With all due respect to my regular readership, I’m addressing this week’s post directly to the alien archaeologists excavating the ruins of our stupid, stupid civilization, which I don’t see lasting past Thursday.

Okay. Greetings, alien archaeologists! Have a Twinkie, they’re absolutely still good. I imagine you’re reading this, like Gandalf in Moria, on one of those little light boxes all our dusty skeletons are clutching. We called them “phones.” Well, “smartphones,” actually, and once you work out that translation, you’ll enjoy a dark chuckle at our expense.

We, uh, delved too greedily and too deep into those little fuckers. We awoke something.

A relentless, unimaginably powerful fire demon? If only.

No, a game show host.

I better give you a minute to work out what a game show was.

Okay, got it? So, we made the host of one of those shows the most powerful person on our planet. And not even one of the classy ones, like Jeopardy!, or Press Your Luck.

Long story short, said game show host crashed our economy, (among other sins n’ fuckups too numerous to list here) so we fired him. He got mad, and did a bunch of crime and terrorism, but eventually he left, and his replacement set the nation back on the path to prosperity, despite never hosting a single game show.

34 felony convictions later, we rehired the game show host, so you’re probably confused as to how this planet of dumbasses managed to invent the wheel, much less space travel and bread machines and these deceptively destructive little light boxes. Well, you and me both, pal.

Anyway, owing to a profoundly regrettable combination of intellectual and ethical shortcomings, alongside the diligent obliteration of anything resembling a guardrail, he launched a trade war against the whole dang world, (‘cept for Russia, of course) armed only with a “formula” Peter Navarro copied off a bathroom stall door in federal prison.

…and then the global economy blew up. But not in an awesome, Jerry Bruckheimer explosion, with the protagonist walking away in slow motion; more like what happened to that one guy in Robocop. Basically, Donald Trump dropped our economy in toxic waste and hit it with a car. Metaphorically speaking.

Seems the markets agree with that assessment. And not just the stock market, which saw trillions evaporate in a puff of pure idiocy. No, now you’re hearing ominous shit about things like treasury bond yields, and capital flight, stuff that’s miles above my pay grade, as a drunken internet loudmouth in a bathrobe and luchador mask.

Nothing freaks me out more than bankers and economists using terms I don’t understand, y’know? Like, oh god, Jamie Dimon says the Mugwump Jism Index hasn’t tanked overnight like this since the Great Depression. I mean, my money’s all tied up in POGs, so I’ll be okay, but…yikes.

All in all, it’s been a stunning repudiation of the theories of imaginary economist Ron Vara, who, in fairness, has never existed, except as a literary device in Peter Navarro’s books. Now, personally, I think folks who need to fabricate experts to agree with their crackpot ideas shouldn’t be making policy, but I was not consulted in this matter.

While on the surface this seems like senseless suffering inflicted by reckless imbeciles, it’s actually entirely necessary, to solve the crisis in masculinity. Soon we shall see the overdue return of manly jobs like “screwing in little, little screws to make iPhones,” manly diseases like black lung, and manly life expectancies like 44.

Don’t know what the fuss was about anyway, because the markets completely rebounded and then some, on the news that Off-Brand Orbán won an extraordinarily real golf tournament at his own club, because how could a 239 pound man who’s that good at golf be wrong about tariffs?

…though I suppose it probably helped when the administration admitted they were wrong about tariffs, and walked back the most deranged extremes of their moronic trade war. Investors were understandably pleased to see the jackboot shift at least some of its weight off the economy’s neck, and all those plummeting chart lines shot up, with the exuberance of a passenger on a plane that pulls out of a nosedive inches before hitting the ground.

And the Children of the Candy Corn went absolutely apeshit, because some, though not nearly all of the wealth their Turd Emperor had so foolishly obliterated magically reappeared. I’ve never seen anything like it. They broke out the good meth, to celebrate his “historic stock market gains” with all sorts of lewd, ritualistic gyrations. I can only imagine how many low IQ babies got made.

Wait, I thought this was about reshoring manufacturing? What about the masculinity crisis, what about – BLEHHHHH! TRUST IN TRUMP! THE ART OF THE DEAL!

But he…hasn’t made any deals ye-HE’S GOT FIFTY COUNTRIES KISSING HIS ASS, LIBTARD! Yeah? Which countries? IT’S SEVENTY-FIVE COUNTRIES NOW, YA DUMB CUCK! Okay, but could you maybe name two or three of the countries? JUST CHECK HIS ASS, DEMONCRAT! Yeah, I did that, but all I found was the Cabinet.

Anyhoo, of course the market crashed all over again the next day, because universal 10% tariffs plus massively larger ones on our closest trading partners are still fucking catastrophic. Gosh, I hope the President’s insider-trading pals pulled their money out in time.

By now, I assume this post has gathered quite a crowd of alien archaeologists, in a “get a load of this dipshit civilization” kind of way, but I need y’all to understand that I haven’t even gotten to the stupid part yet.

The stupid part is…we could make this stop at any time. Our government has a whole-ass legislative branch, 100% co-equal to the executive, (on paper, anyway) which could strip the game show host of the powers he’s abusing to enshittify our economy…any time they want to. Hell, they were the legislative branch’s powers in the first place!

Trouble is, for that system to work, you need to have voters who select legislators based on stuff like intellect, ability, and judgment, whereas our electorate tends to gravitate towards candidates who wrap machine gun barrels in bacon. I’m seriously considering moving to the Heard and McDonald Islands. Or maybe Panica.

Still, I’m grateful to be learning so much about the Art of the Deal. For example, it’s important to offer massive concessions in advance, in exchange for absolutely nothing. Say you’ve imposed 145% tariffs on a nation that exports more than $400 billion worth of goods to you annually. You’ve begged them to initiate a phone call, but they won’t do it. What a pickle. What’s a trade warrior t’do?

Simply exempt the most valuable goods from the tariff, and kick back to wait for them to continue not calling. BAM! THE ART OF THE DEAL!

At this rate, we probably won’t be able to afford that big, fashy, military parade Tangerine Idi Amin ordered for his birthday party. Once the tanks get repossessed, it’ll come down to Kristi Noem in her Spirit Halloween cosplay of the week, plus maybe Hegseth puking out the window of an Uber.

Well, gee whiz, we’ve been so focused on the imminent, self-inflicted recession, we’ve hardly even touched on the tyranny! The border seems like a good transitional topic, where the steady stream of petty atrocities bleeds untold additional billions from our battered economy, because tourists, it turns out, tend to frown upon getting incarcerated and deported. Who knew?

Look, I’m not saying the Turd Reich’s border goons are drunk on their unchecked power to destroy people’s lives, but ICE apparently decided to grant itself the right to keep “illegal ideas” out of the country. Sleep tight.

Now, you may be wondering, who decides what constitutes an “illegal idea?” Well, folks like Joe Kent, Tulsi Gabbard’s pick to head the National Counterterrorism Center. Joe pals around with Proud Boys and other right-wing paramilitary groups, to say nothing of Nick Fuentes, so you may find his conclusions on the matter don’t quite align with your own.

And you’re welcome to take that up with the waterboarding clerk at the Salvadoran torture camp.

Because all it takes these days to earn a one-way ticket to El Salvador’s famous Terrorism Confinement Center is the word of one single disgraced ex-cop. Sleep even tighter.

Even Thomas and Alito agree there is no constitutional authority to disappear people to foreign gulags without due process, and let me say, I for one knew they were deep state commie RINOs all along. Some “absolute immunity,” you guys. Honestly, who would even WANT to be President under such restrictive conditions?

Beyond this general climate of oppression, we’re also seeing a surge in artisanal, small batch authoritarianism, with Chris Krebs and Miles Taylor finding themselves targeted by their own, personalized, bespoke executive orders.

I confess, I was a little surprised to see the Trump Administration come out in favor of reparations…for domestic terrorists, anyway. Also for anti-vaxxers who quit the military during the COVID-19 pandemic. Nice to know all that money we’re saving on cancer research won’t go to waste. ‘Course, we might need to fire another few thousand veterans, to afford this $10,000 bribe we’re apparently about to offer each and every Greenlander.

Elon Musk isn’t funny, according to highly-placed leakers within the regime, confirming reporting by everyone who has ever observed Elon Musk for more than two minutes.

Karoline Leavitt says she won’t take questions from reporters with pronouns in their bios. So you’ll just have to lie to yourselves, now, wokesters. Take that.

BAKE FOR DUG BUGMAN (allegedly) bellows the Secretary of the Interior, demanding fresh cookies from anyone within earshot yet to be fired by an incel. But now the DOGE kids’ve set up shop right outside the kitchen, so they can evict the baker and seize the cookies while they’re still warm, which is quite possibly the first efficient thing they’ve ever done.

Nancy Mace says her constituents are “evil,” because they want her to host a town hall now and then, which of course is the motivation of like, 95% of all Disney villains. I still remember every word of that song where Gaston fires up that pitchfork-wielding mob, singing, “Let’s ask the Beast some questions, for he is our duly elected representative in the national legislature.”

If you’ve ever wanted to watch two turds slap-fight in the bottom of a liposuction clinic dumpster, good news: Ken Paxton announced a primary challenge to John Cornyn. It’s probably not possible to catch herpes from watching a senatorial debate, but I don’t intend to risk it.

And sure, pulling for Cornyn feels dirty, but MAGA really forces you to choose between the lesser of two Nancy Mace constituents, y’know? Like, you see an article about Elon Musk getting cyber bullied while playing that video game he cheats at, and you find yourself cheering for the bullies.

Linda McMahon has signed on to write and direct a reboot of the Terminator franchise, just as soon as she’s done gutting the Department of Education. In a dystopian future, thinking machines raise humans like livestock, seasoning us with sentient sauces, in a nightmarish alliance between AI and A1…the steaks have never been higher!

And look, I know I missed a bunch of awful, awful shit, but if we went over every single grade school child terrorized by this administration, we’d be here all night.

So I’m signing off. If you found this rant amusing and/or informative, feel free to toss a couple bucks in the ol’ tip jar, (now accepting PayPal, Cash App and Venmo!) or sign up on the email list at showercapblog.com, or follow @john_luzar. And stay safe out there, old chum…