LOOK OVER THERE!

A tale told by felons, full of treason and tantrums, signifying absolutely nothing.

Donald Trump is unraveling faster than a ham-scented necktie at a sweat lodge, and the Republican Party is right there with him—spinning in a glittering panic spiral, shrieking “LOOK OVER THERE!” like deranged pageant moms at a gas station brawl.

Don’t look at his poll numbers, which are sinking like a MAGA yacht made of expired hydroxychloroquine and sun damage. Don’t look at his economy, which is behaving like a clearance blender from Bed Bath & Beyond—technically running, mostly cracked, and seconds from detonation. Don’t look at the Epstein birthday letter, a festering jar of verbal syphilis where he wished a convicted pedophile “another wonderful secret.” No, they need you to panic about Joe Biden’s autopen like it forged the Magna Carta, stole the crown jewels, and set fire to the Vatican while whispering gender pronouns.

That’s the game now. The official MAGA strategy is Scandal Whac-A-Mole for the convicted felon, business fraud, grifter-in-chief. Every time a real one pops up—like, say, a decades-long relationship with a sex trafficker who belonged on Interpol’s holiday card—they hammer you with a fake one. A cartoonish, brain-cell-huffing cyclone of performative outrage and TikTok-tier theatrics.

This week’s distraction? A full-blown MAGA fever dream, live from Trump’s Oval Office—now redecorated like a Spirit Halloween’s “Dictator Starter Kit.” There’s gold-on-gold everything. Curtains stitched from old casino uniforms. A rug the color of boiled oatmeal and bad decisions. And there, slumped on a throne of sweat and scandal, sits Trump himself—looking like someone taxidermied a baked ham and sent it to clown college. His face is lacquered in bronzer thick enough to waterproof a pontoon. His posture? Half-melted wax statue, half scarecrow with vertigo.

Ask him about Epstein and his brain blows a fuse like someone dumped Monster Energy into a lava lamp and screamed “deep state” through a leaf blower. “Obama committed treason!” he shrieks—wild-eyed, sweaty, and flailing his bronzer-crusted widdle hands like he’s trying to summon evidence out of expired hair gel and Burger King wrappers. His source? Tulsi Gabbard, America’s favorite ex-Democrat-turned-dystopian yoga cultist, who claims she uncovered a folder labeled “Classified Gobbledygook” during a chakra alignment at CPAC. It contains nothing but acronyms in panic font, unverified vibes, and possibly a smear of Arby’s sauce. But Trump refers to it like it’s the Constitution—if the Constitution had been ghostwritten by a rabid koala on bath salts, translated into Pig Latin by a malfunctioning chatbot, and notarized with a grease stain from a Quarter Pounder.

This isn’t governance. It’s rage cosplay. Interpretive sedition performed in mime. Trump is stacking distractions like sandbags to hold back a tsunami of guilt—autopens, football team names, and Barack Obama-shaped shadows meant to blot out the one flaming headline they can’t outrun: Donald Trump had a decades-long relationship with Jeffrey Epstein, the most notorious sex trafficker of the 21st century—and he didn’t just know him, he celebrated him.

And his circle-jerk cult of a so-called political party is pretending like none of it matters while actively refusing to even so much as look in that direction anymore.

Trump invited Epstein to his Mar-a-Lago wedding—the one with HSN-does-Versailles décor, mob boss energy, and a guest list curated by Satan’s LinkedIn. And of course we all now know that according to the Wall Street Journal, the lifelong connoisseur of sleaze also wrote Epstein a birthday letter. Yes. A birthday letter. In his own handwriting. Like it was a middle school yearbook signed at Predator Prom. And he ended it—not with “best wishes,” not even “yours truly,” but with: “another wonderful secret.”

That sounds like a deranged Hallmark card from the ninth circle of hell—equal parts confession, fan mail, and moral rot. Less of a greeting, more of a grotesque time capsule. Not criminal evidence, but a radioactive reminder. A doodle-drenched proof of intimacy from a man who was never just adjacent to Epstein—he was comfortable.

And how are Congressional Republicans responding to this unfolding grotesque mess? They’re packing. Literally. They are skipping town, cutting their August recess loose early like they’re fleeing a gas leak—because they are. Not one hearing. Not one investigation. Not one shred of curiosity from the party that claims to protect “the children.” They couldn’t care less that a sitting president once wrote a personal birthday note to the world’s most notorious child trafficker—because that president is their predator.

And standing at the front of this human centipede of denial is Speaker Mike Johnson—a walking Chick-fil-A sandwich stuffed with Bibles and bad intentions—leading the House like a choir of willful ignorance. Mr. “Devout Evangelical” is out here pirouetting through distractions like, “Look! A pen!” instead of confronting the fact that his spiritual messiah once sent party balloons to Epstein Island. Because when it comes to protecting children, Mike Johnson’s theology folds faster than his f’ng build-a-spine.

So no, they’re not looking. They’re running. And screaming about everything but the truth.

Biden’s autopen? Suddenly a demonic relic.

Football team renaming? Cultural extinction.

Obama? To them, he’s not a former president—he’s the final boss in a Red Hat video game, a shapeshifting socialist ninja who controls hurricanes, gas prices, and your kid’s pronouns from a secret kombucha lair deep beneath a Whole Foods.

In this warped reality, Obama is less a statesman and more a cartoon villain, cackling as he steals hamburgers and birth certificates, while conspiracy theorists huddle in basements convinced he’s hiding inside their Wi-Fi router.

But the autopen? That’s just the opening act. MAGA’s disinformation machine doesn’t stop at one phony crisis—it throws the whole carnival at the wall.

The pen? Possessed by Lenin.

The weather map? Woke.

Hunter’s laptop? Sentient, bisexual, and running for Congress.

Michelle Obama’s arms? Still classified.

Public schools? Training camps for drag sorcery.

Libraries? Marxist sleeper cells.

FEMA? Replaced by RuPaul.

And Hillary’s emails? They apparently predicted 9/11, invented COVID, and contain the nuclear codes for a satanic Starbucks in Benghazi.

This week’s headlines read like Mad Libs for the clinically paranoid:

• “Obama’s Netflix deal funds Hamas.”

• “Kamala’s sneakers summon hurricanes.”

• “Autopens are demonic—proof inside!”

• “Biden blinked three times—deep state confirmed!”

It’d be hilarious if it weren’t fascism’s rehearsal dinner with clown makeup and a tinfoil veil.

And while the right wing sets its hair on fire over “Commander-gate” and ghost pens, real life is torching Americans.

Prices are up. Wages are flat. Consumer spending is down. GDP just slipped on a banana peel and hit recession square in the jaw. People are panic-refreshing their bank apps like it’s a horror movie. Grocery prices? Extortion with a barcode. You’re one rotisserie chicken away from applying for a second mortgage.

And what are Republicans screaming about this week?

Our first Black president being a “deep state traitor.”

And a pen.

Not a haunted pen.

Not a cursed relic from the Kremlin.

Just… a government-issued autopen.

That. Signed. A. Thing.

And they’re acting like it personally euthanized the Constitution and voted for Bernie in a crop top.

Meanwhile, the war in Ukraine is still raging. Gaza is being flattened into dust and despair. And Trump’s “Billionaire Boner Bill”—a reverse-Robin Hood fever dream that shovels tax breaks to yacht hoarders while snatching food from school kids—is polling somewhere between root canals and Rudy Giuliani’s skincare routine.

And while Americans reel from crisis after crisis, they’re disappearing people.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Fathers. Teenagers. Op-ed writers. Dragged off the streets by masked goons like it’s Tuesday in Tehran. No warrants. No explanations. Just a vibe check and a tan. It’s fascism by grab-and-go, and MAGA’s too busy howling about pens to notice the Constitution is being zip-tied in the back of a van.

This isn’t noise. It’s not random. It’s a coordinated cover-up—a disinformation blitz designed to drown out the questions they once promised but now refuse to answer:

Who flew on Epstein’s jets?

Who visited his properties?

Who wrote that birthday letter?

And why did Trump’s DOJ respond to a global sex trafficking empire with a two-page yawn?

Because that letter isn’t some dusty memento.

It’s a grotesque little flare.

A sick, smiling reminder of who he is, what he knew, and how proud he was to know it.

And every time someone gets too close, MAGA throws a tantrum like a toddler in a tinfoil hat—launching another lie, another handcrafted delusion from the conspiracy Etsy shop, shrink-wrapped in rage bait, and FedExed straight to Alex Jones’ last flickering brain cell.

They’re not governing.

They’re not solving.

They’re manufacturing chaos like sweatshop toys—cheap, breakable, and always off-gassing fascism.

And here’s the thing:

It’s not working.

Because no amount of Sharpie-rage and distraction theater can hide what they’re actually doing.

It doesn’t hide the fact that they are not feeding hungry schoolchildren, that they’re letting miscarrying women bleed out in ERs because forced birth gets more airtime than maternal care.

It doesn’t cover the fact that they’ll deny an autistic child therapy, deny a veteran their healthcare, and deny a single mother the food assistance that keeps her kid alive—all while handing billionaires their third and fourth yachts and adding trillions more to the national debt.

They won’t fund FEMA, but they’ll fund fascism. They won’t fix immigration, but they’ll put cruelty on display like it’s a campaign ad.

And they can’t hide from the American people anymore.

Not the working moms.

Not the laid-off dads.

Not even the Republicans who held their noses and voted for this disaster—they’re saying it too: enough.

The truth is catching up—with that greasy little birthday letter clutched like a flashing neon indictment.

You can scream about Obama.

You can cry about football names.

You can accuse pens of treason and salad dressing of Marxism.

But it doesn’t erase the facts.

It doesn’t delete the past.

It doesn’t unsend the letter.

Or undo the wedding.

Or un-traffick the children.

And it damn sure doesn’t make you innocent.

The walls are closing in.

And this time, they’re not inflatable.

They’re not gold-painted.

And they’re not for show.

So go ahead.

Juggle your scandals, Cankles McDistraction.

Spin your circus.

Perform your sedition as interpretive jazz hands on Newsmax at 3am.

But remember this:

We are watching.

We remember.

And we are not done.

Not until every secret you tried to bury is dragged into the daylight—documented, undeniable, and sealed into history like the punchline of your own downfall.

You wanted a circus?

You wanted attention?

You’ve got it.

Now stew in it.

And with that, today’s song:

I love you guys!

Stay strong, stay safe and stay on offense!!

They’re on their heels, let’s fucking keep them there.

💙 Jo