I’d like to formally retract any despair I may’ve expressed, or even felt, during the debate/ear diaper doldrums of late June/early July 2024. If there’s one lesson I should’ve absorbed over the course of 7+ years spent chroniclin’ the manic minutiae of MAGA madness, it’s that Turd Midas and the wad of fetid freaks who follow him will always, always find a way to fail.

It shouldn’t be possible to steer the wave of momentum generated by surviving an honest-to-goodness assassination attempt directly into the shitter, certainly not in one short month, (a month containing, incidentally, your own nominating convention) but I guess if you can bankrupt a casino, you can fuck up anything. Yes, even with Hulk Hogan’s help.

How did it all go so wrong? One minute, Stephen Miller’s measuring drapes for the concentration camps to come, the next, a hundred thousand goose-stepping jackboots stumble and fall at once, brought low by a single, mercilessly appropriate syllable:

WEIRD.

Sorry, dorks, it ain’t our fault the straightjacket fits y’all so snugly. If you don’t wanna get labeled “weird,” maybe don’t spend every waking moment shrieking about Jewish space lasers and bamboo fibers and furry kids shitting in litter boxes and pizzagate and frazzledrip and the second coming of JFK Jr. and horse dewormer and the ten million other equally loony things that’ve set you nutjobs off since you decided to start worshipping a rapist game show host. Shit, y’all can’t even attempt the violent overthrow of the federal government without dressing like psychos.

And to think, we owe it all to JD Vance, whose mere presence is so instantly, inescapably discomfiting that the whole nation pegged him for a couch-fucker the moment he waddled out to introduce himself at the RNC.

Still, after all the hype, JD failed to medal in a single furnication event in Paris, not only missing the podium in the Men’s Individual Armrest Grind and the 100-Meter Doily Wank, but getting the entire Sectional Gangbang Relay team disqualified when he tested positive for Scotchgard.

Well, enjoy your gibes and memes, libtards, JD’s about to turn those historically-low-and-still-sinking approval numbers around! I mean, at a certain point, the opposition researchers have to run out of footage of the skeevy little creep belching up sneering misogyny about cat ladies and the inconvenience of pregnancies resulting from rape and incest, and in that moment, his ingenious Diet Mountain Dew bit will show you the true meaning of viral.

(Of course, here in reality, even Vance’s six-figure investment in neo-Nazi video-sharing platform Rumble isn’t enough to get his stale shtick trending. Because he’s that fuckin’ weird.)

Now, word on the links down at Marm-a-Lago is Kellyanne Conway’s been leaking unflattering stories about JD to the press, no doubt seeking revenge for his role in the Bowling Green Massacre, under the “Colonel J. Harlan Vance” identity he briefly assumed while experimenting with cole slaw as a fold out bed lubricant.

Off-Brand Orbán promised a roomful of addled acolytes they won’t have to bother with the hassle of voting anymore, no, he’s gonna have a gallows erected right in JD’s office, where the sofa would go, (we know how MAGA veeps feel about being left alone in a room with temptation) so he never loses track of his role.

Oh, and I guess Wee Donnie One-Term’s 2016 campaign may’ve taken $10 million from Egypt, in addition to the more widely reported Russian and Saudi bribes, but I couldn’t find a gag there, so I’m just gonna link to Steve Martin’s old King Tut sketch and hope nobody notices.

The New Softness Unity Tour swung by the National Association of Black Journalists conference to test-drive the Dotard’s new and improved birtherism. Conventional wisdom holds the ensuing racist shitfit was a disaster on par with fathering Eric, but I think credit is due to the handlers who dragged him offstage before he could use the N word.

There were no uppity fact-checkers at the cryptocurrency shindig, just grifters who smelled the biggest, fattest mark alive. Indeed, the doddering old fart already seems to believe he could pay off the national debt with “a little crypto check,” because I guess they don’t cover economics on those cognitive tests.

The not-at-all weird American Right successfully navigated the quadrennial brush with foreign cultures known as the Olympics with their customary grace and normalcy, give or take a meltdown or twelve.

The opening ceremony so offended notoriously pious Speaker Mike Johnson that he wasn’t able to liken himself to any messiahs at all for almost a full afternoon. Look, the very first Olympics kicked off with the ritual feeding of Christians to lions in drag, and I think tradition is important.

Of course the normalest behavior arose in response to a women’s boxing match, between an Italian and an Algerian, because what true patriot would want to celebrate American excellence when there’s hatred to wallow in instead?

Valentina Gomez, for example, desperate to capitalize on the fifteen minutes of loser resentment cult fame she earned with her pitiful “don’t be weak and gay” campaign ad, popped like a rage-filled zit.

Should the voters of Missouri somehow decline to make Gomez their Secretary of State, I’m sure she could land a job with Jesse Watters. Jesse contributed a number of nuanced, insightful takes to the ever-evolving gender discussion this week, like “When a man votes for a woman, he actually transitions into a woman,” and “If Trump were president, he would slap Algeria with sanctions,” but he can’t figure out why anyone would call Republicans “weird.”

It was a pretty rough week for weirdos everywhere but the Arizona Republican primary, where election-denying freakazoids romped to victory. Even Kari Lake struggled to fend off a challenge from the even-batshittier Mark Lamb. Still, the electorate wasn’t quite deranged enough to get Blake Masters over the line; I guess even in 2024, some folks simply won’t vote for a hairless marmot, even if it is Peter Thiel’s pet. We’ve got a ways to go yet, America.

Seems Michigan nincompoop Eric Molitor caught the electoral politics bug when he evaded consequences for his participation in the plot to kidnap Governor Gretchen Whitmer, as he announced plans to run for the office he once surveilled alongside some loser wannabe terrorists. Weird? Weird.

You’d think that leaking highly classified state secrets in the Oval Office would merit a return favor or two, but it turns out Pootie Tang won’t even hold onto a couple lousy hostages for a stooge in need. Autogolpe co-conspirator Scott Perry was so moved by the return of illegally detained Americans that he compared them to “a spoon,” as a means of demonstrating their worthlessness.

“The trick to hostage negotiation,” the Manchurian Manchild explains in the revised edition of The Shart of the Deal, “is to wait until the foreign autocrat has tortured your citizen to death, then kiss his ass and pay him two million bucks for the corpse.”

Cult45 excommunicated Kyle Rittenhouse this week, because hey, who’ve you gunned down in the street for me lately? Kyle did try to grovel his way back into their good (if weird) graces, but I fear the bond he and Catturd once shared cannot be mended.   

Iowa became the 22nd state to impose a draconian post-Trump/Dobbs abortion ban on its citizenry. Y’know, for a guy who failed at casinos and vodka and real estate and steaks and pandemic management and denuclearizing the Korean Peninsula and marriage and umbrella closing and stealing classified documents and pronouncing “Thailand” and selecting a running mate who isn’t a voter-repelling weirdo, he’s proven remarkably adept at stealing bodily autonomy rights.

Elon’s doin’ his damndest to give the incels their eight bucks worth, sharing deepfakes of Vice President Harris while suspending accounts contributing to her record-shattering fundraising haul, on top of deceptively funneling swing state voters’ data to the Dotard campaign. But he still ain’t donating that $45 million monthly, dorks.

So yeah, I think that “weird” hypothesis holds up under testing, don’t you?

But now it’s time to wash the weirdness away, which is gonna take a whole lotta beer, especially if Jesse Watters finds out about any more women’s sports. If you’ve got a couple bucks burning a hole in your pocket, as you wait for the next England Dan & John Ford Coley Fans for Harris Zoom call, know that my tip jar now accepts not only Cash App, but PayPal and Venmo as well.

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