Concussions Can Wait.

democracy, war crimes, and corruption don’t pause for head injuries

Look, I’ve done some truly dumb shit in my time.

I’ve rolled the dice on questionable at best shellfish I’d later deeply, deeply regret. I’ve botched a box of hair dye so badly I could’ve played Pony Boy. I’ve attempted to cut my own bangs with cuticle scissors, super glued my son’s hands to some headphones, gotten stuck in a garage window while trying to sneak in to steal Bartles and Jaymes Fuzzy Navel wine coolers from my dad’s fridge, and when I was 10, I somehow managed to shave off a significant chunk of the enamel on my own tooth with the eraser-end of a number 2 pencil. I even briefly considered going on a third date with a guy who called me to tell me he had just shit his pants on the ride home from our second one.

Shit happens, literally, I get it. But you don’t always have to TELL someone else when it does. But I digress…

The point is, I’ve made a metric fuckton of stupid mistakes.

But I’ve never - well I had never until last night that is - concussed myself picking up a paper towel. In fact, I had never imagined I’d ever utter the words, “I concussed myself picking up a paper towel.” Much like I never imagined I’d ever utter the words, “And then Sting rode me to victory across the finish line at the Preakness.”

But, in the wise words of the great sausage king connoisseur of Chicago, Ferris Bueller, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

In retrospect, had I taken one single second to ACTUALLY look around, I would have missed it. The corner of the paper towel dispenser that is, with the backside of my skull that is.

Alas, one brief blackout, three hours in the ER, $600 I might as well have set on fire, and a nasty ass headache later, here I sit. Doing something I’m apparently not supposed to be doing, but I’m doing anyway.

See above: stupid.

I’m not supposed to be writing this article. I’m not supposed to be “looking at any screen of any kind”. According to the doctor, I’m supposed to be “sitting on the couch in my pajamas and not doing anything which is physically or mentally taxing.”

And believe me, I tried. I tried really fucking hard. Petting the dog. Doing my nails. Listening to music. Flipping through the 432 random catalogs full of shit I’ve never purchased and would never purchase but seem to show up in my mailbox every damn day anyway.

But I couldn’t do it. Even though I know I should and I really will try when I’m done writing this, I just couldn’t sit quietly and let my brain and body rest because my brain and body are simply too fucking angry to rest right now.

Despite how nice it sounds on paper, we just don’t live in a time when it’s all that easy to disengage from anything that might be “physically or mentally taxing.”

No matter how much we all wish we did.

The times we live in look at the word “taxing” and laugh. Like it’s some cute little dog yipping at your ankle to get you to pick it up.

“Taxing? How cute. As if I have time to pet that little darling while managing this trebuchet.”

You see, I was lying there in bed thinking about the fact that we are currently waging an illegal war in Iran and slim majorities in both chambers of Congress just said, “Hey, my felon rapist credibly accused of child rape dude — we know these powers are like supposed to be ours and stuff, but we’re too busy group gelding ourselves right now, so yeah, you go ahead and do you bro. Bombs away!”

And it makes me so goddamn mad.

We bombed a school.

We. Bombed. A. School.

A school full of children in a country we told the whole world we were “liberating”. We killed more than 150 of them. We know we did it. We knew we did it when we did it. But instead of owning it. Instead of accountability for it. Instead of offering hollow apologies for innocent lives we can never bring back, we put out a bunch of bullshit about it being an “IRGC” misfire, to chum the mouth breathing MAGA shidiots who are currently really struggling to “defend” how their “no new wars melon-hued messiah” somehow managed to start one anyway.

Because the truth is he does not care. He has shown that again and again.

People die — he shrugs. Civilians die — he shrugs. Americans die — he shrugs.

And that same indifference, that same hollowed-out moral center, shows up everywhere you look.

Meanwhile, back here at home, Kristi Noem is out.

And look — I understand why people are celebrating that.

When someone whose political brand has basically been cruelty in a push-up bra finally loses a perch of real power, it’s hard not to feel at least a flicker of satisfaction.

But let’s not confuse relief with justice.

Donald Trump didn’t fire Kristi Noem because she failed to respond to the floods in Texas which claimed the lives of at least 100 people.

He didn’t fire her because Americans were murdered by her rabid masked goons.

He didn’t fire her for posing for photos in front of human beings in cages like they were livestock.

He didn’t fire her for racially profiling Latinos, African-Americans, Arab Americans and Asian Americans.

He didn’t fire her because she was arresting legal permanent residents and US citizens and detaining them illegally.

He didn’t fire her because she was keeping children in fetid, rancid concentration camps without access to clean water, fresh food or medical care.

He didn’t fire her for turning our cities into militarized war zones.

He fired her because she made him “look bad.”

That was the red line.

Cruelty never is when it comes to Donald Trump.

The real problem was proximity.

Because somewhere inside that $220 million propaganda contract she steered toward a friend, Noem made the one mistake nobody in Trump’s universe is allowed to make.

She let his name drift too close to the smoke.

Trump has spent his entire career operating like the mob boss he is — buffers, loyalists, and expendable idiots standing between him and the crime scene.

And when the grift involves $220 million that Trump suddenly realizes he probably didn’t get a cut of?

Now you’ve committed the one sin he actually understands.

You embarrassed the boss.

And as I was sitting in bed today trying not to let my mind wander into the places where the rage lives, I started thinking about something else.

The Justice Department is still doing everything it can to keep the Epstein files connected to Donald Trump buried in a filing cabinet somewhere in Washington — documents containing credible allegations the public has every right to see — and the political class seems determined to keep hidden.

And the hypocrisy of that is staggering.

The same people who pound their chests about protecting children are perfectly comfortable locking away records that could expose powerful men who harmed them.

And when you add that to an illegal war… to a school full of children being bombed… to Kristi Noem finally being removed but for the wrong fucking reason…

it becomes pretty damn impossible to just sit still and say nothing.

I don’t know how much time I have left on this rock.

I don’t know how much breath I have left in my lungs.

I don’t know if the next time I hit my head like a fucking moron it’ll be lights out for good.

So whatever time I do have left, I’m going to use it to say what I have to say.

To stand up and shout.

At least as long as there isn’t a paper towel dispenser nearby.

And with that, today’s song:

I love you guys!

Stay strong, stay safe and stay away from paper towel dispensers!

💙 Jo