Still Laughing at Cankles McTacoTits

Dictators fear punchlines more than protests, so I'm sure as shit not gonna stop.

Good evening, America. Tonight’s forecast: hellfire with a chance of fascism. Record highs nationwide, once again proving that under Donald J. “For Genius” Trump, the sun shines brighter, the birds scream louder, and hurricanes politely reschedule until he’s done cheating at golf. Scientists at the RFK Jr. Department of Fuck You and Your Facts confirm this isn’t climate change — it’s one man radiating smug heat strong enough to broil the planet like a Costco chicken spinning since the Reagan years. Tomorrow: sunny — unless Trump wants rain, in which case the clouds will kneel, salute, and piss on command while Fox News calls it divine.

At the Compulsory Thought Desk, every grunt becomes gospel the instant Dear Leader wheezes it out. The Department of Approved Jokes — once the FCC, now the Ministry of Punching Down — reminds you comedy is only legal if it’s aimed at Hillary’s inbox, immigrants with “funny” accents, or wind turbines murdering whales. Unauthorized laughter? Straight to Mar-a-Lago, where you’ll gargle toilets, refill Don Jr.’s coke troughs like a theme-park dolphin trainer and recite The Art of the Deal to Tiffany until she collapses like a fainting goat on cough syrup.

Meanwhile, the Office of He Totally Won in 2020 — formerly the Justice Department, now Eric Trump’s daycare for stunted aristocrats — has decreed that doubt is a felony punishable by wedgie and mandatory MAGA line dancing. Seeking clemency? Submit a 500-word essay titled “Trump Was Robbed, Believe Me” in crayon, notarized by Eric, who fingerpaints his name in pudding because pens are “deep state” and paste still doubles as dinner.

The Office of Personal Responsibility for Dying from Preventable Diseases — formerly Health and Human Services, now a morgue with a gift shop — announced today that insulin, mammograms, and oxygen are luxuries for weaklings. True loyalty means collapsing live on Twitch so Trump can brag about your “sacrifice” at his next rally. Extra applause if you croak with a Diet Coke in hand so he can wave it like Simba on Pride Rock. Bonus points if you Venmo him your life insurance before rigor mortis sets in.

The Ministry of Indoctrination — once Education, now QAnon Hogwarts — released new textbooks proving George Washington invented the red hat, Lincoln closed Gettysburg with “Make America Great Again,” and Jesus personally endorsed Trump Steaks between miracles. History exams are now a single question: “Who is your daddy?” The only answer is Trump. Spell it wrong and you’re shipped to Remedial Patriotism Camp, where Don Jr. teaches “Intro to Adderall,” Ivanka delivers family-values lectures while selling handbags out of a trunk, Jared explains geopolitics with sock puppets, and Melania plagiarizes Michelle Obama while asleep in a tanning bed.

In finance, the Fundraising Arm of Trump 2028 — once the Treasury, now a televangelist hotline with nukes — outlawed subtraction and declared America wealthier than Oprah, God, and every Kardashian alimony check combined. Economists who object are shackled in the Texas sun digging trenches for Truth Social servers while Rudy Giuliani hawks cigars that reek of expired Cialis, flop sweat, and courthouse mildew.

Entertainment has been nationalized under Foxflix, where the flagship is Dancing With the Dictators, starring Trump tangoing with Putin while Hannity kneads his bunions like a lovesick butler. Next up: America’s Got Treason, a contest to see who can flatter him without choking on bronzer. And then The Alex Jones Variety Hour, where Jones rips off his shirt, screams about demon sperm, and funnels expired “male vitality” powder into the audience like a demented priest handing out communion. The crowd? A feral pit of QAnon grandmas, divorced uncles, and crypto casualties shrieking like they’re watching a cockfight in a Cracker Barrel parking lot.

And in sports, the NFL is gone — welcome to the TFL: Trump Football League. Every game ends with the Trump Patriots winning by decree. Referees kneel before kickoff, touchdowns from either side go straight to him, and halftime is 45 minutes of clapping while he accepts MVP trophies for sports he’s never played. By 2028, he’ll have more rings than Saturn and still whimper that the scoreboard was rigged.

Absurd? Feels like The Onion, right? But it isn’t parody. Not really. Because this is the country where Trump wants it all to be real. Where the Constitution folds like a beer can in his stubby fist. Where institutions warp into shields for his ego. Where the man who incited a deadly attack on the Capitol now toys with regulators eager to muzzle dissent.

This isn’t free speech. It isn’t oversight. It’s a loyalty test for the republic.

The FCC no longer protects consumers — it protects Trump’s paper-thin skin. The DOJ no longer pursues justice — it fabricates charges against his rivals. The networks no longer defend expression — they cave like tents in a storm. Every agency has become a mirror reflecting one man’s grievances.

And who is this man? The guy who, at Windsor Castle, couldn’t manage to read off a piece of paper without sounding like a malfunctioning Speak & Spell gasping through a hostage tape. A man so allergic to literacy the alphabet itself wants a restraining order.

This is the guy institutions bend for: a collapsing question mark in drag-queen clearance lifts, cankles ballooning like dough in a broken oven, mottled hands plastered with spackle until they resemble condemned drywall, a complexion that looks like marinara regret. A figure somehow both swollen and shriveled — like a parade balloon stuffed with expired deli meat left in August heat.

And still, they serve him.

When Brendan Carr threatened broadcasters with “extra work” if they didn’t muzzle critics, that wasn’t regulation — it was extortion in a government suit. Nice license you’ve got there. Be a shame if it vanished. And instead of resisting, the networks folded. They begged. They scolded comics. They acted as though satire itself were contraband.

This isn’t improvisation — it’s the plan. Project 2025 is the manual: capture the media, capture the regulators, capture the platforms. His allies already control Fox, CBS, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Post. Sinclair runs propaganda on local stations. Facebook, Instagram, TikTok — all billionaire courtiers. Add the FCC, and free speech becomes a privilege you earn by flattering Bronze-Age Baby.

This isn’t normal. It’s authoritarianism in daylight, enabled by corporations happy to sell the First Amendment for a merger.

And history should be screaming. Mussolini banned satire. Stalin erased cartoonists. Hitler jailed comics. McCarthy blacklisted writers. Tyrants always kill the jokes first — because laughter punctures the illusion of strength. And Trump, for all his bluster, collapses under ridicule. He can slime through trials, duck subpoenas, slip past indictments — but one sharp joke about his cankles, his cartoonish lifts, his Windsor Castle Hooked on Phonics meltdown? It reduces him to rubble.

That’s why this fight matters. Because it’s not just about laughter. It’s about liberty. Satire is the pressure valve of democracy. Without it, we’re prisoners in a bad improv show run by one man’s tantrums.

And so here we are, stuck with Bathmat Caesar, Cheeseburger Caligula, the Temu Tyrant, Count Snivelula, Kim Jong-Useless, Führer Furby, Dictator Grimace, the Cholesterol Christ of Queens, Lord Tangolini, Mussolini in Spanx, the Orange Albatross, Maga the Hut, Grandpa Graft, the Antichrist of Atlantic City, the Velveeta Vesuvius, Dollar-Store Don Corleone, and Satan’s Bottom — a carnival prize of corruption whose legacy reeks of felony convictions, Aqua Net, and whatever liquid Giuliani is leaking this week. A wheezing gasbag in knockoff heels, plaster smeared across his hands. A tantrum in human form — a man who can’t even read aloud without fucking it up, yet demands to be crowned a genius.

He isn’t a leader — he’s a rotting pumpkin stuffed into a girdle, propped on a throne built from everyone else’s silence. And he’s begging us to laugh at him.

So no, we’re not stopping. We’re not whispering. We’re not tiptoeing around his fragile ego like it’s a priceless vase — it’s a snow globe from Dollar Tree already cracked and leaking glitter. We’ll howl every time he waddles out in those orthopedic disco boots, every time he butchers a sentence like a blackout mall Santa, every time his ego bursts like a piñata filled with stale McNuggets. Free speech means we don’t just challenge power — we mock it until it squeals.

And Donald Trump can’t stop it. He can weaponize the FCC, threaten networks, stuff propaganda into every microphone — but he can’t touch the punchline. He can’t stop us from pointing, laughing, and saying what aides won’t: he’s not a strongman, he’s a punchline with collapsing ankles and the literacy of a broken drive-thru speaker.

So we’ll keep laughing — at his cankles, his appetites, his endless insecurities masquerading as power. We’ll laugh at the man who confuses volume with strength, grievance with vision, spite with leadership. We’ll laugh at the cholesterol emperor in his golf cart throne, crowned with a sweat-stained hat, wielding a Diet Coke straw like a scepter. We’ll laugh at his strut — the toddler waddle of a man who just filled his diaper with fast food grease. We’ll laugh because every time he demands reverence, he gets ridicule; every time he insists on fear, he becomes a meme. And when history closes the book, it won’t read like power — it’ll read like a roast.

We’ll laugh because it’s our right, our inheritance, and our rebellion. And the louder we laugh, the smaller he becomes. That’s the deal. That’s the promise. That’s the revolution.

Because in the end, dictators demand silence. Democracies demand noise. And ours sounds like a nation cackling at the world’s pettiest wannabe king — a man who craves worship but receives mockery, who builds golden playpens only to hear them rattle with laughter he can’t contain. Every chuckle is a crack in his facade. Every roar is a hammer strike against his ego. He can’t endure it, because laughter is the one sound he can’t outlaw, the one weapon he can’t seize, the one truth he can’t bury.

And so we’ll laugh louder, until his paper crown dissolves, his velvet curtain falls, and the gaudy palace of fraud and fear collapses into rubble. Not with a bang, not with a cheer, but with a chorus of defiant laughter — uproarious, contagious, rib-cracking, belly-aching laughter that rolls through streets, echoes in halls of power, and drowns out every lie. Laughter tyrants dread most, because it strips them naked.

And when his golden playpen finally crumbles, history will remember not his roar, but OUR roar — of laughter.

At HIS expense.

And with that, today’s song:

By the way, even Ted fucking Cruz knows that this FCC/Disney shit crossed the line.

I love you guys.

Stay sassy, stay snarky, stay silly, and never stop mocking that stupid son-of-a-bitch.

Never, ever.

Also, in case you missed it, we just launched a media network I am co-founder of, called The Siren! We have a whole slate of contributors, new shows, new faces, new voices and new ways to stay engaged and get involved! With so much more to come!

I hope you’ll check it out!!

💙 Jo