Friends, I remain delighted and grateful that anybody ever stops by this page to read my silly little poo jokes, so thank you for being here. On my end, the blog functions partially as a coping mechanism, helping me channel the darker emotions that inevitably surface from just trying to survive here in Shitty Racist Wonderland, aka Donald Trump’s Amerikkka.

Tonight, this mechanism has failed me. Tonight, I confess…I’m just angry. I’ll try to slip in a few gags, folks, but it’s a Primal Scream of Rage kind of evening.

As Paul Manafort rots in jail*, I feel like his one defining characteristic is that he’s not nearly as good at lying as he thinks he is. The Mueller investigation released a heavily-redacted, 800 page sentencing memo documenting Manafort’s many crimes, including all the ways he violated his plea agreement by lying like a lying liar who lies. 800 pages, y’all. Charles Dickens is looking at that sentencing memo and going “little wordy, don’tcha think?”

Anyway, unless Paulie’s deepest secret desire was to never see the sun again and swap his life of wealth and privilege for a cigarette-based economy where other people decide when he’s allowed to turn the lights on and off, we can, now more than ever, label him…#Manafucked.

The blood-crazed rage cultists at the National Rifle Association are not handling their 2018 electoral thumping well, as evidenced by their magazine’s Plausible Deniability is for Cucks “Target Practice” threat, directed at Nancy Pelosi, and even Gabby Giffords. I can’t even wrap my mind around that shit. These people make Disney villains look nuanced and sympathetic.

I’m seriously asking here. How fucked up do you have to be to incite violence against a woman who already survived one assassination attempt? I mean, in the whole conservative fucknutosphere, are there any monsters more deranged than the Loesch/LaPierre/Bongino crowd, who venture out into the world every day of their lives to single-mindedly demand ever more carnage, ever more suffering and grief? THIS TRAVESTY WILL NOT, MUST NOT STAND, they screech, with the self-righteousness of demon preachers, FAR TOO MANY CHILDREN ARE SURVIVING TO ADULTHOOD! WE NEED MORE GUNS IN SCHOOLS TO CUT SOME OF THESE FUCKERS DOWN! TOO FEW AMERICANS KNOW THE GUT-WRENCHING LOSS OF A LOVED ONE’S LIFE CUT SHORT BY A GUNMAN’S BULLET! THIS PAIN MUST BE SPREAD FURTHER, LIKE A GREAT BLACK CLOUD, BLOTTING OUT THE VERY SUN!

I see a group of so-called “activists” decided that what the climate change fight really needs is a left-wing James O’Keefe, so they decided to use deceptive editing techniques to make a little video clip of California Senator Dianne Feinstein eating children, kicking puppies, and setting recycling bins on fire, cackling “The planet will die, but I care nary a whit! For I am olllllllllllllllllllld! Suck my exhaust fumes, kiddies!”

Look, campers. While you were learning how to use iMovie just well enough to lie, Feinstein has been in the fucking arena, passing actual laws in the face of colleagues who think the existence of snowballs disproves decades of hard science. She has a long, commendable record on environmental issues. You want climate legislation? Dianne Feinstein is not your obstacle. Funnel your energy into replacing Joni Ernst, David Perdue, Lindsey Graham, etc., in 2020. You don’t pass bills on Twitter.

So, word on the street is, Spawn of Shart is makin’ noises about mounting his own Presidential run in 2024. Honestly, this is probably a good thing. I’m told it takes a lively fantasy life to survive in prison.

But seriously, if there’s a self-awareness gene, it has passed over the Trump klan for a few generations. All through the midterm campaign season, we heard what a killer, sought-after, surrogate Junior was! But then the GOP got spanked from coast to coast, so maybe Kid Privilege’s electioneering prowess is just like his daddy’s dealmaking skill: heavily promoted but functionally non-existent.

Just one Republican has signed on to co-sponsor the House bill telling Pissant Pol Pot to take his bullshit, unconstitutional, “national emergency” and shove it up his overcooked-steak-fart hole, Michigan’s Justin Amash. Now Justin is tweeting at his bros in disbelief, somehow amazed to discover that his party doesn’t actually believe in anything other than hoarding power for themselves and their donors. I bet Amash hangs out with Bill Kristol, and they get hammered on wine coolers while reassuring each other that Bill Weld’s primary challenge is really gonna catch fire.

President Syphilitic Dementia harnessed the full might of both his stability and his genius, proclaiming that there shall be a celebration of patriotism in Washington, D.C. on the Fourth of July. He’s a real ideas man, isn’t he? The detail where he said there would be fireworks was particularly inspired, I think.

Folks are starting to notice how Government Cheese Goebbels has been too scared to engage in the presidential tradition of throwing out the first pitch at an opening day baseball game. This is, of course, because he is fundamentally a coward. In his defense, watching him lob a baseball with his tiny, inadequate hands, witnessing as it plops lifelessly on the grass, nine or ten feet in front of the mound, would certainly evoke the derisive laughter that is every narcissist’s most dreaded fear. Also, it would be bad for America’s standing in the international community if the world saw the President run off the field in tears.

As we all sit around, impatiently awaiting the Mueller report, wondering whether William Barr will just shove it in a drawer, insisting America wouldn’t wanna read the silly ol’ thing anyway, because it really drags in the third act, and they cut most of Carter Page’s silliest hats, Adam Schiff, armed with his Gavel of Righteousness and Oversight Whoopass, says he’ll be all too happy to subpoena Bodacious Bob to share all treasoniest gossip, and this is a run-on sentence that would make my high school English teacher drag me out of class by the ear. Sorry, Mrs. Jenkins.

Trump Buddy Robert Kraft is notoriously difficult to shop for. Like, what do you get for the man who has everything, even his own fucking NFL team? Looks like the answer to that question is “the chance to rape a literal slave.” We keep learning more revolting details about the massage parlor sting that’s led to the arrests of Kraft and other mega-wealthy scumfucks, and they’re heartbreaking and stomach-churning. As smarter people than I have pointed out, these men knew exactly what they were buying; they can afford the ritziest escort services in the world, but they chose to sneak down to Florida to RAPE SLAVES.

Dig a pit. As deep as you possibly can. Throw Kraft, and everyone else involved in this atrocity, in it. Walk away.

Hey, speaking of Human Trafficking Rings of the Rich and Famous, the President whose campaign was financed by sex slave aficionado Bob Kraft sees no reason to boot Pet Attorney to Sex Slavers Alex Acosta from his cabinet, because, and let’s not sugarcoat this, THE PRESIDENT DOESN’T HAVE ANY PROBLEM WITH HUMAN TRAFFICKING. Loves to use its specter to rile up fear and loathing at the southern border, but can’t bring himself to say a bad word about his actual friends who engage in and enable the sex slave trade. The banality of evil, strutting down the runway, while we all gawk and stare.

The Most Busiest Most Hard-Workingest of All Possible Presidents somehow found time in his hectic schedule to rage-tweet at Spike Lee over his Oscar acceptance speech, like an old man yelling at a diner waitress because the menu doesn’t have Sanka anymore. Don’t worry, he still doesn’t know how tariffs work.

Or trade, for that matter. When trade representative Robert Lighthizer tried to correct his nonsensical ramblings, Lil’ Donnie Two-Scoops interrupted to peevishly demand that his misinformed gibberish be treated as golden droppings of pure wisdom from God’s own mouth, like a child insisting his crayon scribble of Maybe a Horse Maybe a Stegosaurus Who the Fuck Knows be relocated from the fridge to the Louvre. And of course, the lead Chinese negotiator laughed directly in his face. High-stakes negotiations between two leading global powers, in front of live cameras, and he behaves like such a raging dipshit that people can’t restrain their laughter. Rad.

Former Fed Chair Janet Yellen also dropped by to concur that yes, Littlefinger is indeed a custard-brained numbskull whose infantile misconception of the global economy threatens us all. She may have been a little nicer about it than that, but fortunately I’m here to translate.

The Manchurian Manchild took a few shots at Harry Reid, who recently criticized him for all his shittiness and whatnot. Heh. Old man, one of the many accomplishments of Harry Reid’s storied career was passing the Affordable Care Act, improving millions of American lives. You, on the other hand, spent every last dime of your meager political capital in a failed attempt to repeal that bill, in the process making your party so unpopular that it got wiped out in the midterms. You shipwrecked your whole misbegotten life on the shores of Harry’s work. And he’s worth ten thousand of you.

And now, Little Donnie Dotard is on his way to Vietnam, eager for a fresh new chance to humiliate America by tap-dancing on demand for a murderous third world dictator. Unsatisfied at having previously granted Kim Jong-un his desperately-craved stature on the world stage in exchange for not one damn thing, not even a hotel towel, our Fuckhead Cuck President might just give the bastard a foot massage and rim job this time.

Y’see, Kim sends him letters. Nice letters, where he says nice things about Wee Don. That’s all it takes to get the American President to ignore the advice of literally everyone alive: a couple of compliments. Manipulating Trump through flattery is like, Life Hacks for Totalitarians. But how is it possible that, after seven decades spent shuffling through this life, this doddering nitwit is still unaware that the people around him use flattery to manipulate him? Narcissism is one thing, but we’re talking about basic pattern recognition here.

Yet another woman accused President Crotchrot of sexually assaulting her, this time during the 2016 campaign, so I guess he was just Citizen Crotchrot at the time. The media treated this news as no particularly big deal; after all there have been…honestly, we’ve lost track of the number of these allegations, but it’s over twenty. But you can bet your life savings that this won’t shake the faith of Emperor Turdpile’s evangelical “Christian” base.

The Trump Organization sent an insultingly tiny check to the U.S. Treasury, claiming to represent every dollar of profit from the comically obvious Please Place All Bribes Here grift that is their Washington, D.C. hotel, like a kickback to the neighborhood beat cop. Will the American people get to sift through your ledgers to make sure your math checks out? Not without a subpoena. I guess we’ll just have to get us a few more of those, huh?

And the Shart House is setting up a secret panel of mouth-breathing shitmaggots to sit in a room, point at decades worth of climate science, and go, “Nuh UH.” Cool. Always awesome when your government declares war on objective reality. Like, what’s next? The Presidential Committee to Deny the Existence of Wednesday? Sarah Slanders stomps out to the briefing room and declares “There is no such thing as elbows?”

Fuck it, I can’t take any more of this shit. If there’s any more news today, leave it in the comments, I need to go shout into a pillow for six or seven hours.

*I’m ordering a pizza later, washing it down with a six pack, and accompanying both with a screening of John Frankenheimer’s classic, THE TRAIN. I can do all of these things because, unlike Paul Manafort, I am not in jail.