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TheFerret

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Member since: Fri Mar 24, 2017, 06:48 PM
Number of posts: 483

Journal Archives

All This Creeping Normalcy, It's Like We're Still in Hell, But There's Cake Now (Ferret/Shower Cap)

While it’s certainly better than Hell, I confess I have yet to find my footing in our current Limbo. Like, we finally shut the malfunctioning thrill ride down after four long years, and it’s certainly nice not to be flung through the air at a hundred miles per hour every minute of every day, but the restraint bar is still in place, and frankly, I need to pee.

(Of course you are always invited to view this post, with links, here: http://showercapblog.com/all-this-creeping-normalcy-its-like-were-still-in-hell-but-theres-cake-now/)

We’re in for an incomprehensible Thanksgiving, as a political movement gone mad charges naked into battle with inescapable reality. We rational, responsible types can only watch from isolation as these feverishly insane people spread their death in the name of Whatever Tucker Carlson Told Them to Be Mad About This Week.

I’ve lost track of precisely which Shart House coronavirus outbreak swept Ben Carson off to the hospital, but thanks to cutting edge medical treatments available to him as a leading capo in the Trump Family Crime Syndicate, he pulled through. Of course, this level of care is hardly accessible to you serfs or your filthy taker families, though you are certainly welcome to form orderly lines outside your communities’ overflowing hospitals.

In fact, here’s a helpful Shower Cap Holiday Hack for ya: save time this Thanksgiving by heading directly from the food bank queue to the hospital queue! Getcherself a little hot plate that plugs into the cigarette lighter in your car; by the time the turkey heats up, you’ll be in prime position to snag the next available ventilator!

Historians will remember the last few days as the most gratifying in American history, as Tangerine Idi Amin’s dreams of finding a bunch of judges willing to end democracy for him deteriorated into a viscous blob of failure, public humiliation, and whatever was leaking out of Rudy Giuliani the other day.

Oddly enough, Trenchmouth McCousinfucker’s literal/figurative meltdown in Pennsylvania ultimately yielded little beyond an atomic wedgie delivered in blistering legalese, which is almost a shame, since he won’t be able to comprehend a word of it.

As his kakistocrat clowncar coup went down in flames, Donnie Dotard finally noticed he’d hired a team of defective One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest action figures to represent him in court. “They’re making me look bad!” he whinged, before retweeting a 172-minute-long video of James Woods reciting Anders Breivik’s manifesto.

His assessment, for once, isn’t wrong; Sidney Powell’s recent behavior has been extremely...well, “Sidney Powell-like” is the only term that comes to mind. So when she dropped her ultra-helpful DOUG COLLINS WUZ ROBBED BY THE DEEP STATE AND ALSO JEWS take smack dab in the middle of the crucial Georgia Senate runoffs, I mean, you’re the one who loves the scorpion story so much, bro. Sidney Powell is a machine that haphazardly spews toxic sludge; I don’t know why you’d turn it on in the first place, but you certainly don’t get to complain now that the carpet’s ruined.

So Sidney goes into the airlock, but Rudy gets to stick around? That doesn’t seem fair. The dividing competence line between those two maniacs is a gerrymander crooked enough to make Robin Vos blush.

At least these desperate, comical attempts to (lest we forget) overturn the 2020 election provided a steady supply of procedural milestones to celebrate. Yet another doomed lawsuit, filed in crayon on official Four Seasons Total Landscaping stationery*, laughed out of court? Michigan officially certifying their results, dashing the wacky plans of an underdog wannabe autocrat with a crazy dream of a world where Black folks’ votes don’t get counted? It’s like winning the election all over again, every time, and we fucking well deserve it.

It’s been a long, shitty year, and if I get to pop another bottle of champagne every time an election clerk in Philadelphia gets back from their lunch break, I am absolutely taking advantage of that opportunity. I say mythologize all this shit; going forward, every day in November is holy for one reason or another; we’ll write carols and make advent calendars.

Meanwhile, Joe Biden’s aggressively normcore politics continue their slow, steady infiltration of our news cycle, like a light breeze smelling of nothing in particular. With each individual appointment, and the accompanying resumé overflowing with expertise, excellence, and commitment to public service, rather than the “Nominee X initially drew the President‘s attention by smearing swastikas on the front door of a local elementary school in his own filth” stories we’ve grown accustomed to, I feel like Andy Dufresne emerging into the rain.

Well, stop the dang presses, Emily W. Murphy finally decided to do her goddamn job. Somewhere around the 8th or 9th confirmation of Joe Biden’s landslide victory, America’s breakout bureaucratic irritant, the Orwell It Girl herself, finally acquiesced to the overwhelming will of the electorate and permitted the transition to begin. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you get your footnote in the history books, you giddy little goose-stepper.

Yes, the transition of power will be peaceful, if pissy. Between Treasury Secretary Mnuchbag’s bold experiments with sabotage-by-accounting and Mike Pompeo’s petulant plot to smash the nation’s toys rather than let his successors rejoin the Open Skies Treaty, it seems as though McConnellism is swiftly evolving from mere obstruction to active vandalism, and it would be really awesome if the Republican Party could stop viewing the majority of the American people as mortal enemies.

You may’ve missed it, but Lil’ Donnie Two-Scoops finally crept out of his bunker for the first time in days, pathetically seeking to take credit for the stock market surge that occurred as a direct result of his overdue submission to reality. Didja see it? It didn’t last long. He’s living the narcissist’s nightmare right now; he lives for the spotlight, but he can’t bear it any longer, for it illuminates a loser.

...and then he has to waddle back out for the goddamn turkey pardoning! Like a forgotten sitcom star cutting the ribbon at a Fuddruckers opening! Shoot it straight into my fucking eyeballs; this evil fuck is finally falling out of the dignity tree and hitting every single branch on the way down and it is truly magnificent to behold.

Like, sneaking out of the G20 to sulk on the golf course because you just know he was paranoid all the other leaders were talking about what a loser he is, in all their fancy high-falutin’ foreign languages? I’ve been waiting a long time for this schadenfreude, and now that it’s here, nectar and ambrosia ain’t shit.

Heads up, with the long holiday weekend, this is likely the last time you’ll hear from me until next week. I expect less news than we’ve seen since the bygone normalcy of 2014, for which I’ll give thanks until I have no more thanks to give. I hope you and your loved ones are navigating this warped holiday season safely and sanely. See y’all soon.

*This is a big moment in Shower Cap’s Blog history, the first time I spelled this word correctly.

(I feel like I should clarify the Woods/Breivik thing was just a gag. It isn’t real. Yet.) 

Everybody Enjoying This Sad, Silly Coup? Living in History Sure is Dumb. (Ferret/Shower Cap)

What if they threw a coup, and only the densest, skeeviest, mouthbreathingest clown school dropouts showed up? I swear, the textbooks of the future are going to switch without warning to comic sans when they reach this stupid, stupid period in American history.

(Find this one, with allllllll them nooz links, here: http://showercapblog.com/everybody-enjoying-this-sad-silly-coup-living-in-history-sure-is-dumb/)

Before we begin, a toast to the latest macabre milestone: our coronavirus death mound now measures a quarter of a million corpses high. “American exceptionalism” certainly carries a darker meaning in these waning days of 2020, as asymptomatic transmission and the wingnut disinformation bubble continue working their murderous magic, Laura Ingraham skipping merrily along, hand-in-hand with the Grim Reaper, in a plague-friendly perversion of the buddy system.

Rudy Giuliani, raw sewage leaking from seemingly every pore and orifice, called yet another press conference, as if to defiantly proclaim that yes, for a loser of less renown, the debacle at Four Seasons Total Landscaping would have been rock bottom, but I’m Amerikkka’s Mayor, dammit, and I’ve still got so much further to fall, Dante’s gonna learn a thing or two before I finally splatter.

Alongside Jenna Ellis and Sidney Powell because I guess Alex Jones and the Hamburglar were busy, Incesto the Clown bellowed and babbled the craziest fucking shit you will ever fucking hear; by the end of it, I honestly think he was speaking in tongues; you get enough cheap meth in these maniacs, everything comes out HUGO CHAVEZ AND GEORGE SOROS DID IT, y’know?

That’s just how things are now, during the Fuckwit Revolution, as the least intelligent people alive attempt to overthrow the U.S. government by punching themselves in the crotch over and over again.

It’s the weirdest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. It’s a bit like watching a video of some roly-poly baby bear struggling to open a jar, (sans the cuteness of course) and you’re all, “Wook at him! Him cannot get it open cuz him not haz thumbs,” but also there’s a small nuclear device inside the jar, so maybe we should take it away before the bear gets lucky?

Because we suddenly find ourselves at the point where the defeated incumbent President of the United States is saying, rather loudly, “The election didn’t go the way I wanted, I should now very much like to end democracy in America,” and the institutional GOP is all, “Donald just needs to damage to our institutions a little while longer, can’t you see he’s upset? Let him have this!”

Look, Martin Scorsese earned the right to inflict the last 35 minutes of The Irishman on us, but only after delivering decades of quality cinema; all you fucks’ve done is turn the motherfucking coronavirus loose on us like we’re a goddamn all you can eat buffet. Tell him he has to stop coup-ing or there won’t be any ice cream. Jesus.

The Dipshit Coup itself is, dear lord, SO much dumber than I expected, and my expectations were...I mean, c’mon, we’re talking about a Yosemite-and-Thailand-mispronouncin‘ clod, regularly thwarted by umbrellas and neckties. Just today, he retweeted a fake account, claiming to be his sister, because all you have to do to trick the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES into thinking you’re literally a member of his family is to make a Twitter account in their name; can you even IMAGINE how much Putin has been milking this fool?

My point is, even at THAT level of expectation, this shit is stupid beyond my wildest imaginings, like, What If the Pulp Fiction Suitcase Contained Stupidity, whether it’s alleging fraud in Michigan using data from Minnesota, or Rudy stopping just short of screaming “SIRI HOW DO YOU LAWYER?” in Williamsport. It shouldn’t be possible to fail this badly in public without combusting from shame.

Yes, it’s almost incomprehensibly dumb, but it is also dangerous, because this idiot death cult is growing discouragingly comfortable with political violence, as evidenced by the truly dispiriting outpouring of financial support for the child terrorist Kyle Rittenhouse, who posted $2 million bail today, and now walks free.

Speaking of shitty white boy terrorism, this week we learned some deeply fucked-up new details about the plans of that one white trash cell up in Michigan, so I guess it shouldn’t surprise us to learn rank-and-file Cult45ers are bombarding election officials with death threats; they’re just doin’ their humble part to bring a white nationalist dictatorship to America, by gum. I’m told we need to reach out to these people. I disagree.

The only signs the Tangelo-Tinted Taint Tumor acknowledges his enormous, humiliating, landslide defeat on any level manifest in odd leaks about planned pettiness designed to make life harder for the incoming Biden Administration (and, by extension, the American people, some 70 million of whom apparently can’t wait to gobble up one last plateful of Tangerine Idi Amin’s shit) by recklessly “lighting fires” all over the world for no purpose greater than raw spite.

I really don’t have the heart to tell Wee Don that Joe is unlikely to take his seat behind the Resolute desk before a staffer removes the thumbtack he’s so childishly plotting to leave in place of the traditional gracious letter. They gotta steam-clean the joint, bro; between the lingering stench of experimental hair tonic and the inch-thick film of pure coronavirus adorning every surface, they’ll be running the country out of a Starbucks for the first few days.

Treasury Secretary Mnuchbag is getting in on the Torch the Oilfields in Retreat action, shutting down key emergency loan programs just as the fall surge begins to take its toll. This episode serves as a fun reminder that Mitch McConnell views his job, under a Democratic president, as “inflicting maximum harm until voters return the GOP to power,” and for no particular reason here’s a link for anybody who wants to help get Raphael Warnock and Jon Ossoff elected.

Speaking of Georgia, I see David Perdue got caught using his office for personal profit again, and I’m almost overwhelmed with whimsy, recalling the days when such serial corruption would have ended his political career. Of course, the contract between Republican officials and their voters is different now: you can rob ‘em blind so long as you trigger th’libs, and we all know Dave isn’t shy about deploying his dog whistle.

Willard Romney was widely praised for demonstrating Republican Bravery, which is sort of like regular bravery, only it comes weeks after the point it would have done any good. Whatever.

You’ll no doubt be pleased to learn Emily W. Murphy remains blissfully unconcerned about the damage she is single-handedly inflicting on the country by holding up the transition of power, which essentially amounts to humming Hakuna Matata at the funerals of the inevitable victims of her coronavirus response sabotage.

I see Rudy’s shitbrained kid caught himself a lil’ touch of the ‘rona. So did Rick Scott. This keeps happening, so I’m out of jokes on the subject, but of course the joke’s really on us, in that our country’s governing party is defined by a cultish refusal to ever learn anything about anything.  Ha ha...hoo. Fuck.

Junior caught it, too, huh?  I hope Kimberly reaches out responsibly to any donors she’s recently forced lap dances upon; contact tracing is very important.

...I honestly thought things would be at least marginally less cray-cray by this point. In hindsight, given the data, that was pretty foolish of me, but I take comfort in knowing that even after such an obvious mistake, I’m a goddamn genius next to the President’s legal team. Stay safe out there, my friends... 

Lindsey Graham and Other Naughty Would-Be Autocrats

Greetings from the purgatorial asylum we are calling...the Transition. All this mad, wacky, falling action is interesting enough, I suppose, in a Seriously Fiction Just Fucking TRY to Top This Shit sort of way, but if we could skip to the part where we all get to jump on a ship bound for the Grey Havens, that’d be wonderful, thanks.

(Get this post, in living color, with them links, here: http://showercapblog.com/lindsey-graham-and-other-naughty-would-be-autocrats/)

Republican politics right now is quite like that one Twilight Zone episode where the whole town lives in terror of the extremely powerful, extremely shitty kid who took them all hostage. From McConnell on down, they smile blankly and nod along as Fat Q*Bert belches up a never-ending cascade of deranged conspiracy theories, and if doing so only further radicalizes the Children of the Candy Corn into a frothy, anti-democracy rage mob, well, we’ve known for some time now this party was only ever going to learn the Frankenstein lesson the hard way.

And so, for now, America remains trapped in this grotesque limbo, the vital work of the transition of power placed on indefinite hold. I guess we all have to sit through the Manchurian Manchild’s crappy backyard talent show and politely clap at the end, because humoring this defeated assclown is apparently more important than gaining control of the pandemic that did not, contrary to the smug prognostications of wingnut “thought leaders,” disappear on November 4th.

Meanwhile, when she’s not busy singlehandedly obstructing the effort to combat the coronavirus, Emily W. Murphy spends her time browsing the want ads in search of her post-attempted coup gig. What’s it like, I wonder, in a job market like this, knowing you’re the one human being least deserving of employment? What does Emily’s resumé even look like? “Won the coveted Bloodiest Hands in the Federal Bureaucracy award, November 2020?”

The weekend’s Million MAGA March fell just a rounding error shy of a million marchers short of the promised turnout, giving Kaleigh McEnany the opportunity to test drive her Sean Spicer impersonation. She very nearly nailed it, though she wasn’t quite able to capture Spicey’s unconcealable shame. The Shart House learned to weed out such traits over the years, so thank God we prevented a second term, sparing the nation the fruits of those fumblingly fascistic first-term experiments.

The Velveeta Vulgarian is, of course, handling his defeat with all the grace and class of a teenaged Veruca Salt discovering she didn’t get the part she wanted in the school musical*, retweeting a spittle-soaked rant proclaiming Biden voters, aka the Vast Majority of the American Electorate, to be “ignorant, anti-American, and anti-Christian.” Not to get ahead of the biographers or anything, but I don’t believe Donald Trump is going to grow into the presidency.

A federal judge ruled that Giddy Goose-Stepper Chad Wolf was illegally appointed, meaning he was acting beyond his authority when he added DHS to the Confedrate train set in Stephen Miller’s basement. So can we maybe lock him out of his office now? Please? Somebody?

Down in the Georgia Senate runoffs, David Perdue is still too deathly afraid of Jon Ossoff to attend a debate, and I mean, I get it; Jamie Lee Curtis learned to keep a respectful distance from Michael Myers whenever possible, right? Whatever happens on January 5th, Dave’s gonna periodically wake up in a cold sweat, shouting PLEASE JON NO MORE, for the rest of his life.

A state-level Republican Party concealed a coronavirus outbreak within their ranks from their Democratic colleagues, endangering their lives. “Now hang on a minute Cap,” you’re thinking, “ Like the checkout lane Archie Comics digests of yore, you’re padding your page count by reprinting old stories!” and that’s a perfectly reasonable response, but you see, this was the Minnesota GOP, and you’re thinking of back in May, when the Pennsylvania GOP pulled this shit. Same murderous sociopathy; slightly different longitude and latitude.

“Trump Derangement Syndrome” is not, as some would have you believe, a fever that afflicts liberals; no, it’s a strictly conservative ailment, and it appears the condition is chronic. Why else would Republican Senators like Dan Sullivan and Ted Cruz throw petty little shitfits over mask-wearing at this late date? Election’s over, boys, there’s no need to keep playing along with the gaslighting, especially the parts that’ve been, y’know, killing thousands and thousands and thousands of us.

Oh, and just as a quick lil’ postscript here, I see Chuck Grassley caught COVID-19, HOWE’ER DID SUCH A THING OCCUR?

The scorecard I purchased to keep track of the Marmalade Shartcannon’s laughable attempts to overturn the 2020 election in court quickly became an illegible mess, but I can still make out a fuckton of Ls. In addition to the Cleveland Brownsian success rate, Fuckhead’s lawyers are now quitting in droves; I guess getting disbarred for participating in the dumbest of all possible coups while fully understanding you’re never ever ever ever getting paid saps the whole “President’s lawyer” gig of its prestige in a hurry.

Now I see Rudy Giuliani, hot off his smash hit residency at Four Seasons Total Landscaping, is bringing his trademark blend of gibbering incompetence and batshit disinformation to Hairplug Himmler’s legal team, all for the low low price of $20,000 daily. The tonal transition of the last couple weeks, from Václav Havel-esque absurdist nightmare to Will Ferrell Did This One For Money low comedy has been jarring, but, I must admit, welcome.

The intersection of Trumpism and the coronavirus outbreak is, dear lord, a gaping maw of cosmic horror that would make H.P. Lovecraft turn on the lights and cry out for his mother. We’ve somehow arrived at the Hospitals Are Overflowing With Patients Who Still Think Covid is a Hoax Even While Dying From Covid stage, and I truly never imagined I’d live to see madness on such scale.

Young Lindsepher Graham has a zany last-minute plan to destroy American democracy once and for all, and it’s so crazy, it just might work! Ok, I lied, there’s no chance of it working, but let’s sit for a moment with the information that a sitting United States Senator appears to have pressured Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger to simply dispose of all those meddlesome Democratic votes. Lindsey my lad, if there’s any sort of afterlife, you are now officially bound for that dusty table in a shunned corner of the great Senate in the sky where Joe McCarthy and John C. Calhoun while away eternity playing silent, bitter rounds of pinochle.

Look, principles are for all you peons, who’ve never known the exquisite thrill of wielding the power of the American presidency as easily as feeding a quivering narcissist’s ego on the golf course every now and then. “Tiger Woods couldn’t have done any better, Mr. President,” and suddenly you’re targeting missile strikes. I get it. I mean, you’re still one of our nation’s greatest traitors, Linds, and future generations will spit when they say your name, but I understand, power corrupts, and you’re a very weak man.

Whether by withdrawing troops from Iraq and Afghanistan against the advice of, well, damn near everybody, or even pursuing a reckless lame duck military strike against Iran, the Bonespur Buttplug seems intent on breaking anything he can get his tiny, inadequate, little mitts around, looking to leave as large a mess as possible for his successor. I don’t think we’ve ever explicitly attempted a petulance-based foreign policy, but I bet this doesn’t work either.

And now I see Michigan Republicans played around with refusing to certify the election results from Detroit, citing the controversial We Don’t REALLY Have to Let Black People Vote Do We theory. Meanwhile, Nevada Republicans are asking courts to either reverse or annul their state’s results, and Gameshow Göring just fired the nation’s leading cybersecurity official for publicly stating the 2020 election was free and fair. Is it just me, or is it getting a little fashy in here?

These are the days of our lives, folks, and the days of our lives are absolutely fucking cray-cray. Well shit, drinking got me through the election, and drinking’ll get me through this, too. Probably.

*Too autobiographical? Too autobiographical. 

Watching Donald Trump Lose, Over & Over Again, in Slow Motion, Isn't the Worst Thing (Ferret/SC)

Just on an emotional level, I find myself grateful for this transition period; if we switched from daily hate rallies to Biden-y normalcy overnight, we’d get the bends, surely. I guess I’m enjoying the leisurely stroll out of Shitty Wonderland, reminiscing about all the fucking horrors we’ve witnessed here. And even stumbling across a few new jagoffs along the way:

(On a non-emotional level, get this post in living color with nifty nooz links here: http://showercapblog.com/watching-donald-trump-lose-over-over-again-in-slow-motion-isnt-the-worst-thing/)

I know what these deadenders are attempting right now is technically kind of a coup, and I’m sure there’s always some risk that one of these new judges they scraped off a Federalist Society urinal will rule that voting Democrat is unconstitutional, but so far, it’s been perfectly schadenfreuderrific.

Like an aging slugger on a baseball team that’s fallen out of contention, the Velveeta Vulgarian is swinging for the fences, looking to pad his stats and cement his legacy as the GOAT...at losing in court. These cartoonishly frivolous election lawsuits never had any chance of succeeding, but as a passionate consumer of the burgeoning Flailing Failing Fascists genre, I appreciate the dedication to creating the content I crave.

Like, I fucking LOVE this thing where powerful conservatives, one by one, issue that “it sure was fun, but it’s time to fucking leave, you colossal loser” statement; every single time it’s like reliving the moment the election was called. Karl Rove, Geraldo, Whichever Koch Brother Is Still Alive, all part of the slow, steady abandonment of the vanquished manchild tyrant; you have to chuckle at all the disingenuous praise and condescending handholding as they ease him into his new reality, like a misbehaving toddler they’re trying to trick into the dog’s crate so they can abandon him on the side of some back country highway.

House Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy is a notable exception to this trend, dimly parroting his Turd Emperor’s ridiculous propaganda, because when you’re the walking exemplar of Unjustly Elevated White Male Mediocrity, perpetuating kakistocracy is a matter of self-preservation. Kev wants America to give the drooling QAnon zealots of his incoming freshmaniac class a chance, even as Marjorie Taylor Greene announces her arrival in Washington by scaling the first available flagpole to pelt the locals with her own feces.

Yes, subtraction by addition is the name of the game in the Republican Party these days, and Alabama’s incoming Senator wants you to know the institutional brain drain won’t be confined to the House. Yes, Tommy Tuberville introduced himself to America as a man quite literally incapable of graduating from the third grade, and honestly, I’m choosing to celebrate the all too brief stretch of time when even the electorate that chose Jeff Sessions and this clownish football person saw, and recognized, the value of a good, good man like Doug Jones. May such days come again soon.

Anyhow, Smilin’ Joe Biden isn’t waiting around for a crayon-signed permission slip from his bunker-bound predecessor to begin assembling his team. the President-elect announced his coronavirus task force, filled, in a radical departure from current practices, with elite medical experts rather than the more traditional gaggle of boot-licking idiot yes men.

In addition, Old Handsome Joe named Ron Klain as his Chief of Staff. Now, Klain is not only incredibly qualified for this crucial post, but his experience as Obama’s Ebola czar is especially pertinent for the immediate challenges ahead. An excellent hire.

Wow. I’m so used to writing stuff like, “Impressed by an 87-minute anti-immigration Youtube rant he discovered by clicking a pop-up ad on a scat porn site, the President hired a white nationalist used mattress salesman to lead ATF; also, he was so blown away by the guy who beat him sixteen straight times at three-card monte on the sidewalk in front of the White House that he’s Secretary of Commerce now.”

...gonna be hard to keep this blog going under Biden, is all I’m saying. And you’ll never find anyone happier to be put out of business.

I actually can’t wait for the Boring Competence Show to take over my time slot, because the state of the pandemic is absolutely horrifying tonight, with damn near the whole country experiencing uncontrolled spread. Hospitals are filling up, and even old friends like PPE shortages and nursing home outbreaks are swinging by for uninvited winter visits, because learning from recent mistakes is for cucks, I guess.

Taking lessons from Vlad Putin, COVID-19 has weaponized the American public’s apparently insatiable appetite for disinformation, and while Donald Trump is technically still president during the lame duck session, it is the coronavirus that is the nation’s unofficial Daddy.

Now I understand that denying the objective reality of the pandemic was central to President Crotchrot’s campaign pitch (this is, after all, Hell), but now that the election is over, there’s really no reason to continue the murderous charade; just a quick, simple, “Hey everybody, wear masks and maintain social distance!” would save tens of thousands of lives, here on the brink of what looks to be a truly tragic winter.

But of course, even when you get past the mendacity, there’s still the sociopathy to deal with, and so we will face this rising crisis without a shred of assistance from the federal government, because the President of the United States is too busy fantasizing about his revenge on Fox News to help out, you see. (Oh, and OAN, I know you’ve turned his head for now, but in time he’ll leave you, too, for a younger, crazier propaganda outlet, you’ll see.)

Donnie Dotard’s farewell treat to the brave patriots of the Secret Service was, naturally, another round of Covid, because he’s cheap and the virus is free and, God knows, readily available, and also he ran out of old Xmas presents from Junior n’ Eric to regift.

Actually there’s plenty of coronavirus changing hands (lungs?) through the Shart House Secret Santa program. Corey Lewandowski, Don Young, and a whole ‘nother round of shitbag staffers caught it, likely at their own election night party, because they’re too fucking stupid to take simple, universally understood precautions, even in the company of known superspreaders...it’s pretty cool that this bowl of assholes won’t be in charge soon.

Of course, there’s still Rand Paul, ranting like an itinerant preacher on a college campus about throwing away masks and other equally nutty shit, and boy howdy, Trumpism sure did a number on young Rand, didn’t it? Once a stodgy libertarian scold, he’s really let his hair down and gone Full Death Cultist lately; it’s like some late 90’s Julia Roberts vehicle filtered through Lou Dobbs’ NyQuil nightmares.

Ok, look. I get that we’re Democrats, and that means a steadfast commitment to finding the grey cloud attached to every silver lining, but everybody understands we don’t have to jump straight to the self-flagellating postmortems during our hard-earned victory party, right? Like, at least finish your cake, y’know?

I just want to point out that today was the day all the news networks officially called Arizona and Georgia for Biden and Harris, and I say that’s a perfectly valid excuse to start celebrating all over again. It’s a new map we’re building together, a new path forward for a new America. Between Georgia, and Arizona, and the absolutely historic fucking landslide in the popular vote, we’re allowed to strut. We should strut.

Anyway, I see Shart Garfunkel emerged from his basement long enough to take another feeble stab at claiming credit for the Pfizer vaccine, tossing in a little spite towards Governor Cuomo before fleeing questions on how he felt about losing so very, very, very hard, like the great big fucking loser he has always been.

Ok, that’s an appropriate amount of madness for the moment, I think. Go ahead, slide on into that weekend, folks. Maybe even turn off the news altogether, I’ll keep an eye on the bunker for ya...between beers, of course. 

Spread My Ashes at Four Seasons Total Landscaping, Dammit! (Ferret/Shower Cap)

Forgive me if I’m a little off my game tonight, friends; I just feel a bit...I dunno, it’s hard to describe. It’s a vaguely familiar sensation, but I can’t quite place it. It isn’t dread, or disgust, or outrage, or any of the negative emotions one simply accepts as part of the burden of being alive in 2020, just this odd, tickling feeling. Haven’t been able to shake it since, oh, since about midday Saturd-OH HOLY CRAP, IT’S HOPE!

(As ever, get this post WITH nifty links, here: http://showercapblog.com/spread-my-ashes-at-four-seasons-total-landscaping-dammit/)

Because after an interminable, malingering cliffhanger that seemed to warp the very laws of time, the election was finally, FINALLY called for Biden, and advertising slots on cable news networks receded to saner levels.

Obviously, we can’t completely rule out the Surprise Desperate Coup Attempt until Joe n’ Kamala are safely sworn in, but aside from a few fanatic dead-enders, and Don Jr., who’ll surely never be able to pay off his coke dealer without access to the U.S. Treasury, institutional Republicans seem content to distract the Deposed Dotard with doomed lawsuits and just enough public support to avoid the dreaded Mean Tweet, the mere threat of which reduces allegedly-powerful Republicans to quivering piles of treacherous gelatin.

Because a truly terrifying chunk of the GOP is so thoroughly brainwashed that they genuinely believe their beloved Hemorrhoid Emperor is being unjustly overthrown via a fraudulent election. And even now, with history’s eyes wide open, Mitch McConnell and his craven crew cannot muster enough love of country to even lightly douse the flames of fascism raging through their base; no, if it means clinging to power for another term or so, destroying the nation’s faith in democracy itself is a price they’re only too willing to (make the rest of us) pay.

So yes, Chief-Thuglomat-for-Now Mike Pompeo enjoyed his little “joke” about the transition, but we all know he practices his wee wannabe Hitler speeches in the mirror every morning while he ties his tie. He’ll network his way around the country now, to see how many donors he can get to bite on his Trump Without the Baggage hook. He won’t be alone.

Of course, within Shartopia, it’s not all sparkle-eyed dreams of the Reich to Come: Corey Lewandowski has been hospitalized with vertigo after hours spent repeatedly checking to see whether his refrigerator was indeed running, as the Treasonweasel campaign’s pathetic “voter fraud hotline” experienced precisely the fate literally any thinking being could have foreseen.

Even as their legal strategy to cling to power struggled to attain the level of farce (don’t worry, I’m getting there), the Turd Family Robinshart effortlessly evolved their grift with a degree of speed and skill one wishes they had thought to apply to the MOTHERFUCKING PANDEMIC, swiftly passing the hat around for donations to fuel their futile legal flailing, ASTERISK sixty cents out of every dollar go towards retiring the campaign’s debt, THANKS RUBES.

I’m starting to believe the Children of the Candy Corn understand Gameshow Göring is simply stealing from them, and that they’re perfectly happy to have their pockets picked, in the same way a gambler doesn’t truly mind losing another week’s paycheck; he bought one more night at the casino, which was all he really wanted, deep down.

Mendaciously claiming credit for the welcome news that Pfizer had achieved a major breakthrough in their development of a coronavirus vaccine must’ve sent nostalgic smiles circulating through the West Wing’s defiled halls; why, it seems like only yesterday they were merrily bumming a ride on the Obama economy, grateful the purloined proximity to prosperity still shielded them from the consequences of their international trade blunders.

Personally, I don’t think introducing new villains is necessary, or even appropriate at this point in the story, but nevertheless, here is Emily W. Murphy with yet another fresh turd for the punch bowl. Emily is the proverbial one-job haver in the popular YOU HAD ONE JOB meme, and that job is to sign the letter allowing the Biden transition team to begin the work of cleaning out the Augean stables. Like the giddy little fascist bureaucrat the holder of this office under Trump was always going to be, Emily is refusing to sign the letter, so now everybody has to just stand around, in a room overflowing with shit, wasting time.

Now yes, this is exactly the sort of childishness we’ve come to expect from the Manchurian Manchild and his team, but there are real national security risks here, so maybe we’ll get lucky, and this leveled-up Kim Davis will stumble accross some sort of magic potion that helps her get the fuck over herself.

The petulant Pentagon purge is underway, with Defense Secretary Mark Esper defenestrated alongside several other officials and replaced by, I assume, Devin Nunes’ butt acne at this point. I figure they’re most likely done tear-gassing Americans in front of churches by now, though I suppose we can’t rule out a “Well, I just nuked London, have fun!” note awaiting Smilin’ Joe in the Oval.

But seriously, I’m seeing that we needn’t fear a military coup here, it’s likely just a bit of frenzied document shredding to make things harder for the investigations to come, though I believe it is sub-optimal, health-of-democracy-wise, that I do indeed draw comfort from this distinction.

I hope Joe has the White House boiled before moving in, however, because damned if that butthole frat house didn’t manage to sneak in one last coronavirus outbreak, apparently at their own election night party, just for extra comeuppance, this time snagging Mark Meadows, David Bossie, and “Dr.” Ben Carson. Truly, the best people.

Budding mini-Trumps Kelly Loeffler and David Perdue launched their Senate runoff campaigns by reminding the electorate of their manifest unfitness for office, demanding the firing of Georgia’s Secretary of State for the nigh-unforgivable crime of counting the people’s votes fairly, and if you’re having trouble reconciling this with the GOP’s catchy new “count every legal vote” slogan, may I suggest you pick up your official Shower Cap Secret Decoder Ring? The one that’s just a cheap piece of plastic that says REPUBLICANS LIE? See, you get it now.

And now I see William Barr is leaving the door open for one last stab at redacting American democracy once and for all, legitimizing Tangerine Idi Amin’s latest autocrat shitfit with an official Justice Department investigation. Y’know how when Dorothy gets to the Scarecrow and she’s all weepy because she’ll miss him most of all? It’s like the precise mathematical opposite of that with you, Bill.

But enough crap, let’s move on to the good stuff, shall we?

As expected, the weekend saw the launch of the heavily-anticipated Fall of an Idiot Death Cult postmortem genre, which I intend to gorge myself upon in Roman fashion. It’s going to be a circular firing squad inside the hazardous waste bin behind an oncology clinic.

I’m optimistic that watching the rats rip each other to shreds, even as the lice and maggots that live on the rats in turn rip themselves to shreds, will provide sufficient entertainment to carry me through this long winter of quarantine. Still, with stories like “Kimberly Guilfoyle Offers World’s Most Terrifying Lap Dance in Exchange For Donor Buxx already dropping, I worry we may’ve peaked early.

I confess, I did not expect Rudy Giuliani, of all available dirtbags, to ride to America’s rescue in her hour of need, but while the tiny-fisted tyrant at the other end of his leash trembled in a piss-soaked corner of his bunker, Rudy, as though possessed by the very God of Catharsis, set forth to deliver unto a weary nation the eviscerating public degradation of Trumpism we deserved, dammit.

And so, next to a roadside crematorium and the saddest sex shop this side of a Todd Solondz film, in the company of a known sex criminal, Amerikkka’s Mayor forever transformed the parking lot behind Four Seasons Total Landscaping* into Mecca For People Who Like Watching Fascist Assholes Humiliate Themselves.

I like to think the inevitable Hollywood prestige pic based on these batguano-crusted days will end at this point precisely. Giuliani’s punctured ramblings about courts and networks fading out as the credits roll, pausing periodically to note the no-doubt-disappointing eventual prison sentences of the chief collaborators.

In conclusion, I’d just like to say GEORGIA GEORGIA GEORGIA GEORGIA GEORGIA, because that’s where your head should be until January 5th.

*In the interest of honest chroniclin’, it must be said that yes, in this most desperate hour, the President of the United States of America had selected as his lead attorney a man who was incapable of distinguishing a small landscaping company from a luxury hotel. They were stupid, stupid men, and times, as I have often expressed along this journey, were cray. 

On the Eve of (CALL IT ALREADY, KORNACKI, YOU BASTARD) Victory, I'd Like to Say Thanks (Ferret/SC)

My friends, please forgive me, I need to do something a little different tonight.

(Not so different that you can’t find it on me lil’ blog site: http://showercapblog.com/on-the-eve-of-call-it-already-kornacki-you-bastard-victory-id-like-to-say-thanks/)

First of all, I don’t think I could possibly handle reliving this week; it was overwhelming and exhausting the first time ‘round, and besides, there are only so many ways to say, “and then I refreshed the page yet again, my intimacy with the county maps of Pennsylvania and Georgia growing so deep the disembodied outlines of Gwinnett and Allegheny haunted me in my fleeting moments of sleep.”

(Also, I drank a great deal, and feel certain I missed a detail or two. Last I remember, the Cubs won the World Series, and somebody found some e-mails on Anthony Weiner’s laptop...did I miss anything?)

Just to get the bare minimum level of chroniclin’ out of the way so the boss doesn’t ride my ass, yes, Tangerine Idi Amin, as expected, delivered his horrifyingly fascistic yet amusingly low-energy little speech, rejecting reality and democracy once and for all, inciting his shitbag cult to some rather frightening public displays which I pray don’t escalate any further.

But it doesn’t feel nearly so dangerous anymore; we all know a broken man when we see one. Y’know, for a career criminal who (ghost) wrote the book on one-way loyalty, somehow the dumb shit has been caught completely off guard by this heaping spoonful of his own medicine, administered by Mitch McConnell without even the courtesy of soothing airplane noises. Dolt.

Anyway.

I started tinkering with this post Tuesday night, when we were still a bit shellshocked by the unexpected composition of the electorate; when we learned the pollsters had once again failed to detect the seemingly infinite waves of the MAGA horde, like we were trapped in an old Gauntlet cabinet with more of the little fuckers than the stack of quarters mom gave us could hope to cope with; when the visions of sugarplum fairies and expanded courts dissipated, and American monsters seemed to lurk in every shadow.

I understand that to a great extent that emotional moment has passed, as we’ve watched the Biden/Harris landslide accumulate, vote by excruciating vote. We deserve our weekend of celebration and release; I personally plan on devoting most of my Sunday to just exhaling, possibly for 3-4 hours at a stretch.

Anyway, I don’t want to spend this moment wallowing in the filth of Trump and Trumpism, there’s plenty of that waiting for us in the days ahead, as a White House full of cornered rats chew through one another’s very flesh, desperately seeking exits that no longer exist. And of course one wants to block out adequate time to fully appreciate the splendor of the Dobbses and the Hannitys in decline, the tantrums they throw as reality’s grim hammer smashes their precious marionette to pieces. Certainly whichever streaming service offers me the best seat to observe Steve Bannon’s ongoing downfall has earned my subscription money.

Time for all that soon enough. Like I said, I’d like to do something a little different tonight.

I’d like to talk about you.

It’s been a tricky week to navigate emotionally, but you’ve absorbed Tuesday’s House and Senate disappointments by now and you’re ready for the new fight in Georgia. You’ve learned how to do that over the last four years, haven’t you? How to do take punch after punch, and periodically a sledgehammer, and just keep on coming.

We’ve all had to. The bastards’ plan, and I guess you have to give them credit for sticking to it, was to pelt us with shit every hour of every day until we broke down, but we didn’t break down. We took it, all of it, for four years, and we didn’t look away and we held each other up and we found, each of us in our own way, the ability to give as much as we had to give.

And it was enough.

It was just enough, actually.

Because holy shit, the hydra had a few more heads than we were expecting. More fucking heads than even Rasmussen dared to conjure. And a coalition we thought would frolic to a landslide turned out to be juuuuust big enough to deliver the map-changing statement win the nation needed.

Like 2016, the margin for error was narrower than we understood. Unlike 2016, we never took our eye off the ball, we worked every day like we were ten points behind, and this time, even the last-minute appearance of millions of surprise scumbags wasn’t enough to defeat us.

Which is why the pundits mocking the millions of dollars we sent to long shot campaigns like Amy McGrath’s and Jamie Harrison’s are so wrong. They’d have you believe that was folly. It wasn’t. It was hope.

Hope was not always easy to come by, with a President regularly inciting terrorism from the Oval Office, but you didn’t lose hope, did you? Okay, you did, once or twice, we all did, but when you needed a few days to put your head and your heart back together, somebody picked up the slack for you, and you returned the favor in time.

And yes, we hoped the voters of even the reddest states would see the stark disparity between what the two parties were offering this year and make better choices. That hope built this coalition, the largest in American history, and tonight I’m honestly kind of in awe at how that coalition turned out to be barely, but exactly what we needed to win.

Just enough young people were inspired to show up. Just enough NeverTrump Republicans put party over country. Just enough women and non-white voters turned out, and you have to believe that has something to do with the long overdue diversification of the party’s elected officials, particularly our talented and inspiring Blue Wave freshmen class.

And if we hadn’t won the Blue Wall state governments in the midterms, if it was loyal Trump stooges administering these elections and counting these ballots right now, could we trust the results to be the same? Remember how much work we did in 2018? Turns out it was worth it; we needed every bit of it.

I think we’ve learned the arc of history doesn’t bend towards justice on its own; it takes serious elbow grease to wrestle that fucker into place. It truly appears as though we needed every single drop of sweat from every single one of us, 75 million Americans giving everything they had to give, as one, together, to win this fight.

And from where I’m sitting, that means we couldn’t have pulled any of this off without your work, YOU, reading this right now. Without that Saturday afternoon you spent text banking, that cousin you talked into registering to vote for the very first time, that $5 donation you sent to a candidate in a district you’ve never once set foot in, Donald Trump might have ridden a wave of hate to a mandate to end all the best things about this country.

For the rest of my life, I’ll feel a chill down my spine, thinking about what that second term would have meant, with all the babysitters replaced by willing collaborators. This was no longer the Adam Sandler/Kevin James crew of bungling dipshits who couldn’t find the light switches; they’d figured out what they wanted to break and where the weak points were. Shit, they tried to destroy the entire fucking US Postal Service on a desperate whim, just to steal away our sacred right to fire them for their failings.

And whatever evil shit Bill Barr was cooking up in the dark corners of his fascist imagination...let me just say I’m thankful we won’t be shelving that particular book in the non-fiction section.

Because we beat the twisted fucks! And I truly believe, however great or small your contribution to the fight, we wouldn’t have won without you. And I hope that exorcises any lingering ghosts of 2016 for you, and I hope that in those long dark nights that come to us all from time to time, you remember the work you did when it mattered most, and the memory of it brings you peace. You deserve that. You earned it.

Anyway. Thanks for listening to me yammer on like this, we’ll get back to poo jokes next week. In the meantime, let’s get to work whoopin’ a couple of Georgia grifters’ asses, huh? Let’s reunite some families!

(Ok, for now let’s keep on waiting for the damn election to get called. I really thought it would’ve happened by the time I was done. Yeesh.) 

Flushing Day is Upon Us At Last! Oh Joy! Oh Rapture! (Ferret/Shower Cap)

Well, my antifa comrades, I can scarcely believe the day has finally arrived. Operation: Jade Helm has entered its final stages, and the destruction of the suburbs is imminent.  Time to see what this coalition, forged by four years of relentless Resistance, can do. What a long strange trip it’s been, amiright? (Extends hand for high five. Waits. Retreats from sea of glares.)

(Yes, this post too, can be found, with news links, here: http://showercapblog.com/flushing-day-is-upon-us-at-last-oh-joy-oh-rapture/)

I’m posting this from an old laptop of Hunter Biden’s, by the way. You can buy ‘em wholesale at Crazy Rudy’s Discount Russian Propaganda Emporium; they’ll even throw in a semi-automatic rifle with the serial number filed off PLUS a bump stock AND a toaster oven if you can recite your favorite QAnon conspiracy theory without shitting yourself. (To date, no Trumpists have successfully completed this challenge; they are a famously incontinent lot.)

President Shartcannon’s final weekend of campaigning has been surprisingly subdued and conventional...for the high priest of a white supremacist death cult, anyway. It’s mostly the same old This is How Grandpa Got Banned From Applebee’s For Life screeching we’ve learned to tune out, with a little extra desperation born of late-night visits from Dickensian ghosts thrown in for flavor.

I confess, “Joe Biden wants to dismantle the Washington Monument for...some reason” was an inspired spaghetti strand to throw at the wall, but alas, it won’t stick any better than your previous efforts, my darling little fabulists, because you forgot to light the burner under the pot in the first place.

Of course, with all his maskless superspreader rallies, it’s not so much Joe Biden that Gameshow Göring is running against, but reality itself. We’ll see how that plays at the ballot box soon enough, but on the ground, Reality remains undefeated; a new Stanford study links these loser shindigs to 30,000 Covid infections, and 700 deaths. Now, if I were desperate to recreate the razor-thin margins that propelled my previous surprise victory, I wouldn’t spend so much time killing off my most loyal swing state supporters, but then, I wouldn’t appear in public with a necktie hanging down to my fucking knees and pants that look like I’m dressed up like the back end of a hippopotamus, either.

Still, even as their Turd Emperor flails and falters, the rank and file crotchtumors of Cult45 have been poring over their Junior Brownshirt Handbooks to find fun n’ fashy ways to contribute to the effort to end democracy in the United States.

A caravan of the shittiest thugs in all of Texas decided that America didn’t resemble Fallujah quite enough for their liking, and so they engaged in a little recreational vehicular terrorism, surrounding a Biden campaign bus and trying to force it off the road. When shit like this happens in other countries, news anchors tend to use phrases like “sectarian violence,” but the Bonespur Buttplug hasn’t been this thrilled since he learned he could charge the Secret Service to pee.

Of course, not all American terrorists drive trucks; some, it appears, can be found behind the wheels of police cruisers, violently enforcing institutional white supremacy while drawing a taxpayer-funded salary, as in the case of the uniformed goons who tear-gassed a crowd of entirely peaceful Black Lives Matter protesters in North Carolina, rather than allow them to continue their planned march to the local polling station.

Shit like this was presented to me in school, via grainy black-and-white news footage reproduced on VHS, as the savage behavior of a vanquished past. “Don’t worry,” said the social studies teacher, “We’re better than this now, your parents’ generation figured everything out.” And I believed ‘em. In fairness, I was a bit of a dumbass*.

I suppose after all these new entries on the It’s Happening Here inventory sheet, the weekend’s acts of mere traffic obstruction in New York and New Jersey seem comparatively tame, but still, let’s nip that shit in the bud before this dirtbag book club gets any deeper into Mein Kampf, okay?

Having added “craven sycophancy” to his catalog of addictions, Circus Peanut Sydney Greenstreet plans to replace the handful of adults who have managed to linger in the corners of his administration with a shiny new crew of Chad Wolfs and John Ratcliffes. Or should that be, “Chads Wolf and Johns Ratcliffe?” POINT IS, no more gatekeepers, only accomplices.

And it goes without saying Weehands McNodick is sick of sharing the spotlight with that smartypants Dr. Fauci, he’s almost as bad as Reality, undermining the disinformation and wishful thinking and whatnot. I don’t expect America’s Handsomest Epidemiologist to make it through the week, frankly; President Crotchrot let the virus kill us off by the tens of thousands when he was still trying to get us to vote for him, I shudder to imagine how he’ll handle rejection.

I see Scott Atlas took a break from his regular endeavors, assisting the coronavirus in its spread through the American populace, to moonlight as a useful idiot on RT. I feel like sending your top health care advisor out to dance for Putin’s pet propagandists during a pandemic is disqualifying for the presidency, but then, I thought the “they're rapists” speech was disqualifying, too. Cool party you got there, Republicans.

Word on the street is, Hairplug Himmler plans to simply declare himself the victor at some point on Tuesday night, regardless of the number of uncounted votes, and hey, why not? When you’ve got a millions-strong rube army who dementedly interpret your endless hours of television watching as a heroic battle against a satanic deep-state pedophile cabal, why not simply keep on lying? I mean, sure, there’s always the possibility of further violence, but with sociopathic narcissism taking care of any pesky feelings of guilt, what’ve you got to lose, really?

This is why his broke-ass campaign has made the ritual post-rally Abandoning of the Bumpkins a regular feature of the Trump experience. Since we live in Hell, I’m certain there are a few breathless NYT/WaPo articles, interviewing the deserted, who proclaim, like so many Appalachian diner patrons, that being left to die in the cold hasn’t shaken their faith in Sultan Spraytan, not one bit, we prioritize hatred over even self-preservation, dagnabbit...but I’ve managed to avoid reading ‘em so far, thank god.

Fortunately, Team Treasonweasel’s despicable efforts to undermine the election through the courts have generally failed, from Nevada to that scumfuck Hail Mary where Texas Republicans tried to just set 127,000 ballots on fire on account of how they were likely to favor Democrats. C’mon, Fundamental Institutions of American Democracy! We just need you to hang in there a little while longer, the clock’s finally running down...

And so, on the eve of his likely firing, the Velveeta Vulgarian once again retreats into his increasingly fortified bunker, to await tonight’s inevitable procession of phantoms; the restless spirits of those he left to die in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria; the victims of the mass shooting in El Paso, the victims of the Tree of Life synagogue shooting, all the victims of all the monsters who felt emboldened by the president’s hateful words to act on their violent fantasies; the legion of Covid dead, and countless others, forgive me, I’m too angry to keep going. Despair, and die, you diarrhea-gargling human cancer.

Motherfucker. I fantasized about wrapping up election season with some rousing sermon on decency and democracy and all that good good stuff, but the truth is, like all of y’all out there, I’m worn the fuck out, and while I’m confident tonight, right now, I just need to get shitfaced and play video games for a bit. Anyway, you don’t need me to tell you what you’ve been fighting for, do you?

Thank you for resisting with me, folks. Thanks for reading these silly little rants. Thank you especially for using the Fascist-Flushing 2020 Action Guide to donate to the Democratic Party’s awesome candidates, we raised nearly $40,000 with that site, and I’m genuinely prouder of that than anything else I’ve done in my life.

http://showercapblog.com/fascist-flushing-2020-guide-house/

I still don’t really understand how I ended up doing this, but I’m endlessly thankful that I stumbled across such a bizarre little path, and that I got to meet so many fantastic, passionate patriots while wandering along it.

Anyway, if you’re not busy tomorrow (or today, depending on when you read this), I was thinking maybe we could all get together and save our country from a gang of malicious fuckups? Wear somethin’ sexy.

*I feel like I should provide a link to some sort of visual proof of my middle school dumbassness, but none of that stuff is digitized, sorry. I was really into Ninja Turtles, and I had those glasses that turned into sunglasses when you went outside, if that helps. 
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