I love the week after a Blue Wave. It’s like the post-Thanksgiving food coma. You’re on the couch, belt unbuckled if not snapped. Totally engorged. But forgotten aunties keep popping by bearing exotic desserts. Oh, I couldn’t eat another b—wait, Lauren Boebert lost? Well, I suppose I couldOMNOMNOMNOMNOM.

I particularly enjoyed the slow, steady trickle of updates from Mississippi. Took days. Long enough for an ousted incumbent to pick many, many proteins while her future came into focus. Bacon. Roast beef. Steaks n’ burgers n’ nut butters n’ pâtés n’ chocolate-covered crickets. Seasoned with any number of Charlie Kirk-branded hot sauces, available wherever Camp Auschwitz sweatshirts are sold.

Perhaps Senator-for-Now Hyde-Smith picked one o’ them new-fangled protein sodas. You can get a soda with protein, but not with ivermectin, which I think you’ll agree proves the deep state got to RFK Jr.

Why, she’s free now to pick a peck of pickled proteins…in the private sector.

MAGA in retreat is the best MAGA, don’tcha think? And saving the worst for last, your Boeberts and your Virginia Foxxes, was a loving detail. America is a blanket fresh out of the dryer, renewed and surprisingly snuggly for all it has been through.

Palantir CEO Alex Karp, for one, welcomes his new Antifa overlords. Why, with all the resignations and whistleblowers, it’s almost like the draining of some sort of metaphorical swamp.

Seems like only yesterday, life was all tech bro bribes and hammer jokes, but the mood has turned so dour in MAGAlot that JD may not even run now. Hey, if you’re having second thoughts about the bargain you struck, imagine how Satan feels getting stuck with your ratty-ass soul.

People focus on the bad stuff. The inflation and the diesel prices and the human beings gunned down by masked agents of the state for exercising their constitutional rights. And these are valid concerns (for the plebs, anyway), but you have to take in the whole picture.

Honeypotting, for example, has never been more efficient or more profitable.

I’m gonna be upset if the terminators wind up speaking a language I don’t understand because my vulgarian dipstick president signed away my country’s future in a vomitorium in exchange for golden calf #392.

Perhaps a higher cognitive standard than Rememberer of Five Words should be required to authorize such weighty transactions. Anyway, if somebody wouldn’t mind erecting a few safeguards between national security and Jensen Huang’s midlife crisis, that’d be just swell.

It’s increasingly clear the regime views its term in office as a garage sale at somebody else’s house. They have no idea what anything is worth, and they don’t care. Make an offer. The objective is to get away with the loot before the owners get home from their wine cruise.

The electorate spoke rather clearly on the issue of corruption, but alas, the whole congressional oversight of the Executive Branch thing turns out to be yet another hoax. Indeed, attempted oversight shall be prosecuted to the full extent of the law by the elite legal squadron who just barely lost to that one guy who threw that one sandwich.

It’s especially illegal to count the silver in the Vermeil Room, by the way.   

Still, I wouldn’t get cocky, Dumocrats; the counter-assault has already begun. This new chief of staff has impeccable political instincts, signaling a shift to popular policies like…like (good god) banning pregnant women from entering the country. Apparently.

I bet the brainstorming parts of Stephen Miller’s mind are the most horrifying extremes of the entire collective human consciousness. Good thing he gets to run the whole country while the old man fills his ballroom bunker with the various peace prizes he’s purloined.

Secretary Hegseth was test-driving his impeachment socks at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, telling an awesome joke about how many starving sailors it takes to screw in a light bulb (NONE THEY ARE TOO BUSY ATTEMPTING SUICIDE) when the Army sentinel on duty very appropriately shouted QUIET PIGGY, in what historians are already calling the Americanest thing that ever happened.

The inhuman yowling you hear in the background, incidentally, is just Katie Zacharia, trying to get her old job back. Something snapped deep within when Fashy Daddy offered it to Dana White.

I don’t know if it’s sadder that she’s so desperate to claw her way back into the meth den now that it’s on fire, or that the kakistocrats within are correct to exclude her, as she so clearly fails to meet even their standards.

You could replace half the Cabinet with manatees and life would swiftly grow perceptibly better, but Katie Zacharia, bless her heart, is still not good enough to work there. She might screw up the plan to keep pregnant ladies out. There’s levels to this shit.

Say, pregnant women can’t get into the country if we SHUT DOWN ALL AIR TRAVEL COMPLETELY! Dare I say checkmate, libtards?

I guess the folks who couldn’t repaint the bottom of a pool decided to roll out a fancy new AI air traffic control system. Yeah, that seems like the sort of job Sean Duffy could handle. Well delegated!

Well, at least we needn’t worry about ballooning tailoring expenses from the House Minority Leader’s office, for a bold new era of jacketlessness has dawned.

Everybody’s laughing at the idea of Jim Jordan leading anything more important than the overnight shift at a Wendy’s, but I ask you: when it comes to circling the wagons around a sexual predator, who has more experience?

MAGA influencer Nick Shirley got caught lying about SPAM, which is the sort of lying that got a man hanged in frontier times. He was just trying to entertain his millions of followers by framing a small, family-run grocery store for EBT fraud, though. Your standard, run-of-the-mill evil.

Golly, I hope Alina Habba wasn’t counting on the proceeds from that $50 million bribe to finance her defense against this new ethics complaint.

What a tidy little sentence. Links to both of the week’s Habba stories, tied up in a very small joke. I shall miss being Shower Cap.

Yes, if you missed last week’s blog, we have entered Shower Cap’s farewell tour, surely destined t’be only marginally less profitable than John Cena’s.

The plan is to keep running through January-ish, just long enough to launch one final Kickstarter campaign for the second issue of GENERAL WASHINGTON AND THE LIBERTY TREE. You’re gonna love it. It’s about everything we’ve been talking about all these years. For example:

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See? It’s right up your alley. Why not sign up on the prelaunch page right now, while you’re waiting to see if this government of, by, and for reality television personalities can get their shit together, or if we just don’t have planes now.

I’m actually going to take the next couple of weeks off for the holiday and to put the finishing touches on the comic so y’all can read it! I should also stock up on beer in case we’ve regressed decades technologically overnight, so any donations to the beer fund (via Venmo, PayPal, or even Cash App) will be put to good use. Follow the Xwitter page and the shiny new Instagram account that I haven’t figured out yet.

And stay safe out there, of course…