Well, my shit-kickin’ Resistance chums, the impeachment trial is finally here! Never has the stark divide between our bleeding nation’s rival realities been clearer. We have the truth, honor, decency, and justice on our side, but sometimes I confess I’m a little jealous of the drugs they’ve got over there in Shitty Wonderland; it looks like a really intense, if angry, high. Okay, let’s round this shit up, shall we?

Missed this one last time out, but didja see where the National Archives blurred images from the 2017 Women’s March that contained criticism of a certain Tangelo-Tinted Taint Tumor, in the latest Dirtbag Orwell Theatre attempt to pretend maybe the point of the whole dang gathering was to protest Netflix losing Scrubs or some shit? I mean, if we’re editing out anti-Shart content now, future generations are gonna think the period between 2016 and 2021 produced nothing but beer commercials, K-pop, and movies where white people belligerently insist upon “saving” jazz.

Lots of folks think Hairplug Himmler is a recklessly impulsive toddler, careening from crisis to crisis without reason or rhyme, not only incapable of thinking six moves ahead, but mostly just interested in seeing how many pieces he can fit up his nose; in fact, he’s already planning for his post-presidency, trying with all his tiny-fisted might to reverse laws banning bribes to foreign governments, on account of how fiercely anti-corruption he is, you see. Hey, when your name is your brand and both are synonymous with incompetence, stupidity, and snarling hatred, bribery is pretty much all that’s left, especially when you’re in the market to pull off a real estate scam or two, preferably in a country without an extradition treaty.

Devin Nunes hasn’t been in shit this deep since his poor mamma first caught him stickin’ his willie in the family hog back on the old farm. With the Pez Dispenser Only With Evidence Instead of Chalky Candy known as Lev Parnas linking Devin and his staff ever more tightly to the Trump/Giuliani Ukrainian extortion ring, America’s most treasonous Congressman didn’t even get invited to join Fat Q*Bert’s impeachment defense team, leaving Gym Jordan and Mark Meadows all the fun that apparently comes with humiliating yourself in front of the entire world on live television. (I think it’s weird, but it’s a different culture, and we shouldn’t judge. Maybe it’s a sex thing.)

You’ll be pleased to learn that the newest branch of the military is ready to defend ‘Murica in the jungles of outer space. Yes, the first Space Force uniforms are an avant-garde rebellion against the traditional notion of “camouflage,” seemingly designed to make our fighting forces stand out as much as fucking possible on the battlefields of the final frontier, perhaps on the theory that any alien invaders would be moved to take pity on our primitive, dumbass, society.

Kid Kompromat’s top Russia advisor, a bad-guy-in-a-movie-set-in-a-prep-school-lookin’ fuck called Andrew Peek, was escorted from the Shart House amidst a security investigation, with plenty of rumors swirling that this grade A dipshit actually fell for the old “honey trap” bit and got his fucking phone stolen by spies. “The best people” was always a sick, sad, joke, but after three years of scandal-driven turnover, we’re well past scraping the bottom of the barrel; we’re harvesting the fungus from under the floorboards in the room where the barrel’s stored, and giving it top secret security clearance.

Ahead of the impeachment trial, Richard Shelby, who I am told is a United States Senator, and not, as it would seem from casual observation, a Marm-a-Lego steward tasked with licking Sultan Spraytan’s golf shoes clean, excused the President’s many, extremely-well-documented, crimes by saying, “things happen.” Well, yes. Things do happen. Like, I keep forgetting to buy shampoo, right, and I was almost out of shampoo, so I went to to Target specifically to get shampoo, and I got dishwasher detergent and paper towels and those strawberry-flavored marshmallows I like so much, but of course I was halfway home before I realized I’d left without the fucking shampoo, but it was late and cold and I didn’t feel like going back and sure enough the next day in the shower, I ran completely out of shampoo and I didn’t know how I was gonna wash my hair so what I wound up doing was illegally using congressionally-appropriated foreign aid to extort a vulnerable allied nation* into picking up the shampoo for me and delivering it to my apartment. Things happen.

Well, I assume everybody loved White Boy GI Joe Cosplay Day in Virginia, as the March of the Subpar Yet Heavily Armed provided its annual glimpse into the lives of those emotionally stunted man-children who, for whatever reason, find it very important to let the world know they’re too insecure to leave the house without their comically-obvious penis substitutes. Of course, Sharty McFly tried his best to stir the pot with some fear-mongering tweets, perhaps hoping to inspire a little bloodshed. Fortunately, in this, as in most of the endeavors of his pathetic, crooked, life, he failed.

I feel like Kellyanne Conway’s entire career is basically one enormous ongoing dare to God to strike her down with a bolt of lightning. Maybe that’s why she was flying a kite with a key on it when she claimed Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. would surely be standing alongside her Turd Emperor today, hollering “fake news” and sharing stale McDonalds, were he only alive to do so.

Mitch McConnell is so committed to aiding Baron Golfin von Fatfuk’s coverup, he’s practically one of the Dotard’s ill-fitting suit jackets. I assure you, Mitch McConnell sees all the polls showing the American people want a real, fair trial, that they want to see evidence and hear from witnesses; Mitch McConnell simply does not care, for he holds the power and you, you peons, with your quaint little ideas about “justice” and “the rule of law,” do not.

Yertle heard somebody say “Democracy dies in darkness” and thought “holy shit that is SUCH a good idea!” and so he hatched** a sneaky little plot to condense the trial so much that much of it would take place literally in the middle of the night, because Americans can’t be appalled by what they sleep through, right? However, his cowardly, indecent, scheme went too far for even his cowed caucus of stooges and sycophants, and he backed off a bit. We did that, Resisters, by flooding the Senate with calls; we’ve already beaten him once, and we can, and must, do it again.

Anyway, Adam Schiff dropped a few dozen 20-megaton truth bombs on the Senate GOP while Tangerine Idi Amin’s banned-from-the-children’s-party-clown-circuit-for-being-creepy legal team wheezed and screeched their way through a litany of long-ago debunked lies and horseshit talking points, another painful reminder that President Crotchrot’s lone hope for political survival is the total obliteration of objective truth in this country, and that it’s a price he’s positively giddy to pay, though of course, as is his custom, he’ll be sticking the rest of us with the bill.

Then Chuck Schumer made a modest proposal; no, it wasn’t to ask the Senate caterer to add Irish children to the impeachment lunch buffet, but simply to subpoena the Treasonweasel Administration for documents and witnesses related to, y’know, that whole Ukraine thang. The idea, near as I can figure it, was that Senators, as jurors in the trial, would be best served by seeing all the relevant evidence, but alas, poor Chuck forgot that formerly uncontroversial things like “honesty,” “intellectual rigor,” and “impartial justice” are totally partisan now, and every single Senate Republican voted to keep their heads firmly in the sand, thank you very much, it’s really quite cool and refreshing down here.

And so we finish where we began; with two competing realities. I’m sure on Fux Nooz, the barely-coherent blather of Sekulow and Cipollone is being spun and praised as the greatest thing since Hannity shoved an entire watermelon up his ass. Here in the real world, we’re just amazed that Republican Senators, supposedly among the world’s most powerful people, can behave so cravenly without their spines spontaneously bursting from their bodies in search of worthier hosts. Ah well, such is life. Apparently. Fuck.

And that’s all I got for y’all tonight. The Kickstarter for my lil’ comic book project is still live, and I continue to thank you, from the bottom of my dark little heart, for all your support. Y’all are the best readers a drunken fake superhero could hope for!

*Norway, if you absolutely must know.

**GET IT?!?!?