We’re more than five hundred and fifty goddamn days into Season Two of The Donald Trump Shit Show: five hundred and fifty rancid episodes of a renewal nobody with a frontal lobe, pulse, or functioning remote control fucking ordered.
More than five hundred and fifty days of Cabinet sycophants mistaking ass-kissing for a résumé, billionaire boot-lickers marinating in oligarch gravy, political whores and donor-purchased meat puppets who couldn’t organize a two-car funeral procession, an economy stapled together with tariff grease and warm bureaucratic sludge, foreign policy conducted like a drunk Craigslist handjob, and a Republican Congress so spineless, supine, and erotically devoted to voluntary vertebrae extraction it should come with satin pillows, a drool bib, and a little bedside bell.
Everything is going spectacularly, catastrophically, Titan-submersible wrong.
And yet… somehow… through a feat of chronological acrobatics so strenuous it would make a Cirque du Soleil contortionist rupture three discs and reconsider their career choices…
It is still Joe Biden’s fault.
Trump appoints another gloriously unqualified dipshit whose only discernible qualification is a willingness to clap like a trained seal every time the Great Orange Sleep Apnea Pumpkin waddles into the room?
You guessed it… Biden.
These are Trump’s judges. Trump’s Cabinet. Trump’s economy. Every screwup, every scandal, every own goal, every international humiliation, every bureaucratic tire fire bears his fingerprints like a wet slab of cement somebody staggered across on their way out of a bar.
And yet…
The economy? Joe Biden.
Grocery prices? Joe Biden.
Inflation running hotter than every other country in the G7 after Trump was handed one of the strongest recoveries on the planet? Somehow… Joe Biden.
Trump slaps tariffs on everything that isn’t bolted to the fucking floor, lights global supply chains on fire with a blowtorch and a Sharpie, and suddenly your eggs cost the GDP of a small island nation?
Joe. Fucking. Biden.
Believe it or not…
Still Joe Biden.
At this point Donald Trump could back a golf cart into the Lincoln Memorial, declare war on the moon, appoint a decorative gourd as Secretary of Defense, and accidentally staple his own necktie to a Cabinet secretary, and within thirty-seven seconds some Republican congressman would sprint to the closest television camera, veins bulging like overcooked bratwurst, to explain that the real culprit here was Joe Biden.
Hell, Barack Obama still catches stray bullets from this asshole’s excuse factory. I’m genuinely surprised he hasn’t blamed Jimmy Carter for dropped calls, Abraham Lincoln for airline baggage fees, and Ulysses S. Grant for the fact that his Diet Coke keeps going flat.
Because the buck doesn’t stop with Donald Trump.
The buck files the paperwork to change its name, crosses state lines, assumes a half-dozen fake identities, and hires Todd Blanche to argue it never existed at all.
Remember during COVID, when that slack-jawed blame vacuum turned every White House briefing into another round of Presidential Pin the Blame on Literally Anybody Else.
China.
Democratic governors.
The media.
Anthony Fauci.
Blue states.
Windmills.
Anybody with a heartbeat and a name tag.
Anybody except the wheezing, blame-hoarding huckster standing behind the presidential seal. That bloated, grievance-gargling gasbag. That self-pitying, self-fellating monument to unearned mediocrity and industrial-strength narcissism. The only man in recorded history who wants all the authority of the White House, all the applause, all the parades, all the credit, all the fucking paintings, but reacts to accountability the way a vampire reacts to sunlight.
That’s not leadership.
That’s a toddler wearing enough bargain-bin polyester to shade a county fair livestock pavilion who still thinks “I know you are, but what am I?” is a governing philosophy.
Has there ever been a bigger whiner? A more prolific pissbaby? A more decorated professional victim in the recorded annals of human civilization? Somewhere on the wall of a cave in France there’s a thirty-thousand-year-old painting of one hunter pointing at another guy after the mammoth got away, and even that prehistoric buck-passer would take one look at Donald Trump, rub some charcoal off his hands, and mutter, “Jesus Christ, man… just take the fucking L.”
Not me.
Not mine.
I didn’t do it.
It was the other guy.
The election was stolen.
The virus came from somewhere else.
The economy would’ve been perfect if not for…
Fill in the fucking blank.
Because there’s always another villain. Always another sacrificial goat waiting patiently in the wings, powdered, pressed, and camera-ready for the moment this scapegoat-collecting bullshit artist needs a warm body to eat the fallout.
Donald Trump doesn’t solve problems.
He outsources blame.
It’s the one promise he’s never broken.
This is an eighty-year-old head of state. The President of the United States. And this… this is what passes for leadership in MAGA world: an overgrown fucking toddler who won’t cop to coloring all over the living room wall while he’s still standing there, diaper sagging under the gravitational pull of his own horseshit, clutching the fucking Sharpie in one fist and jabbing a finger at the babysitter with the other, swearing on his mother’s grave the dog learned cursive.
Leadership isn’t planting yourself behind a podium to gorge on applause when things go right and then vaporizing into a noxious fog of denials the second reality comes collecting its debt.
Leadership is ownership.
Leadership is possessing the vertebrae, the intestinal fortitude, the basic fucking decency to say, “This happened on my watch, and I’m responsible for fixing it.”
Donald Trump treats accountability like it’s a process server carrying child-support papers and an IRS auditor with a battering ram rolled into one. The instant it lumbers into his ZIP code, he’s already halfway over the back fence, bathrobe flapping, hair meringue listing to port, shrieking, sniveling, sputtering, and blame-spewing into the night that it was China, or Joe Biden, or the fucking wind, leaving behind nothing but a banging screen door, a chemical contrail of Aqua Net and spray tan, and the unmistakable stench of cowardice marinated in cheap vanity.
He inherited an economy moving in the right direction the first time. He inherited an economy moving in the right direction the second time. Both fucking times, he wrapped those bruised, blotchy, burger-greased little mitts around the wheel, mashed the accelerator with all the foresight of a drunken lawn mower, and steered us straight toward the nearest fiscal fucking sinkhole.
That’s on him.
He owns every market convulsion, every boardroom anxiety attack, every supply-chain migraine, every economic aftershock flowing directly from the policies he chose.
He also owns an obscene share of our national debt. Across just a term and a half, he racked up roughly twenty-eight percent of all the red ink accumulated since the founding of the republic. In a nation that’s been keeping books since powdered wigs and quill pens.
He did that.
He owns that.
And yet…
Still Joe Biden.
Barack Obama is not the president. Joe Biden is not the president. Donald Trump is the president. The economy you’re living in today? That’s him. The appointments. The pardons. The purges. The priorities. The consequences. Every signature. Every wound he carved into this country himself.
His.
At some point the training wheels come off, the alibis expire, and you either govern or you don’t.
Unless your name is Donald Trump, in which case every disaster arrives with a laminated list of alternate suspects ready for whichever quivering, expendable toady draws the short straw and gets shoved in front of the cameras.
The buck never stops with Donald Trump.
It never even slows the fuck down.
If he stubs his fucking toe, it’s Joe Biden’s coffee table. If he bites his tongue, it’s Joe Biden’s teeth. If he gets a paper cut, it’s Joe Biden’s envelope.
I genuinely believe we are two weeks, three tops, from that incontinent insult to upholstery shitting his pants on a tarmac, staring down in bewilderment like his own ass just staged a coup, and demanding a congressional investigation into Joe Biden’s role in Operation Brown Thunder. There’ll be hearings. Fox will book a gastroenterologist. Jim Jordan will subpoena a pair of Dockers. Todd Blanche will insist the underwear was weaponized by the radical left.
That’s the whole fucking act. That’s always been the act. Whine. Deflect. Deny. Point. Lie. Repeat. Again. Again. Again. Decade after decade. Bankruptcy after bankruptcy. Casino after cratered casino. Scam after swindle after five-alarm fiasco. Like a carnival ride built out of excuses, grievance, and weapons-grade delusion.
Because accepting responsibility would require courage. Character. Humility. A working fucking conscience.
And that petulant, pusillanimous puddle of self-pity… that mendacious, meretricious mound of microwaved mortadella… that blubbering, blame-binging blob of bronzer and bullshit… has spent an entire lifetime trying to convince people that if you yell loudly enough, lie shamelessly enough, blame broadly enough, and whine relentlessly enough, courage becomes optional, character becomes negotiable, and accountability becomes somebody else’s fucking problem.
The presidency isn’t just about wielding power. It’s about carrying responsibility. The Resolute Desk isn’t famous because it’s pretty. It’s famous because it represents an idea: that when the job is yours, the buck stops here. Harry Truman didn’t put that placard on his desk because it matched the fucking drapes. He put it there because he wanted it staring him in the face every single morning. It wasn’t decoration. It wasn’t some tawdry made-for-TV prop. It was a promise. A burden. A daily admonition that there was nowhere else to dump the blame when history came hammering on the door.
Unless, apparently, you’re Donald Trump.
Because the buck never stops with Donald Trump.
It never has.
It never will.
Everything moving in the wrong direction right now belongs to Donald fucking Trump. The tariffs. The exploding grocery bills. The gas prices. The endless, unwinnable war with Iran. The measles outbreaks. The flesh-eating screwworm chewing through American livestock. The Salmonella recalls. The E. coli scares. Families choosing between rent and insulin. Parents wondering how they’re going to keep the lights on. Every diplomatic debacle. Every fiscal fuck-up. Every market-spooking, confidence-crushing, self-sabotaging catastrophe.
His.
Every fucking bit of it.
Not Joe Biden’s.
Not Barack Obama’s.
Not the media’s.
Not immigrants’.
Not the Federal Reserve’s.
Not some imaginary cabal of communist saboteurs, deep-state demons, Marxist mailmen, and mattress-monster boogeymen crouched under the fucking bed conspiring to ruin the most thin-skinned, self-canonizing crybaby ever to mistake inherited wealth for competence.
His.
And more than five hundred and fifty episodes into this second season, if he’s still blaming the last guy, the problem has been glaring back at him from the bathroom mirror the entire fucking time… peering through those swollen, slit-thin eyeholes, fussing with that seven-strand architectural fraud balanced on his scalp, pointing a stubby finger at somebody else, and, true to his entire fucking existence…
Blaming the glass.
And with that, today’s song:
I love you guys! Stay safe, stay strong and stay connected to each other!!
I’m taking the kids to Chicago for a couple of days to catch the Yankees play the Cubs, so I might be a little bit quiet on here for a minute, although I highly doubt I’ll be able to truly stay away!
💙 Jo
