I was thinking, instead of a blog tonight, maybe I could just stand in the middle of the street and scream “what the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” at the top of my lungs until I pass out. No? Well, since you’re already here, I suppose I may as well document the madness, such is my charge and my curse.

Since we last spoke, my favorite new band, Nancy P and the Swing District Freshmen, finally announced their highly-anticipated Impeachment Inquiry Tour, and I will be camping out on the fucking sidewalk in order to procure front-row tickets. We’ll get to that soon enough; let’s plow through the opening acts real quick.

It’s been suggested that the sole function of the Republican Party in 2019 is shielding the Trump crime family from accountability, but I just don’t think that’s fair; they’re also really quite passionate about belching up the vilest imaginable hate at this climate activist child. Watching some of these maniacs froth and screech, you’d think young Greta Thunberg’s message was “mandatory left arm amputations for everyone!” rather than “hey, science is real please address climate change.” Oddly enough, few of the voices calling for Greta’s head on a pike expressed the slightest concern about the government opening concentration camps on American soil and then filling them with terrified, maltreated, children.

The Dopey Dotard with Diminutive Digits gave a rambling, distracted, creepy, low-energy, speech at the United Nations, and if this is his mental state at the start of the impeachment battle, I give it three weeks before he staggers out of the residence, wearing nothing but an overlong necktie, demanding that Jim Acosta be brought before him to be roasted on an open fire.

I’m living vicariously through British politics, as Boris Johnson’s authoritarian losing streak rolls on. The Supreme Court told him precisely where to stick his attempt to shove Parliament under the bed until the Brexit deadline*, and honestly, has this doofus had one single success since assuming office? You picture him walking into the kitchen, having announced the intention to make himself a ham sandwich, only to emerge, ten hours later, covered in mosquito bites and raw sewage, without having even managed to get the refrigerator door open. Anyway, his own sister’s shitting on him now, too, so everything’s coming up Boris, I guess.

So yeah, House Dems decided it was finally time to launch that impeachment investigation, because a motherfucker isn’t gonna impeach himself. Well, actually, this one’s so fuckin’ dumb he just might, but we can probably expedite the process with hearings.

Tangerine Idi Amin helpfully pitched in, releasing a memo allegedly summarizing his phone call with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, but despite some generous editing, he somehow forgot to take out the part where he commits a very large crime, soliciting dirt on Smilin’ Joe Biden (and his less-smiley son) from a foreign government. It’s a bit like starting a game of Clue by telling the players “It was Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the framed fake Time Magazine cover,” but that’s none of my business, I’m sure.

Not a single pair of pants in Trumpworld remained un-pissed-in that day, because total confessions tend to complicate legal defenses, or so I’m told. William Barr is frantically trying to redact the door to his office so nobody can find him. Rudy Giuliani and Mike Pompeo are playing a special Under the Bus version of musical chairs, and in a perfect world, they’ll both lose. Totally unbidden, Fat Q*Bert himself offered to throw Mike Pants to any wolves who might have developed a taste for brainless theocrat. The loyalty is genuinely inspirational.

Speaking of Giuliani, America’s least favorite cousin-fucker is…not taking the week’s news particularly well, screeching at every passing reporter and stray cat that he deserves to be hailed as a hero for his noble work spreading long-ago debunked conspiracy theories on behalf of a lawless wannabe dictator. Yeah, Rudes, I don’t think Nick Fury’s gonna be showing up with an invite any time soon. (Especially now that you seem to be dropping further evidence of your crimes on Twitter, you fucking moron.)

Now, the impeachment battle is gonna be one helluva fight, especially with a such a savvy foe; the Shart House was, in fact, so proud of the talking points they cooked up that they helpfully e-mailed them to Democratic House members. Don’t worry though, they quickly sent a follow-up e-mail asking Dems to please not read the talking points and certainly don’t share them so everybody can laugh at our blistering incompetence. That second e-mail doesn’t seem to have gone through.

(Somehow, despite the circulation of said talking points to every corner of Al Gore’s information superhighway, the propaganda puppets on Fux Nooz still feigned great indignation upon being called out for what was, in fairness, truly professional-grade parroting.)

Hilariously, Shart Garfunkel and his GOP stooges are trying to pull some silly “Alas! And we were just about to pass sweeping bipartisan gun control legislation, ‘ere our dastardly Democrat colleagues poisoned the well with their cruel, wanton, law enforcement!” shit. Yeah, I bet that totally works, kids. I bet Gabby Giffords and the whole Moms Demand Action crew are standing in line to get their MAGA caps right now.

And just to really show off those problem-solving skillz, Team Treasonweasel is allegedly looking into hiring Corey Lewandowski to help with the impeachment battle. I wasn’t around for Nixon, does the defendant need a lot of female journalists assaulted in order to prevail?

Anyway, after a full day of treating Donald Trump like the world’s ugliest piñata over just the transcript, we got to see the whistleblower’s complaint, and thus President Crotchrot’s Shittiest Week Ever got even worse, and I laughed so fucking hard that I rattled every bone in my body into powder; I’m just a lump of fleshy goo now, fuck knows how I’m even typing this.

The complaint is extra-damning-with-whipped-cream-and-chopped-nuts because it matches up with Weehands McNodick’s own transcript damn near perfectly, blowing a big fat fucking hole in the GOP plot to spin it as mere “hearsay,” essentially nothing but the bitchy gossip of a disgruntled deep state rat. Again, it’s a whodunnit that tells you whodunnit on the fucking cover of the book.

Oh, and we also learned that President Liposuction Clinic Dumpster has been hiding his communications with Ukraine, and God only knows what else, on a Super Secret Special Server, and now I’m waiting for Trey Gowdy to call a press conference announcing he’s joining the Democratic Party before personally breaking into the West Wing to seize that bad boy in the name of national security.

Now, it’s probably too soon to judge, but I have to say, I was quite impressed with the pilot episode of The Impeachment Show. Adam Schiff is a compelling lead, and his “the rule of law should matter” argument, while controversial (it seems), intrigues me. Today’s hearing with acting DNI Joseph Maguire left every fan in Washington covered in poo, and we’re just getting warmed up.

Devin “Pigfucker” Nunes, who desperately wants to block for his Turd Emperor, but isn’t very good at it, on account of being dumber than pudding cup, suggested that what Democrats were really after wasn’t the truth, but rather nude photos of Donnie Two-Scoops. Now, this was a deceptively shrewd move, betting that by putting such an utterly revolting image in viewers’ minds, millions of Americans would instantly change the channel, and thus wouldn’t hear about all the crimez and cover-ups and whatnot.

Now, the Velveeta Vulgarian is facing this existential threat to his crime spree, er, “presidency” with all the grace and dignity we’ve come to expect of him, suggesting to a crowd at a private event for the United States Mission to the United Nations that the whistleblower and his sources were essentially spies, and thus can join Joe Biden in the line for the electric chair. Now, on one hand, this adds a few counts (witness tampering, anyone?) to the impeachment buffet (and no “hearsay” here, there are tapes, lordy), but on the other this is THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES CALLING FOR THE MURDER OF THOSE WHO REVEAL HIS CRIMES and honestly, forget the stooges like Lindsey Graham and the loons like Jim Jordan, you just want to ask, say, Lamar Alexander or Roy Blunt, “Hey, bro, you thinking about maybe drawing a line before he orders his hate mob to start assassinating people?”

(Side note: gosh it’s just SO hard to believe this execution-happy thug would threaten to withhold aid from a foreign country if he didn’t get his trick or treat bag filled with cold cheeseburgers and kompromat, isn’t it?)

Anyway, no sooner had Government Cheese Goebbels announced his desire to kill his way out of this whole “impeachment” kerfuffle, than the New York Times helpfully popped up to publish a Pocket Guide to Everything We Know About the Whistleblower, possibly enough to help the dolt squad in the White House figure out his identity. Between the presidential death threats and the near-instantaneous doxxing, you really wonder why more folks haven’t come forward.

And you know what’s REALLY amazing? Wilbur Ross is sleeping through all this shit. Somebody give the ol’ fellah a nudge, he may have died.

Shit, Cap, what’s the good news in the midst of this shitstorm? The good news, my dear friends, is that in November of last year, all our hard work paid off, and we flipped the House. If we hadn’t, not only wouldn’t these hearings be taking place, we’d almost certainly never have heard about this whistleblower in the first place; they’d have buried the complaint, and Diamond Joe would probably have been extradited to Kiev for a show trial by now. These stretches between voting opportunities are long as fuck, but we’re making the most of ‘em, aren’t we?

I almost hate to bring you back down after all the inspirational shit in that last paragraph, but it is my solemn duty to deliver unto you this super-sad article about the chaos and infighting tearing apart Fux Nooz in this, the Age of Impeachment. Trigger warning: fuckhead-on-fuckhead violence.

Ok, that’s a wrap for now. At the rate things’re moving, this news’ll probably be stale and forgotten by the time you read it, but if I don’t start drinking now, the beer’ll go bad. See you soon, Resisters!

P.S. – Congrats, Shart-Shart! You made the cover of Time!

*Up his ass, is the joke. Or “arse,” I suppose.