pedophiles, Putin puppets, puppy killers and pertussis

The Russian nesting doll of reprobates that is Trump’s junk drawer of a “cabinet.”

Dear Universe, when I said things could always get worse, it wasn’t a fucking challenge.

We’re one week into a four year term that hasn’t even started yet, and I already feel like America’s ashtray. If it was a urinal cake. In a strip club. On free wing night. And $2 pint night. And pay day.

What was left of the semi-sane corners of Twitter is now long gone, so my replies are nothing but basement dwelling incels who’ve never so much as spoken to a woman in real life, let alone touched one. And every day, as the army of pimple-dick dumbfucks line up to be the first ones to tell me that no one cares about what I say, I crack my knuckles, brace for impact, and jump the fuck in. (They aren’t even the dumbest btw, that distinction belongs to the ones who populate my replies with their pleas for people to stop replying to me. Those mega-losers reply to every reply to tell them not to reply. Yes, really).

Most of our side has left for the pun-intended and irritatingly fucking overused, “bluer skies” of an app called Bluesky, which at present is the social media equivalent of Hugh Hefner’s storied Playboy Mansion grotto.

Dems looking to leave all of their many troubles behind for a few moments of carnal pleasure in the safety of a dark, sexy, not so hidden cave filled with beautiful people, can go there whenever they choose for however long, to immerse themselves in the soothing embrace of the warm water of echo chambered, hedonistic bliss whilst simultaneously stroking each other off over how much better everything is there because no one bothers them like they do on the incel-ville, douchepalooza that is Magaonian twitter.

But fair warning — once you leave the grotto, the stupid reality of this super duper stupid time on earth slaps you in the face, and I’m sorry to say that we all do have to leave the grotto once in a while, not just because if we don’t our bodies will turn into a squishy, skin-slippery mess, but because it’s not actually reality at all. It’s a fantasy. It’s where we go to forget. For as long as we can. If we even really can. Because we kinda can’t.

Reality is the post-grotto itch we don’t want to talk about. The itch that won’t go away. The one that’s only getting worse as the days pass. It’s uncomfortable, it’s nagging, it’s spreading, and there won’t be a salve in sight for at least 2 years at best.

That’s our reality.

The Dole Whip Dipped Day One Dictator is doing what most of us knew he would do. He’s breaking shit. He’s knocking shit over. He’s pissing gasoline like he’s a Russian hooker in a Moscow hotel room. He’s taking a fucking flame thrower to “normal”, and he’s still standing well outside the gates.

He’s doing what he said he would do.

If you were playing along at home, you know that he didn’t once say during his “campaign” that he had a plan to lower childcare costs. No plan to bring down the price of eggs. No plan to give any of us anything we actually NEED. He promised us revenge. He promised carnage. He promised he would burn it all down from within.

And unlike any of the ridiculous “promises” he’s ever made and never ever meant to keep in past campaigns, these are promises he not only intends to make good on, he’s mandated, not by the election or heaven forbid, the PEOPLE, but by his daddy Vladdy, to deliver.

Matt child sex trafficker Gaetz for AG, Russian spy Tulsi Gabbard for DNI, and perhaps most mind-fuckingly of all — dead brain worm/dump a bear/whale beheader and all-around psychopath, RFK Jr for HHS (that one is as hard to write as it is to contemplate).

The exact people those agencies seek to protect the public FROM, are now positioned to RUN them. (Into the ground that is).

Trump’s job (per Putin) is to do what he failed to do in his first term thanks to the “grownups” and gatekeepers still in the room (they’re gone now), and what he didn’t get the chance to do in 2020; dismantle the federal government from within.

To ensure that our government cannot carry out the will of the American people. The same people who largely, if I’m being generous, didn’t understand what he was really saying because they were too busy being primed, probed and prodded by a poison spork of homegrown and Russian-born disinformation while consuming a steady diet of propaganda and lies as they were perpetually served to them by right-wing bros like Tim Pool on his $100K a week, kremlin sponsored podcast.

And I really am being generous in saying they didn’t understand because the truth is that many of them are mind numbingly fucking stupid. Which people who claim to “know better” often tell me not to say. To which I usually reply, “fuck off” because we’re talking about “low information voters” who make Tommy Tuberville look like a goddamn motherfucking Rhodes Scholar and also, the last time I checked (and I check a few times a day now) freedom of speech is still a thing, and if I wanna call those dumbfuck dipshits dumbfuck dipshits, then I’m gonna call them dumbfuck dipshits. And who the fuck knows what I’ll be allowed to say in the gulag ok.

And no, I’m not forgetting that a whole bunch of them knew exactly what they were getting in that Bronzed, big boobied, bigot. They voted for it because they love it. They can overlook the rape, memory-hole the attack on our Capitol, and convince themselves that their teenage daughters will be different. That they won’t have to nearly die from sepsis while miscarrying because that skull-less, nonviable fetus inside them still technically has a heartbeat.

They want to be able to send emails to young Black men they don’t know and will never meet about “showing up to work at the plantation.” They want to be able to call Puerto Rico a floating island of garbage. They want to blame DEI for the jobs they didn’t deserve and the college admission they didn’t earn, and the hot girlfriends they were never going to land.

And if that means shanking democracy in the gut, so be it. They want to believe that they are “special” for however long they can before they’re scrubbing some fish stick heir’s bidet and coming to terms with the fact that they were never going to win the oligarchy lottery.

So, they got what they wanted. For now. Even if in the end it costs them everything. They don’t care.

And as I’ve written about in the past, it’s not easy to walk in my favorite local park knowing that the cute Corgi dad that just walked by me most likely voted for Trump. It’s dispiriting to realize that statistically, I have a better chance of being struck by lightning while making out with John Stamos while he’s filming a Greek yogurt commercial, than I do of bumping into a Harris voter at my local ShopRite.

Remember that post-grotto itch? Yeah, that.

I know that nothing I could ever do or say will change the results of the election. Nothing I could wish on an eyelash, at 11:11, on a genie lamp I traveled to the Saharan desert to dig up, or on that three leaf clover I gorilla-glued a fourth leaf onto, will change who that malevolent motherfucker is and what he was sent to do. I know that no matter how many times I dip my weary bones in the collective coping pool of “I got you” that is Bluesky, I can still hear the tick tock of the ever-present clock that is January 20th 2025.

And I gotta tell you that damn clock has been taking a toll. Because for the better part of the last week which really felt like a year, I was completely unable to get my feet beneath me. I felt like a balloon barely tethered to its string; twisting up in the sky alone, looking down at the chaos unfolding without being able to intervene. I felt as though that string was seconds from snapping and off I would go into the forever of nothingness. Alone.

I didn’t know how to remedy that. And then the remedy arrived. A friend I had not seen since my college days in Boston (yes, the dark ages of the mid-1990s) reached out. We were like peas and carrots 25 years ago. And then life did what life does, and our once magnificent friendship was whittled down to likes and comments on Facebook posts, but nothing more.

He wanted to grab a beer in town. And I leaped at the chance.

Whole lives were lived in the space of time that passed since we’d last seen one another, but there we were, somehow still on the inside at least, those two fresh-faced Boston kids who would walk the entire city in a day just talking.

Everything I cherished about his friendship came flooding back and over the course of a couple of hours and a few IPAs, we caught up on the top stories of each other’s two and a half decades. But it was so much deeper than that. I was reminded of why he was so special to me. I was reminded of who I was when we were friends. And I was reminded of the fact that right now, in this moment where we can all feel so isolated and alone, so close to drifting off into the nothingness, that the remedy, IS us. Those human connections. Those shared stories. Those hands to hold.

My old friend showed up in my life at the exact moment I needed him most.

And that’s what we all have to do for each other right now. Show up. Be there. Connect. Hold hands.

I’ve said that before about the hands thing — and I didn’t even really understand fully what I meant. I now know that as we enter the dark and scary that lay ahead, and as we traverse that tightrope over that pit of venomous snakes, that we have to hold on to each other with both hands.

That’s how we will get through this.

That, and a metric fuckton of booze. Or weed. Or music. Or murder podcasts. Or sex. Or whatever the fuck your jam is. Even if it’s all of the above, in which case, call me. I’m kidding. I’m not. Ok, I am. I don’t like murder podcasts.

We just have to stick together. Because the other side is Making Rubella Great Again, and I don’t even know what the fuck rubella is, but it sounds like a weirdly shaped pasta, or the sassy main character single mom on an 80s sitcom, or an ancient Catalonian musical instrument. It’s clearly none of those things, because if it were I wouldn’t be joking about Trump’s steaming pile of intentionally inept batshit crazy cabinet picks bringing it back.

But here we are.

At least we’re together. Let’s keep it that way, ok?