Since we apparently live in a world where Russian Napoleonic reenactors stumble around drunkenly with backpacks full of human arms, nothing should really surprise us anymore, but I confess I still don’t know quite how to navigate this shitstorm. Grab a raincoat, take my hand, and let’s wade through it together, okay?

Well, Little Donnie Two-Scoops, following multiple humiliating public appearances, certainly wasn’t going to give up until he found a sufficiently friendly safe space, on account of that whole “crippling narcissism” thing, so he went to the reddest sporting event his staff could think of; a college football game in Tuscaloosa. God punished Alabama by breaking their 31-game home winning streak, and also by subjecting the state to a Roy Moore vs. Jeff Sessions Senate primary race, which is like a lung tumor and a liver tumor bickering over who gets to spread to the colon.

‘Course, the minute he set foot back in New York City, he got the hometown welcome he so richly deserved, and at the risk of offending the pearl-clutching civility police, I hope the doddering old fuck can never again draw a breath of fresh air without a crowd chanting “lock him up” at him till he curls up in the fetal position to suck his tiny, inadequate thumb. Still, Shart Garfunkel is not without supporters in the Big Apple, for example, the one wholesome gentleman who helpfully offered to murder a crowd of protesters.

Condolences go out to Bill Kristol, who has, for years now, been constructing himself a small personal religion based entirely around the notion that Nikki Haley will save the Republican Party from Trump and Trumpism, cuz Nikki has gone Full Dotard, down to laughably obsequious gaslighting about the Kompromat Kid being “tough on Russia.” Plus, she’s picking fights with John Kelly and Rex Tillerson over who loves daddy more, and if things escalate any further, expect Haley to scream “OUT, VILE JELLY!” while digging her thumbs into Low-T Rex’s eye sockets.

So we all saw the story where Shartboy, Jr. got heckled on his little Pay Attention to Me Daddy book tour, and we grinned. Then we found out it was actually right-wingers doing the heckling, and we chuckled a bit. The it turned out the hecklers were creepy alt-right freaks with ties to neo-Nazis and Charlottesville Unite the Right groups who were MAD AT DONALD TRUMP JUNIOR FOR NOT BEING BIGOTED ENOUGH. We need some serious, industrial-grade, disinfectant for the right side of the ol’ Overton window, methinks.

Well, we won’t have New York Congressjag Pete King to kick around anymore, because he’s retiring. Pete’s racist as fuck, but because he doesn’t vacation with Austrian Nazis like the House’s other, Stevier, King, he gets labeled a “moderate,” which just how things work, here in Hell.

Republicans have developed a deeply psychotic obsession with the Ukraine whistleblower, and deep down, I’m sure they’re perfectly aware that there’s nothing to their bad faith arguments that there’s something, anything, improper about the WB complaint, or the way it was filed and reported, now that it’s been corroborated by so many witnesses under oath; no, they’re just hoping to get the poor guy killed, or at least force him to spend the rest of his life in terror, because The Goalposts looked fine where they were, and they’re also much heavier than they look, so fuck you for making us replant them every damn day, looking like anti-American tools in the process.

Fux Nooz “personality” Mollie Hemingway made sure to blurt the alleged whistleblower’s name from a large enough platform to reach all the way to the back of the room, where the potential Pizzagate shooters sit, joining the chorus of stochastic terrorists including (checks notes) former television Superman actor Dean Cain? Fuck this shit. Stop the ride. I want off. Right fucking now, dammit.   

Of course, Lapdog Loyalist Lindsey Graham keeps on trying to play Constitutional Calvinball anyway, proclaiming the impeachment inquiry to be “invalid” unless the whistleblower is outed, which, to be clear, is not grounded in any rule or statute, but rather has its origins somewhere up Lindsey’s ass, from which he pulled his pathetic little ploy. Can’t wait to hear from Graham during the Senate trial: “Because Adam Schiff didn’t coat his scrotum with apple butter, spin around counter-clockwise six times, and then chant Klatuu Barada Nikto before swearing Fiona Hill in for her deposition, the testimony is inadmissible,” he’ll bellow, while Jesse Watters nods vigorously on the other side of a split screen.

There’s also a lot of disingenuous moaning about the sixth amendment, which doesn’t apply here, either. Why, it’s almost as if Republicans are desperate to talk about literally anything except the facts of the case.

When Tangerine Idi Amin dies, Zeus will fling him into the heavens, where he will hang forever as a constellation, the very God of Losing in Court. I bring this up because yes, he lost in court yet again (where does he find the time?), with a federal judge dismissing his Please Let Me Keep My Tax Returns Secret Putin Makes Me Perform Exotic Dances Before He Releases My Allowance lawsuit.

And Strawberry Shartcake even took his masochistic legal fetish international this week, finally surrendering and agreeing to pay his £225,000 legal bill to the government of Scotland. Y’know, maybe he’s appointing all these judges so they can take turns spanking him with their gavels, calling him a naughty boy and sentencing him to military school where his unloving father will never ever write or call him no not even on his birthday.

Rudy Giuliani, facing legal woes that seem to multiply hourly, has figured out a solution to all his troubles: he’s gonna FUCK HIS OWN COUSIN. Wait, no, he’s gonna START AN IMPEACHMENT PODCAST. I mean, were I Rudy, I’d be running so far in the opposite direction, I’d be browsing the dark web for back alley surgeons willing to sew my damn fool mouth shut, but if the rotten-toothed old bastard wants to keep on recording his confessions for public consumption, I have no plans to stand in his way.

Rudy’s co-conspirator, or “old friend” if you’re feeling generous, Lev Parnas, now admits he personally presented the Shart Administration’s quid pro quo terms, with a tasteful garnish, to the Ukraine government, on Rudy-Roo’s orders, and I don’t know if “America’s Mayor” is a formal title that can be stripped, but I don’t think a podcast is gonna get this one done, my dude.

Circus Peanut Sidney Greenstreet’s recent losing streak, which has run from the federal court system through Kentucky and Virginia, finally landed on his home turf: reality television. Man, you know you’re a once-in-a-lifetime fuckup when you mobilize the full power of the presidential bully pulpit to keep your old chum on Dancing With the Stars…and still fail. And because everything he does is seasoned with his trademark blend of pettiness and insecurity, Littlefinger actually deleted a tweet encouraging his followers to vote Spicey once his former propaganda minister lost, proving you’re never more than one awkward shimmy away from Coffee Boy status.

Roger Stone’s trial seems to be wrapping up, with Rick Gates, who has certainly fallen off a few prominent Xmas card lists over the last year or so, testifying about Rog’s role as a giddy intermediary in the Russia/Wikileaks/Treasonweasel Campaign hacked e-mail pipeline and fish fry. I’ve grown quite fond of Gates, if only as a storytelling device; he shows up every few episodes to help usher one of the showier villains into prison, like some Recurring Guest Star of Justice. Gates’ testimony also means Dorito Mussolini perjured himself in his sworn statements to the Mueller investigation, and I’m looking forward to all kinds of ethical consistency from congressional Republicans on that front.

Ahead of the public impeachment hearings, coming soon to a theatre near you, there’s plenty of infighting on Team Crotchfungus, with various camps of malicious fuckwits at each other’s throats over all the incompetence and public confessing and what have you. Not that I don’t absolutely fucking love watching the circular turd-flinging squad pelt one another until the entire West Wing staff looks like an accident in a fertilizer plant, but you have to wonder why they’re going to all the trouble. We’re all adults here*, can’t we just march Mitch McConnell out to cut through the crap, once and for all? “Look, we’re putting party over country, and our party happens to be a white supremacist hate cult now. It wasn’t my idea to give the million-and-a-half people in the Dakotas twice as many senators as the 40 million folks in California, but that’s life, cucks, the Founding Fathers shoulda seen me coming.”

Because that’s the state of this whole “impeachment” thing, y’know. The majority of the jury is composed of either active enablers, or cowards trembling in fear at the thought of being dragged from office via a primary challenge from the lunatic fringe. I mean, you can crow all day and all night that they’re on the wrong side of history, but John Barrasso’s all, “Bitch, I’m a Senator from Wyoming, nobody knows who I am NOW.”

Hey look, the Supreme Court took a break from gutting voting rights to side with the American people for a change, refusing to shield the human slaughter industrial complex, excuse me, the “gun industry” from a lawsuit filed by Sandy Hook parents. From the ever-expanding pro-gun control electorate, to massive internal strife, to this, it seems like everything’s coming up turdwaffles for the death merchants of the National Rifle Association, and I am 31 flavors of here for it, friends.

So, the Southern Poverty Law Center got ahold of some of Stephen Miller’s private e-mails, and it turns out he’s even more racist than we thought, which is amazing, because we already perceive him as basically What If a Burning Cross Was a Dickless Bald Guy. Yeah, it’s all there in his spray-on-hair-scented correspondence with Breitbart; eugenics, hyper-racist literature, “white replacement,” everything you’d expect to hear from any tiki-torch wielding loser from the Charlottesville It’s Minorities’ Fault Girls Don’t Like Me march, only he’s one of the most powerful advisors to the most powerful man on Earth, heaven help us all.

At this point, I might be surprised if some enterprising journalist were to unearth evidence of some infinitesimal corner of Stephen’s misspent life that ISN’T devoted to his festering hatred, like “when he’s not fantasizing about that work camp his boss promised him as a wedding present, Miller has a pet rock he enjoys polishing.”

On today’s episode of Swamp-Drainin’ Best People, meet Mina Chang, the failed pop star who conned her way into a taxpayer-funded, six-figure, salary as a deputy assistant secretary in Mike Pompeo’s State Department! In addition to a resume inflated to the point of claiming a spot in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, Mina apparently internalized the lessons of the Shart of the Deal himself, forging her very own fake Time Magazine cover!

Hey, if anybody with some halfway decent photoshop skills wants to give me a hand, I think I can infiltrate this cabal. I used to be an actor, y’know. I’ll just offer Ben Carson my revolutionary new grain-storage theories, get myself named Assistant Undersecretary of Some Shit or Other, spy on a couple of meetings where these clowns bill taxpayers for an open bar at one of Conman Don’s tacky-ass hotels while spitballing plans to KILL THE BATMAN, turn whistleblower, and blow this shit up from the inside.

Through all this madness, you’ve got John Bolton pinballing around in the background, twirling the ends of his Murderstache like pigtails, playfully intoning, “I know something you don’t know,” making allegations and book deals. Yeah, what this story really needed was a genocidal coquette.

Mark Sanford dropped out of the 2020 Republican presidential primary, and I mention this primarily to remind you that there was a brief moment in time when Mark Sanford was kinda sorta almost running for President, but not really, not that anyone anywhere cared very much. In related news, Bill Weld continues to be a person. Maybe. I can’t actually vouch for that. I’ve never like, seen him or anything.

And now we learn Hairplug Himmler has been toying with the idea of firing ICIG (That’s “intelligence community inspector general,” for the acronym-thirsty) Michael Atkinson, who refuses to let his crooked commander-in-chief use military aid to extort allies in peace, and insists on passing every dang credible whistleblower complaint on to Congress JUST BECAUSE the law says he has to. Whoever put the career criminal at the top of the American legal system’s organizational flow chart? That was a bad idea, bro.

Anyway, you may not be hearing from me for a bit, I expect the news to slow down quit a lot during the public impeachment hearings that begin tomorrow morning. I dunno, if anything interesting happens, I may pop in for a quick update. Prolly gonna be super boring tho.

*Well, not you, Eric.