“Pedophile Protector”

JT Sabula is the hero we need right now

I joined Twitter in 2017 to tell Donald Trump he had old balls.

Yep.

Old. Balls.

Not metaphorical balls. Not political balls. Actual, biological, gravity-ravaged, seen-better-days balls. The kind of balls that make a small, resentful sound when you sit down too fast. The kind of balls that hate humidity and feel personally attacked by Florida. I wanted him to see it. I wanted him to read it. I wanted it to land while he was alone with his phone, thumb hovering, ego marinating, just in time to feel briefly but unmistakably mocked.

I’ve never professed to being particularly mature, okay?

I wanted to piss him off. And no, I’m not insane (ok, not officially anyway). I knew he wasn’t actually going to see it. I’m not under the delusion that my tweet was going to float into his eyeballs like a message in a bottle. I did it anyway. I did it for me. I did it because sometimes you say the thing out loud even when the person you’re talking to isn’t listening, because the saying itself does something to you. Is that irrational? Maybe. Do I give a fuck? Absolutely not.

It felt incredible. It felt like emotional Novocaine. It felt like scratching poison ivy with a fork and deciding tomorrow is none of your business. It felt exactly like flipping off his stupid flags every time I drive through my aggressively red part of New Jersey, that pure, involuntary reflex where your arm shoots up before your brain has time to negotiate with manners or survival.

And let me be extremely clear here: I do not feel bad about laughing at any of this. Not now. Not later. Not after a fake moment of reflection. I’ve checked my conscience, my couch cushions, the glove compartment, and that unholy crevice between the driver’s seat and the console where petrified fries, loose change, and lost dignity fuse into one cursed ecosystem. Nothing. Not a crumb. Not a speck. Not a flicker of remorse.

This is a god-awful, depraved, immoral creature. Cruelty stuffed into one sagging, senile septuagenarian meatsuit. An anthropomorphic aspic mold of ego and rot who delights in mocking disabled people, mocking stutters, mocking illness, mocking grief, mocking cancer, savoring other people’s suffering the way normal people savor dessert. If mockery stings him back even a little, good. That’s gravity clocking in on time.

What happened the other day felt like fucking medicine.

Because JT Sabula didn’t sugarcoat shit. He yelled pedophile protector like he meant it. Two words, no polish.

You can see it piss him off instantly. He keeps walking, but his whole body gets tight and cranky, like someone just insulted his mother and his spray tan at the same time. The shoulders hitch. The vibe curdles. Out come the fuck-yous, sharp and irritated, and then those tiny Vienna-sausage fingers pop up, stabbing the air like he’s arguing with a mosquito that knows his secrets. It’s not commanding. It’s not cool. It’s the reflex of someone who got hit exactly where it hurts and hated every second of it.

If that had been yelled at me, I’d have kept moving. I wouldn’t have felt anything at all. But his body answered immediately. Anger first. Posture second. Fingers third. Fast, petty, reactionary.

And that middle finger aimed at an auto worker wasn’t just petty, it was revealing. If you can sneer and flip off a working American for daring to speak, that tells us exactly what you think of all Americans. That’s the contempt. That’s the worldview. How very presidential.

And of fucking course MAGA treated it like a front-row spectacle they didn’t have to clean up after, hooting and clapping and losing their minds over the finger itself, zooming in on it, fetishizing it, ready to bronze it and mount it above a flat-screen next to a gun safe like it was a holy relic. They were giddy about the gesture while bending themselves into pretzels to avoid the sentence that caused it, devoted to the flailing, allergic to the cause, cheering the reflex while pretending the nerve didn’t exist.

Then Trump spent his days trying to get JT fired. Not working. Not leading. Not doing a single useful thing. Just obsessing, pressuring, stewing, and throwing his weight around in the pettiest possible direction because two words lodged themselves deep and wouldn’t dislodge.

Three hundred thousand dollars.

Three hundred thousand goddamn dollars raised because an auto worker said two words out loud and didn’t blink. Suspended, not gone, buoyed by a pile of money so large it looks like a middle finger built entirely out of donations. Worth every penny.

And by the way, if being called a pedophile protector truly ruins his day, there is a wildly efficient fix that does not involve tantrums, middle fingers, or dispatching loyal weirdos to complain on cable news with the confidence of men who think volume is evidence. Release the Epstein files. All of them. The whole cursed manila-folder situation. Because right now the behavior is not “wrongly accused,” it’s “man guarding paperwork like it’s the last VHS tape that could end him.” People with nothing to hide do not cling to documents with this level of emotional attachment. They don’t sit on them, glare at them, and hiss when anyone gets close. If you don’t want the words, remove the reason they exist. Cause. Effect. Staples involved.

And no, I don’t fucking care how any of this lands.

If that makes me cruel, fine. I’ll embroider it on a pillow. I’ll laugh louder. I’ll rewind the clip. I’ll treat this moment like a rare antique and bring it out for guests. I’m laughing like someone who just watched a bully slip on a banana peel he left there himself and then demand an apology from the floor, and for once—just this once—the universe accidentally did something right. No guilt. No regret. Just sustained, enthusiastic laughter and zero intention of stopping.

Here’s to JT Sabula — foul-mouthed, blue-collar, perfectly timed, and absolutely allergic to bullshit. Not the hero we ordered. The one who showed up anyway and said the thing out loud while everyone else was clearing their throats.

Raise your glass. Laugh loud. And keep mocking him — because it feels fucking good, and because he fucking hates it.

And with that, today’s song:

I love you guys!

Stay sassy, stay snarky and stay STRONG!!

💙 Jo