When I am old, I will sit on a rocking chair on my porch and children will periodically approach to ask Old Man Cap what it was like, living through the death throes of Donald Trump’s attempted fascist coup, and I will chase those little bastards away with my cane for triggering memories of this madness. It was cray-cray, youngsters. Shit was cray beyond your wildest conception of what that doubtlessly-outdated term implies. OFF MY LAWN WITH YE.

So, you may have noticed, or had your entire life derailed by, or perhaps even died frightened and alone from the coronavirus pandemic. No, your federal government is somehow still not doing a great deal to halt the spread of the disease that’s claimed 209,000 American lives, but it is diligently battling the notion that COVID-19 is anything to worry about.

Maniacal Trumpist hacks installed atop the CDC apparently commandeered $300 million for a doomed, deranged effort to make television ads where Dennis Quaid somehow lulls a weary America into believing Larry Kudlow was right all along? I don’t get it either. At this point, it’s just insane children, hopped up on Orange Crush and Wonka Fun Dip, looting the Treasury.

Of course, the governing party isn’t JUST neglecting its duty to protect its citizens from a deadly virus, it’s also refusing to lift a finger to help the millions of Americans who were just standing around, minding their own fucking business, when y’all decided to crash the economy, get a quarter of a million of us killed, and experiment with open fascism, just to spice up the death and despair, I guess.

What I’m saying is, Mitch McConnell’s hopelessly corrupt Senate Republican caucus will not be shaken from their path to damnation. Never in our history* has such a crucial group of elected officials failed in their responsibilities so repeatedly and so cravenly, and never have their failures cost so many so much. Never forget any of their names, and never stop holding them up as examples of the rot that erupts when power collides with cowardice.

Christ, I’m ranting. Point is, Wrinkly Gamera still won’t take up legislation that would deliver much-needed relief from the suffering he is largely to blame for, because he’d much rather spend his time on his favorite hobby: orchestrating heists of Supreme Court seats. And hey, you’re good at it, Mitch. Congratulations. Look what it cost.

Seriously, look at these hopelessly broken men and women, from McConnell to Rubio to Collins to that kid with the lousy beard, what’s his name, spends his days sucking on the butthole of the guy who insulted his wife, ANYWAY, look at them, toasting themselves in the middle of the cemetery, the graves they’ve dug stretching beyond the horizon in every direction, celebrating this extra bit of power they’ve purloined for themselves.

Power to what? To kill still more of us? This party is so insane and useless and rotten, you understand why they have to cheat with every tool at their disposal to dodge the will of the people.

Of course I understand they’re salivating to install their little maniac theocrat before the American people have a chance to punish them for their authoritarian power grab amidst their catastrophic failings, but I admit it’s still amusing to watch them, howling with all the sincerity of a high school kid singing Les Miz, as they rail against imaginary Democrats over their immense, imaginary hatred of Catholics.

Meanwhile, the Democratic Party’s nominee for President attends a Catholic church every Sunday while Hairplug Himmler spreads hate and golfs. Because Republicans don’t even know how to deal with the truth anymore. Y’all can’t hide in this alternate reality forever. This path your party is on, it ends in either electoral defeat or Kristallnacht, you understand that, right?

I’m on a really exciting new diet where I draw sustenance exclusively from videos of Lindsey Graham begging MAGA Nation for money like an unusually whiny Dickens orphan. Sorry Linds, your master already bled the whole damn cult dry to pay his legal bills, and after blowing a cool billion with nothing to show for it but a series of tasteful shots of Joe Biden’s septuagenarian ass, you’re own your own, son.

Today on Shitty Orwell Theatre, I see Tangerine Idi Amin has taken to branding his superspreader Klan rallies as “peaceful protests.” I mean, it’s not even good trolling, but frankly, I’m completely willing to throw a faux tantrum or two to keep these assclowns locked into a strategy of Deliberately Spreading a Lethal Disease Amongst Our Most Fervent Supporters in Crucial Swing States to Own th’Libs.

Please! Stop! O I am slain!

Welp, the Failing New York Times finally got ahold of Shart Garfunkel’s tax returns, and I have to admit, for a doddering old nitwit with a Wile E. Coyote-like instinct for self-destruction, all the years of effort invested into suppressing this multi-spouted shit fountain were well-spent. Holy balls.

The slobbering jackass calls himself the “King of Debt,” but bro, if something has your nuts in a vice, one thing you are decidedly not is the King of it. Years of recklessness and ineptitude have left him with hundreds of millions personally owed and set to come due within a few short years, even as his core businesses flounder and fail, just like EVERY SINGLE THING HE FUCKING TOUCHES.

Minutes after the NYT bombshell dropped, every national security pundit in the country quietly raised their hand to remind us that under normal circumstances, no one with a fraction of this debt would be allowed anywhere near classified intelligence, or indeed any part of the national security apparatus, on account of how OBVIOUSLY FUCKING BLACKMAILABLE they are.

I mean, how many times over the last day or so have you seen a nervous expert describe Strawberry Shartcake’s financial exposure as a “threat to national security?” And how many times have you shouted, “OH, YA THINK?” at the TV screen?

Folks, we all remember Jared Kushner swapping government policy and/or state secrets for that $1.8 billion bailout from his dumbfuck family’s suicidally stupid real estate blundering, and we’ve watched his taintfungus father-in-law blissfully golf the year away as 200,000 Americans lost their lives to his malignant mismanagement, of course these crooks will continue placing their personal financial concerns above your life. OF COURSE THEY WILL. If he could get away with it, Donald Trump would sell every bit of equipment under the Pentagon’s control, down to the paper clips and Post-it notes, to Putin, just to get out from under that debt. Don’t doubt it for a moment.

In the end, he’s never been anything but a drooling idiot burning through Daddy’s money, just the cheapest imaginable grifter, with a skill set barely suited to selling fake designer handbags on street corners until the fuzz shows up…and we made him the PRESIDENT.

Not since the world learned of Mitt Romney’s sneering disdain for the 47% has a number penetrated the public consciousness as quickly and thoroughly as the Marmalade Shartcannon’s already-infamous $750. After all the unpaid bills and outright fraud and Republican-designed loopholes for the wealthy, the Velveeta Vulgarian’s contribution to the nation’s coffers in two separate years amounted to a just-rubbing-our-serf-noses-in-it seven hundred and fifty dollars.

$750. It’s somehow infinitely more infuriating than the many years when he used a combination of personal incompetence and contortionist accounting to avoid paying any taxes at all (remember how we laughed when we learned the dolt lost more money than anyone else in America?), because it reminds us that even before submitting to a hostile takeover by a Nazi game show host, the whole dang GOP ultimately amounted to little more than a glorified accounting firm for the billionaire class.

It reminds us that Toupee Fiasco’s lone legislative accomplishment of any significance was a wildly unpopular bill that cut his own taxes even further, I guess cuz that seven-fiddy came out of the vital fund set aside to replace plate glass windows Junior n’ Eric walk through.

Run on that, you fucks. Run on $750 and 200,000 mostly preventable deaths. Face the electorate with that record. And brace yourselves for what comes next.

…y’know, the last time Joe Biden was on a presidential ticket, that 47% shit put the Republican down for the count, and that guy could pronounce Thailand. And he never raped anybody. Or got even ONE hundred thousand people killed

I see Ratfucker Prince Brad Parscale has been “involuntarily hospitalized” following a domestic violence incident which allegedly involved a loaded handgun and left his wife’s arms covered in bruises. Another reminder that the vow to “drain the swamp” and hire “the best people” was just one more maggot-chewed shit sandwich that you always had to be mighty fucking stupid to take a bite of, let alone swallow.

Ok, so tomorrow brings the long-awaited meeting of Handsome Joe Biden’s boot and lil’ Donnie Two-Scoops’ ass. Less historic, but equally entertaining, September 29th also brings the launch of the Kickstarter for MY SECOND COMIC BOOK, a nifty little space fable called MINE. Y’all were very kind in helping me launch my first comic earlier in the year, and I think you’ll enjoy this one.

There’s a special reward on the Kickstarter for fans of this blog, by the way. For backers at higher tiers, I will compose a personalized letter to a politician of your choosing on an issue of your choosing, in the style of this here juvenile poo joke blog. These letters were a big hit on the first Kickstarter, so we’re bringing ‘em back!

And once again, Early Bird pledgers will get their names in a special thank you section of the comic itself! One week only!

And don’t forget about the Fascist-Flushing 2020 Action Guide! The House side is growing, welcoming Montana’s Kathleen Williams, who you may remember from the midterms. Obviously, the link to Flip the Dang Senate has been, heh, popular.

Ok…rest up, Resisters. We’re about to hit the home stretch, and I imagine shit’s gonna get real weird. Hunker down with beer n’ cake n’ comics or whatever it is that recharges ya, we’re gonna need everybody at their best.

*I know fuckall about history. If I’m wrong, (and I probably am), I’m wrong. Keep it to yourself.