As expected, the pudding-spined mediocrity that passes for a strongman in America’s cut-rate conservative culture proved far too chickenshit to testify under oath, so the defense of the Republican presidential nominee rested, not with a bang, but with the merest popcorn fart, not unlike one that might escape the deteriorating husk of an aging rapist who no longer possesses the stamina to stay awake through his own porn star hush money trial.

I understand the Dotard is down to whatever attorneys happen to pop up in Cracker Jack boxes now, but was the Costello creep really the entire plan? “Here’s the most aggressively dislikable cretin we could find, to confirm several of the prosecution’s points!”

…okay. If you’re sure.

I bet when you’re that guilty (and that cold) you just want to get things over with. “Ladies and gentleman, you’re either afraid of the hammer and/or nail gun-wielding psychos we’ll send to your house if you acknowledge the obvious, or you’re not; let’s get this feeble old man someplace he can warm up, huh?”

In a fantastic detail that very nearly shattered what’s left of my mind into ten thousand brainworm bite-sized pieces, it’s apparently NOT EVEN COLD in the fucking courtroom.

One wonders, is this another manifestation of the accelerating decay of a body ravaged by hamberders, hydroxychloroquine, and hate? Will he show up to the debates in some biologically disconcerting breathing apparatus, like Immortan Joe?

Or is he doing that thing where he asserts dominance over objective reality just cuz he can?

Because at his command, at least a dozen sitting U.S. Congressmen would march straight into a sauna, and sit there, sweating through their matching suits, insisting they’re freezing, until somebody passed out. Gaetz would order coffee, and the other lackeys would kick themselves for not thinking of it first.

It’s not even cold. Dear god.

By this time next week, Byron Donalds’ll be workshopping a whole new myth on the hate rally circuit, wherein the Turd Emperor got marched to his trial at the point of Hunter Biden’s bayonet, through six feet of snow, five miles uphill both ways, jauntily taking and “acing” cognitive tests all the while, just to pass the time.

As such, in light of the sleep-farting pervert’s undeniable invulnerability, it is with the heaviest of hearts I inform you Operation Jade Helm XXIII: Will No One Rid Me of This Meddlesome Rapist is off. First, that wily Marjorie Taylor Greene discovered the Jewish lasers we worked so hard to smuggle into orbit, now she’s uncovered our assassination plot! She is simply too intelligent a foe, comrades! Abort! Abort! Abort!

Yeah, the poor, persecuted turd spends his days dodging Diamond Joe’s elite web of international cutthroats now. In between naps. In his little golf cart. Only your NFT purchase keeps that golf cart fueled, y’know, but your Trump Buxx will be worth their weight in unobtainium in the Reich to come.

Hey, speaking of reichs…

I confess, I’m no fan of the way this ongoing flirtation with open Nazi rhetoric paired with the entirely fabricated yet swiftly disseminated assassination conspiracy theory. Especially with refined plans for mass deportations and detention camps making the rounds, as tried-and-true racist fearmongering bits return to fat, fashy Elvis’ set list.

Sure, he talks an awful lot like Hitler, but he hangs out with indicted rappers and Joe Piscopo, so we really oughta let him outlaw birth control, and rape whoever he wants, really, that’s what Nikki Haley thinks, anyway.

Nikki didn’t mean all those reasonable, objectively accurate criticisms of your many shortcomings, Mr. Rapist, Sir! She’s being measured for her too-long red necktie as we speak, and would make an ideal Secretary of Something You Don’t Want to Pay Attention To.

At least they’re still reliant on astroturfing and post-production propaganda wizardry to generate the illusion of real-world support. I prefer my death cults simmering at sub-riot-level temperatures, don’t you?

Not that the would-be high priests aren’t doing their subpar best to stir up the rubes’ darker urges. Dr. Ronny Jackson is standing by with whatever chemical assistance you may require to work yourself into a state where it seems wise to violently insert yourself into official government proceedings. And JD Vance thinks Viktor Orbán could teach those uppity campus protesters a thing or two about expressing dissenting beliefs.

Also, the Shart of the Deal claims to’ve worked out an agreement with his genocidal benefactor to swap Ukrainian sovereignty for kidnapped American journalist Evan Gershkovich plus a piss hooker to be named later. The Nobel people won’t be able ignore you this time, kid.

I’m curious, exactly how many traitor flags do the Alitos keep in their various garages? I picture Missus A rifling through storage bins, amidst styrofoam tombstones and nativity sets, dithering over whether or not the Stars and Bars might be a touch more aggressive than the moment merits. (There’s a plastic tub filled with armbands on the top shelf, but it’s not quiiiiiite time yet.)

The cast of Vetting the Republican Senate Candidates may’ve stumbled onto the breakout weirdo they needed to anchor an otherwise bland slate of lumbering carpetbaggers plus Kari Lake in her Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? period.

Thanks to his long history of anti-Semitic rants and trademark fondness for the c-word, Royce White rose to something resembling prominence as a frequent guest of and even occasional substitute host for Alex Jones, so naturally the Minnesota Republican Party endorsed him to take on Amy Klobuchar.

And I don’t want to set my debate expectations unreasonably high, but that feels like the sort of conversation you’d toss into the time capsule, the one we launch into space to warn as yet unborn alien civilizations about the follies that brought about our downfall. A clarifying side-by-side comparison, if nothing else.

Dastardly deep state Dem Jim McGovern desecrated the House floor by making easily confirmable statements about the Republican presidential nominee’s legal issues, but miraculously, decorum was restored when the ghost of Daniel Webster himself appeared to wash McGovern’s intolerably accurate words from the official congressional record in a stream of ethereal urine.

Ron DeSantis bleated out an edict, banning all non-Ron-Ron-approved colors from nighttime bridge lighting throughout the land, so as to outlaw Pride displays, you see, for he is the pettiest authoritarian brat who ever lived. He’s branded this little tantrum his “Freedom Summer,” which no doubt triggers that nearly human laugh of his.

Kristi Noem has now been banished from all tribal lands in Whichever Dakota, more than 20% of the state she governs, for dirtbaggery unrelated to any pet homicides you may’ve read about elsewhere. To make matters worse, rumors abound that Corey Lewandowski is currently cohabitating with a dog cloned from Cricket’s remains.

Seems a certain rapist is none too pleased his forthcoming biopic, “Apprentice: Story of a Rapist” contains a scene where he rapes one of the women he raped. Well, the adaptors tried to find a scene where he succeeded at business, but there weren’t any.

Seems like as good a time as any to mention Trump Media, which reported $327.6 million in net losses against just $770,500 in revenue, although that figure doesn’t include the break room Diet Coke machine. Devin lost the key in a legal settlement to an internet cow, but if push comes to shove, they can shoot the lock open with one of Kid Rock’s guns, I bet there’s thirty, thirty-five bucks in there, easy.

New Jersey Republicans have descended into a super dignified, Spy vs. Spy slap fight over stolen lawn signs, as emotionally stable adults are wont to do. Gosh, I hope nobody’s clown wig got tousled in the ensuing skirmish.

Starting July 1st, the Donnelly, Idaho Public Library will ban unaccompanied minors, in compliance with a terrifying state law passed by regressive thugs. Me, I think a culture that hangs No Kids Allowed signs on libraries has maybe lost its way a little.

…you see why I drink.

Should you feel inclined to help me rinse the memory of all this madness away on a wave of merciful, merciful beer, have I got a tip jar (now accepting PayPal, Venmo, and Cash App) for you! You could also follow @john_luzar over on Elon’s Broken Plaything, or sign up on the email list at showercapblog.com, if you’re so inclined. Or not. You have free will, after all.

(Hey, probably gonna need a week off to recharge soon. It miiiiiiiight be next week, we’ll see. Stay safe out there, m’loves…)