My, my, my, the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse has become the place to see and be seen for the proto-fascist sycophant set. It’s like Studio 54, only for excruciatingly dorky, power-hungry nitwits.

“Hey, wanna play hooky from Congress to help an adjudicated rapist circumvent his gag order?”

“Only if we get to dress like him!”

This carpet is MAGA hat red. “Is that the Beetlejuice handjob lady? And look, there’s Jeffrey Clark, he’s getting disbarred! Ooooo, I heard the Beetlejuice handjob lady didn’t even show up to her own son’s trial, oh, and here’s Matt Gaetz, credibly accused of sex trafficking a minor, he is also dressed exactly like the mentally deteriorating game show host.”

Ever eager to stand out, Gaetz tacked an iconic terrorist catchphrase onto his proclamation of unconditional submissiveness. It was very impressive. I’m sure Matt’ll be right there on the front lines, next time somebody needs to storm a slumber party, anyway.

Yeah, lookit all the crooks and perverts that turned out to support n’ defend their favorite rapist! Crooks, perverts, and the Governor of North Dakota. Oh, and the dumbest man in the Senate. The veep wannabes travel in packs now, parroting talking points in their matching uniforms, looking like the parents of the evil a cappella team in a direct-to-video Pitch Perfect sequel.

And if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to watch two fungal life forms slap-fight at the bottom of the filthiest barrel in an abandoned meth den, the Republican primary in the Virginia fifth has devolved into a shoving match over who gets to stand closer to the rapist at his porn star hush money trial.

Somehow, even this crack team of messaging geniuses has failed to muster much of a defense of their sleep-farting God Emperor. He’s not nodding off in court, y’see, he’s praying, er, meditating, er, telepathically communicating, over thousands of miles, over mountains and oceans, with Kim Jong-un, and so pure is their bond that he cannot help but pass into a blissful, transcendent state which admittedly resembles napping, but in Joe Biden’s America, true love is a crime.

And so he rails, and he naps, and he waves around his precious printouts of Fox News stories, and he complains that he is cold, and he naps, and he watches the weak men who dress like him say the things he cannot, and he naps, and he waits for the aide dubbed “the human printer” to bring fresh printouts of Fox News stories to wave around, and he naps, and he complains that he is cold.

He’s back to conjuring imaginary hordes of fervent followers, at rallies and at the courthouse, always juuuust out of frame. ‘Course, if you want to see real crowds, check out the line to vote for Nikki Haley in the technically resolved Republican presidential primary…

With Speaker Moses too busy performing tricks at the end of his leash in New York to corral his poo-flinging, howler monkey caucus, House Dems are now governing around him via discharge petition where they’re able.

And where they’re not, well, keeping Marjorie Taylor Greene more or less quarantined certainly counts as public service. I’m pretty sure the zombie apocalypse starts the moment Marj finally snaps and bites somebody. It’s gonna be Boebert, too, isn’t it? Coupla MAGA scream queens ripping out one another’s hair, swapping cranial parasites.

It’s apparently legal to hunt BLM protesters for sport in Texas, at least as long as Greg Abbott is in charge, which is fairly terrifying. Gotta hand it to ya, Guv, that pardon sent a chill down my spine I haven’t felt since Lafayette Square. When DeSantis abuses power, it’s for clown shoes shit like The Great Woke Disney Kerfuffle of ‘23; you’re more of an inviting-political-street-violence kinda guy. Accordingly, the medals on your chest will be shinier and more plentiful than his, in the Reich to come.

Missouri Republican secretary of state candidate Valentina Gomez’s buzzy new “don’t be weak and gay” campaign slogan resurrects a phrase your humble blogger last heard on the lips of Brian Boyd, in the seventh grade, as he pushed me into the girl’s bathroom.

I guess Clarence Thomas “forgot” to declare his billionaire broskis’ bribes as taxable income. Frankly, it’d save everyone a lot of time and hassle if the IRS mailed the bill directly to Harlan Crow. (Pro tip: if you want to make sure he opens it, draw Hitler on the envelope.)

Speaking of the highest court in all the land, seems Sammy Alito, feelin’ low after the abject failure of the dumbest of all possible insurrections, raised the flag of the Proud Lads, or the Incel Caliphate, or whatever they were calling themselves that week, in solidarity with the disloyal, defeated, and subpar.

Or maybe it was his wife. There’s this special subsite, deep within Ashley Madison, that matches right-wing federal judges with fashy Stepford types, to launder the payoffs, and run the calling tree during the autogolpe attempts. The Alitos have asked for privacy at this time, while they get matching Ashli Babbitt tattoos.

Well, Kristi Noem slunk back to Whichever Dakota with her tail between her legs (GET IT?) and we’re poorer for it. I certainly don’t begrudge Cricket her revenge, I just wish she’d drawn it out a bit.

Great story in ProPublica, about Texas school board member Courtney Gore, who blew the whistle on her own party’s fraudulent indoctrination scare. For her diligence, honesty, and commitment to the well-being of her community’s children, Gore’s fellow Republicans showered her with praise, and by praise I mean death threats.

In what I suppose passes for good news nowadays, a mere 38,246 Republican voters in West Virginia’s first congressional district wanted to send convicted Capitol rioter Derrick Evans to Washington to make laws, not nearly enough to win the primary. Admirable restraint, chaps! Incidentally, if anybody’s in the market for 38,246 lightly-used armbands…

The nation’s cold culture war turned hot smack dab in the middle of my hometown Kansas City Chiefs, when Harrison Butker, who I’m told is some sort of football person, decided to plagiarize his commencement speech from a scene that got cut from Mad Men for laying the anachronous misogyny on too thick.

At press time, a legion of tween Swifties had cornered Butker in the classroom containing the furry children’s litter box, and were pelting him with genderless Potato Head toys, reciting, alternately, Tortured Poets Department lyrics and Sontag essays.

Wholesome new details of Moms fer Liberty scold Bridget Ziegler’s personal life emerged this week. It’s mostly, uh, church stuff, but don’t click that link at work.

I understand we’re getting ourselves some presidential debates. I figure, unless I’m way off about the long-term polling effects of an actual fucking worm devouring part of a candidate’s brain, it’s gonna come down to the rapist and the fella who keeps creating all those jobs.

They’ll argue over whose accomplishments are more impressive, the guy who shepherded the economy from the worst unemployment in decades to the Dow passing 40,000, or the one who once, with the assistance of just two very small hints from Dr. Ronny Jackson, correctly identified a drawing of a hippopotamus. (And is also a rapist.)

Gonna come down to the wire.

Yikes.

One of the only things that helps me unwind after a long week chronicling the mad minutiae of ascendant American fascism is watching right-wing domestic terrorists get sentenced to lengthy prison terms.

What I would like is an ever-expanding series of decorative plates, each commemorating a different terrorist shitbag meeting the Comeuppance Fairy in an American courtroom. Stewart Rhodes. James Alex Fields. You get the David DePape plate free after purchasing ten.

These are great moments in American history. Beautiful moments. Imagine ‘em, all lined up on your mantle, while you smoke a pipe and do the Sunday crossword or some shit. Years from now, when we’ve finally put this nonsense behind us.

Of course, the other thing that helps me unwind, and I bet you can guess where this is headed…is beer. There’s something about watching a rapist whine about the temperature at his hush money trial that makes me want to drown brain cells. Your generous donation (now accepting Cash App, PayPal, and Venmo!) finances the merciful euthanasia of my weary neurons.

Okay. I to my beer fridge. You stay safe out there, ol’ chum…and blah blah follow @john_luzar and sign up on the email list.