Forgive me if I’m a little off my game tonight, friends; I just feel a bit…I dunno, it’s hard to describe. It’s a vaguely familiar sensation, but I can’t quite place it. It isn’t dread, or disgust, or outrage, or any of the negative emotions one simply accepts as part of the burden of being alive in 2020, just this odd, tickling feeling. Haven’t been able to shake it since, oh, since about midday Saturd-OH HOLY CRAP, IT’S HOPE!

Because after an interminable, malingering cliffhanger that seemed to warp the very laws of time, the election was finally, FINALLY called for Biden, and advertising slots on cable news networks receded to saner levels.

Obviously, we can’t completely rule out the Surprise Desperate Coup Attempt until Joe n’ Kamala are safely sworn in, but aside from a few fanatic dead-enders, and Don Jr., who’ll surely never be able to pay off his coke dealer without access to the U.S. Treasury, institutional Republicans seem content to distract the Deposed Dotard with doomed lawsuits and just enough public support to avoid the dreaded Mean Tweet, the mere threat of which reduces allegedly-powerful Republicans to quivering piles of treacherous gelatin.

Because a truly terrifying chunk of the GOP is so thoroughly brainwashed that they genuinely believe their beloved Hemorrhoid Emperor is being unjustly overthrown via a fraudulent election. And even now, with history’s eyes wide open, Mitch McConnell and his craven crew cannot muster enough love of country to even lightly douse the flames of fascism raging through their base; no, if it means clinging to power for another term or so, destroying the nation’s faith in democracy itself is a price they’re only too willing to (make the rest of us) pay.

So yes, Chief-Thuglomat-for-Now Mike Pompeo enjoyed his little “joke” about the transition, but we all know he practices his wee wannabe Hitler speeches in the mirror every morning while he ties his tie. He’ll network his way around the country now, to see how many donors he can get to bite on his Trump Without the Baggage hook. He won’t be alone.

Of course, within Shartopia, it’s not all sparkle-eyed dreams of the Reich to Come: Corey Lewandowski has been hospitalized with vertigo after hours spent repeatedly checking to see whether his refrigerator was indeed running, as the Treasonweasel campaign’s pathetic “voter fraud hotline” experienced precisely the fate literally any thinking being could have foreseen.

Even as their legal strategy to cling to power struggled to attain the level of farce (don’t worry, I’m getting there), the Turd Family Robinshart effortlessly evolved their grift with a degree of speed and skill one wishes they had thought to apply to the MOTHERFUCKING PANDEMIC, swiftly passing the hat around for donations to fuel their futile legal flailing, ASTERISK sixty cents out of every dollar go towards retiring the campaign’s debt, THANKS RUBES.

I’m starting to believe the Children of the Candy Corn understand Gameshow Göring is simply stealing from them, and that they’re perfectly happy to have their pockets picked, in the same way a gambler doesn’t truly mind losing another week’s paycheck; he bought one more night at the casino, which was all he really wanted, deep down.

Mendaciously claiming credit for the welcome news that Pfizer had achieved a major breakthrough in their development of a coronavirus vaccine must’ve sent nostalgic smiles circulating through the West Wing’s defiled halls; why, it seems like only yesterday they were merrily bumming a ride on the Obama economy, grateful the purloined proximity to prosperity still shielded them from the consequences of their international trade blunders.

Personally, I don’t think introducing new villains is necessary, or even appropriate at this point in the story, but nevertheless, here is Emily W. Murphy with yet another fresh turd for the punch bowl. Emily is the proverbial one-job haver in the popular YOU HAD ONE JOB meme, and that job is to sign the letter allowing the Biden transition team to begin the work of cleaning out the Augean stables. Like the giddy little fascist bureaucrat the holder of this office under Trump was always going to be, Emily is refusing to sign the letter, so now everybody has to just stand around, in a room overflowing with shit, wasting time.

Now yes, this is exactly the sort of childishness we’ve come to expect from the Manchurian Manchild and his team, but there are real national security risks here, so maybe we’ll get lucky, and this leveled-up Kim Davis will stumble accross some sort of magic potion that helps her get the fuck over herself.

The petulant Pentagon purge is underway, with Defense Secretary Mark Esper defenestrated alongside several other officials and replaced by, I assume, Devin Nunes’ butt acne at this point. I figure they’re most likely done tear-gassing Americans in front of churches by now, though I suppose we can’t rule out a “Well, I just nuked London, have fun!” note awaiting Smilin’ Joe in the Oval.

But seriously, I’m seeing that we needn’t fear a military coup here, it’s likely just a bit of frenzied document shredding to make things harder for the investigations to come, though I believe it is sub-optimal, health-of-democracy-wise, that I do indeed draw comfort from this distinction.

I hope Joe has the White House boiled before moving in, however, because damned if that butthole frat house didn’t manage to sneak in one last coronavirus outbreak, apparently at their own election night party, just for extra comeuppance, this time snagging Mark Meadows, David Bossie, and “Dr.” Ben Carson. Truly, the best people.

Budding mini-Trumps Kelly Loeffler and David Perdue launched their Senate runoff campaigns by reminding the electorate of their manifest unfitness for office, demanding the firing of Georgia’s Secretary of State for the nigh-unforgivable crime of counting the people’s votes fairly, and if you’re having trouble reconciling this with the GOP’s catchy new “count every legal vote” slogan, may I suggest you pick up your official Shower Cap Secret Decoder Ring? The one that’s just a cheap piece of plastic that says REPUBLICANS LIE? See, you get it now.

And now I see William Barr is leaving the door open for one last stab at redacting American democracy once and for all, legitimizing Tangerine Idi Amin’s latest autocrat shitfit with an official Justice Department investigation. Y’know how when Dorothy gets to the Scarecrow and she’s all weepy because she’ll miss him most of all? It’s like the precise mathematical opposite of that with you, Bill.

But enough crap, let’s move on to the good stuff, shall we?

As expected, the weekend saw the launch of the heavily-anticipated Fall of an Idiot Death Cult postmortem genre, which I intend to gorge myself upon in Roman fashion. It’s going to be a circular firing squad inside the hazardous waste bin behind an oncology clinic.

I’m optimistic that watching the rats rip each other to shreds, even as the lice and maggots that live on the rats in turn rip themselves to shreds, will provide sufficient entertainment to carry me through this long winter of quarantine. Still, with stories like “Kimberly Guilfoyle Offers World’s Most Terrifying Lap Dance in Exchange For Donor Buxx already dropping, I worry we may’ve peaked early.

I confess, I did not expect Rudy Giuliani, of all available dirtbags, to ride to America’s rescue in her hour of need, but while the tiny-fisted tyrant at the other end of his leash trembled in a piss-soaked corner of his bunker, Rudy, as though possessed by the very God of Catharsis, set forth to deliver unto a weary nation the eviscerating public degradation of Trumpism we deserved, dammit.

And so, next to a roadside crematorium and the saddest sex shop this side of a Todd Solondz film, in the company of a known sex criminal, Amerikkka’s Mayor forever transformed the parking lot behind Four Seasons Total Landscaping* into Mecca For People Who Like Watching Fascist Assholes Humiliate Themselves.

I like to think the inevitable Hollywood prestige pic based on these batguano-crusted days will end at this point precisely. Giuliani’s punctured ramblings about courts and networks fading out as the credits roll, pausing periodically to note the no-doubt-disappointing eventual prison sentences of the chief collaborators.

In conclusion, I’d just like to say GEORGIA GEORGIA GEORGIA GEORGIA GEORGIA, because that’s where your head should be until January 5th.

*In the interest of honest chroniclin’, it must be said that yes, in this most desperate hour, the President of the United States of America had selected as his lead attorney a man who was incapable of distinguishing a small landscaping company from a luxury hotel. They were stupid, stupid men, and times, as I have often expressed along this journey, were cray.