Shock and Orwellian.

Three days in.

On a scale of 1 to Brittney Spears, the United States of America is currently somewhere in between head shaving and butcher knife dancing.

We look as though we may have used a sharpie on our waterline during a JD Vance smoky eye tutorial sometime last week, our hair reeks of Kraft singles, whitefish salad and cigarette smoke and we don’t exactly know what day it is or what state we’re in, but our body is still looking purty damn good all things considered, especially at our age, and after all the shit we’ve been through

So, while it may look really, really, REALLY fucking imminent intervention bad, it could still definitely be worse.

Ok, yes it’s invariably going to get worse, kind of like a urinary tract infection left untreated until you find yourself speaking in tongues whilst driving the wrong way down the highway because you think you’re Michael Landon filming an episode of Little House and your minivan is actually a covered wagon and that wagon better hurry to get Half Pint to Doc before she succumbs to the fever, but for now, let’s try to focus on the glass being half full. Even if it happens to be half full of Clorox bleach, only it isn’t called bleach anymore, because now it’s called “curative” and we’re supposed to drink it whenever we need a “cleaning” on the inside, and an extremely powerful light doesn’t happen to be immediately available.

So, this is fine. We’re fine. Everything is fine.

It’s only been three days since the Tinkle Tape Traitor’s Temu inauguration. Three days.

And yes, that does seem extremely fucking impossible to believe because it really feels more like 3 years, 71 days, 16 hours, 9 minutes and 12 seconds, or thereabouts. It feels like we’ve already endured 3 years of being forced to sit on a heated leather car seat until our ass cheeks itch all over but we aren’t allowed to scratch them, so we have to just sit there hot and itchy and mad and sad and worried that the itching will never stop, and that’s when they bring in the kindergarten class that’s just been handed plastic recorders and instructed to perform Baby Shark on repeat, and just when we got to the point we thought it might break us to listen to one more second of that cacophony of high-pitched, off-key notes as they bounced off our brain like particularly enthusiastic ping-pong balls, Steve Bannon walked in while feeding on a Roquefort-stuffed Durian that had been left in the South Carolinian sun for a week, only to park the still-molting heap of festering boil pus and pork fat that is his aspic-coated carcass, 4-layered shirt, shit pile of a body in front of an industrial fan which pushed the pungent olfactory assault of repugnance that was Steve and his war crime second lunch, directly into our nasal passages.

That’s really more like what it’s felt like. At least to me.

Eggs are more expensive and there’s still a war in Ukraine, but at least he reversed decades old protections against workplace discrimination, freed the Jan. 6th terrorists, made medication more expensive, gotten into a fight with a pastor and shut down our public health agencies.

A womanizing, raging alcoholic day drunk who has never so much as lead a Girl Scout troop armed with Thin Mints to the front of a fucking Walmart is about to be tapped to run our Defense Department, the most rabidly dangerous Trump-humping January 6th mouth breathing troglodytes have been handed a lifetime get out of jail free card, and the FDA, CDC and NIH have been “closed for the season the reason it’s freezin” leaving our collective health and safety looking like a 14 year old movie usher sitting on the curb outside a suburban mall in pre-cellphone 1984 while waiting for his pink puka shell necklace wearing big brother Rocco to come and pick him up after work, only he’s not coming anytime soon and the usher has to walk, in the dark, through the bad part of town, alone.

All of this, while the melting circus peanut prattles on about who the fuck knows what on state tv, the cult explains away their exploding penis rocket Hitler’s not once but twice Nazi salute on his (checks notes) autism and Star Trek, and nose-candy Nepo-baby Don Jr travels the world with engorged tick head King of the Incels Charlie Kirk in search of homeless island people they can pay to pretend to love America.

The same so-called “president” of the United States who granted freedom to the white supremacists who beat up the police in his name, is demanding an apology from the pastor who asked him to show mercy on our fellow man in the name of Jesus.

He’s left the Paris Climate Accord & the World Health Organization, expanded the death penalty and made an unconstitutional arrangement with the social media platform his own party says is Chinese spyware.

And apparently, shockingly, none of those things is gonna lower the price of eggs.

But hey, DOGE is already so efficient, they’ve managed to cut the number of billionaires in charge of it in half. So, at least there is that.

We’re being told that January 6th was peaceful, that Donald Trump has restored the rule of law, and that all of this absolutely upside down dystopian hellscape broligarch batshittery is America becoming “great again.”

It’s a lot. It’s a fucking lot.

It’s like we’re taking an involuntary road trip in the back of a beat up conversion van driven by a blind raccoon hopped up on Ketamine and the only radio station they can get to tune in plays Superstar by the Carpenters on a loop. All. Day. Long.

This is three days.

Thank fuck for memes, music, Malbec, the rediscovery of the love of my life, and you guys.

And this one goes out to our girl Britt. We love you girl. Keep doing you.

Love you guys,

Stay safe. Stay sane-ish, stay away from knife dancing.

Jo ❤️