagon under his “leadership.”

While the Offal in the Oval has yet to attempt to overturn any of the Nuremberg verdicts, at the rate he’s going, he’s gonna run out of other scumbags to pardon. Gang leaders, reality show stars, and, of course, seven-figure campaign donors, all delivered beyond the reach of Lady Justice, while his turgid toady, Ed Martin, tauntingly bleats NO MAGA LEFT BEHIND. Kinda makes you want to VOTE IN THE GODDAMN MIDTERMS, doesn’t it?

Nihilist hog castrator Joni Ernst says we’re all gonna die, so what’s the point of Medicaid anyway? Hey, if that ethanol thing doesn’t work out, maybe you can bring home a Soylent factory or two.

Our deepest condolences go out to Dan Bongino, who has, and I’m not a big trigger warning guy, but TRIGGER WARNING…a JOB. He has to show up an’ work an’ everything. They don’t even allow his emotional support spouse to tag along. Golly, I don’t recognize this country anymore.

Ron Johnson now recommends adding a dash of hydrochloric acid to your diet; it really brings out the ivermectin taste in the paint chips.

You’ll be delighted to learn the long-dormant James O’Keefe vs. Project Veritas feud quietly arrived at the inevitable “an employee sent me a text message of me eating a sandwich covered in semen” stage, and while I’ve personally never had an employee send me a text message of me eating a sandwich covered in semen, if I had, I’d like to think I’d leave that detail out of any documentaries I happened to make and/or release, but, well, opinions on the subject vary. Apparently.

Florida Congresstooge Greg Steube introduced a bill to block all federal funding to the Washington Metro unless it rebrands itself as, I shit you not, “the Trump Train,” which probably strikes you as a distressingly exceptional effort in the field of authoritarian sycophancy. Ah, but Andy Ogles is still pimping his constitutional amendment to allow a third term. There’re only so many pimples on the man’s ass, boys, and therefore only so many suckling spots. May the spinelessest lackey win!

Seems Nancy Mace forces her congressional staff to run burner accounts to post about how super-great and not-at-all-insane Nancy Mace is, so if any lingering DOGE brats happen to be reading this, you, uh, missed a spot.

I’d like to say the Senate can’t help but get smarter now that Coach Tuberville is leaving to “govern” Alabama, but I worry any red state electorate who overheard me would take that as a challenge.

Well, that’s enough of that. Gonna grab a quick bite to eat. Definitely not a sandwich, just in case. Perhaps a…TACO? FULL CIRCLE, BITCHES!

And if you enjoyed this little rant, help me wash down my taco platter with an ice-cold beer or two by tossing a coupla bucks in my tip jar (now accepting PayPal, Cash App, and Venmo), or follow @john_luzar and sign up on the email list at showercapblog.com for free! Thanks for readin’, and as always, stay safe out there, m’lovelies…