While I never actually sat down to read Project 2025 cover to cover, I assume the plan was to do away with democracy altogether before implementing full-on kakistocracy. And sure, hindsight is 20/20, but this feels like a First Pants, THEN Your Shoes-level problem.

No wonder they’re floundering so impotently on the campaign trail. “I suppose it does sound a little silly, standing for reelection. You have to understand, I was planning on delivering this closing argument at gunpoint.”

Speaking as an American, albeit a libtarded one, who filled up his gas tank this week…you’re gonna need a bigger masked, unaccountable secret police force, dorks. I wouldn’t want a referendum on my governance either, but it could always be worse. It could come down to a standing contest.

It can’t be easy to hold a cult of personality together while the news is a 24/7 tour of the personality’s descent into dementia. Turns out you lose the capacity to stay awake during meetings slightly before the ability to spell the name of the country you’re fucking president of deserts you. That’s going to be on the test, by the way. You’ve been warned.

The essay portion will cover the Time Magazine interview. If you can identify a coherent through line, I’ll know you used AI.

What I worry about is the fragile equilibrium between the corner of his evaporating brain that dreams of peace through annihilation and the clearly dominant portion that resents all of humanity for failing to properly celebrate his Caesarian feats of redecoration.

All I’m saying is I hope Natalie has a really specific plan for when he asks for the nuclear football because a nation that fails to appreciate the splendor of a truly great helipad doesn’t deserve to outlive him.

JD says Rome wasn’t built in a day. And that’s true; it wasn’t. Bet they would’ve worked this Reflecting Pool shit out by now, though. 

That said, now that Antifa super-soldier David Hearn has officially eluded justice, he is free to continue his one-man jihad against the physical manifestations of American greatness. Let’s see some dicks drawn on some of these banners, people!

It actually would’ve been nice to have a statue or two to topple, now that I’m thinking about it. I’m not complaining. I’ll happily settle for pulling down a few of these smug apparatchiks who never dreamed they’d face a competitive general election.

I want to believe in the new Senate map. The new Senate map keeps giving me the eye from across the bar, sure, but the new Senate map is way out of my league. Shifting spending from North Carolina and Georgia to Kansas is one thing, but you move Iowa into the toss-up column, I assume I’m being secretly filmed. You start talking about Nebraska and South Carolina, I assume the night ends with me in an ice-filled hotel bathtub, lighter by a couple of kidneys.

…but the new Senate map is a damn fine Senate map. The new Senate map’s butt looks great in those jeans. I’m willing to indulge the fantasy for another month. Who needs kidneys anyway?

Nobody’s more nervous than Ken Paxton. He was already on thin ice for being such an uggo, but impugning Dear Leader’s party-throwing prowess strikes me as a good way to wind up in the dungeon under the ballroom.

I was trying to figure out why my feed was full of ads for a Martin Short-starring musical based on Patton, but it turned out to just be Petey Push-ups giving one of his incel TED talks. He has a big, impressive list of all the types of people who aren’t allowed to serve in his military, including beardos, weirdos, people who had heard of the Strait of Hormuz before Pete Hegseth started a war with Iranos, and people who understand that sailors need to eatos.

Now, before we embark on our journey through Eric Schmitt’s magnificently botched cotillion, I’d like to offer a tiny prayer of thanks that Amy Klobuchar was not around to witness the most embarrassing moment of my life, let alone read it into the official Congressional Record. That is an unusually bad break, Eric.

…though an entirely appropriate one, karmically speaking. In hindsight, taking such a hubristic swing with all those Greek gods still fuming over getting cut from that Odyssey movie was probably a mistake.

September 30, 2026, was supposed to be the first day of Eric’s new life. His real life. Eric Schmitt was about to force himself onto history’s stage, and he intended to stay a long, long time.

He was about to bag the big one, see? The white whale. Why, it’s only natural that Eric had landed a spot on JD Vance’s running mate shortlist! Was it not he and he alone who finally delivered Jack Smith’s head on a platter? Surely the Christmas Adventurers would have no choice but to accept his application now.

Yeah, planting that shortlist thing with Axios was a stroke of genius. The hearing itself was mere formality. Great MAGA King Status was within his grasp.

Then O! How effortlessly did Eric spring his perjury trap! Why, this Smith fellow wasn’t very smart at all! Surprising he hadn’t been dealt with ages ago. But then, he never reckoned with…Eric Schmitt! Future Vice President of the United States of America!

“…and you know what happens to Vice Presidents sometimes?” he allowed himself to muse as his prey flailed ineffectually in his grasp. Perhaps he’d retain this Smith as a serving boy, or a butler, or —

“I apologize; I must’ve been daydreaming. What’s that you were saying about Caitlin Clark?” And he’s thinking Katie Britt sure looks sick. Maybe she had some bad fish for lunch. Or some blueberries. Or lettuce, or cinnamon, or —

“Ah. I see.” And then every playground taunt from his childhood flashes before his eyes, because he understands he’ll be seeing them all over the media for the rest of his life. Schmitt for brains. Schmitthead. Schmitt show. Schmitt the bed, obviously.

And that’s your life now. You’re the dumbest guy in the history of the Senate. When you die, the obituary will be Oh Man, Remember This Dumbass? and millions will chuckle at your expense.

Said obituary won’t mention anything about being Vice President, obviously.

I love election season, though. Sweater weather. Pumpkin spice everything. The inevitable return of the wingnut media bubble’s favorite holiday boogeyman: the (spooky voice and/or flashlight effect) MIIIIIIGRAAAANT CARAAAAVAAAAAAAAAN. Such reliable IP. They’re coming to your town to eat the pets or trans your kids or steal your precious bodily fluids.

…okay, but do they know how tariffs work? Because we could probably spare some pets.

I see “Ambassador” Kimberly Guilfoyle has gone ever so slightly mad with power, demanding expensive champagnes, outsourcing diplomacy to lobbyists, and even threatening regime change when the mood strikes. I actually had that one on my bingo card. Word for word.

Even a decade of faithful stoogery may not be enough to spare Sarah Slanders from excommunication for the sin of implying any overlap in the Venn diagram of the master race and the Filthy Taker Class™️.  Understand, the “welfare queen” is a key figure in Republican mythology, every bit as vital to their culture as imbibing livestock dewormer.

Golly, I really thought the Noems were gonna make it. Or that God would condemn them to spend eternity in each other’s company, Kristi forever damned to facilitate Bryon’s sexxy/fashy prison photo shoots, requiring regular pit stops to refill his enormous falsies with puppy blood.

Apparently, John Roberts’ complicity in American fascism’s ascent has impacted his social life negatively. So, yeah…cause and effect is still a thing. Well, there’s always euchre night at the Dershowitzes.

Me, I think I’ll stay in and drink beer and read comic books. If you’d like to join me, you can buy me a beer via Cash App, Venmo, or PayPal, or, better still, sign up on the prelaunch page for my next comic book Kickstarter! GENERAL WASHINGTON AND THE LIBERTY TREE #2 ups the stakes, and you are gonna freakin’ love it.

Until then, join the email list, follow @john_luzar, and stay ever so safe out there, my friend…