Lips of Fire: Kevin McCarthy

House Minority Leader, Kevin McCarthy, is surely the purest expression of American sycophancy.  Word in the beltway underground is that McCarthy, ever trying to one-up his fellow Trumpazoids, has made discrete inquiries to cosmetic surgeons about the possibility of having his lips permanently implanted on Donald Trump’s ass.  Though the procedure would seriously limit McCarthy’s point of view, it would mean easy and instant access for him to his inamorata’s attentions.  Trump, however, is said to have balked at the idea, since it would interfere with ingress and egress from golf carts, aircraft, dinner tables, restroom stalls, and lazy boy lounge chairs.  And, aside from his enjoyment of McCarthy’s sloppy affections, Trump doesn’t really like him all that much.  

McCarthy is still doing penance for publicly scolding Trump to gain control of his rioters on GOP Riot Day, 01/06/21, and for refusing to endorse the public execution of Mike Pence on the Capitol steps.  

(Sidebar:  Pence is said to be angling for Trump-ass-to-lip surgery too.  Pence imagines he is presidential material, now that he’s found the secret VIP hidey hole in the Capitol.  If this ass-to-lip thing catches on, it could get real crowded on Trump’s gluteus, though judging from recent pictures on the golf course, there looks to be plenty of room on that ass for the entire GOP’s lips.)  

To McCarthy’s credit, he has managed to detach his lips long enough to mouth the proper platitudes about GOP Riot Day—mainly that it was just a friendly get together of patriotic folks intent on a fast tour of the Capitol building.  Heavens to Betsy, nobody really meant any harm, did they?  No, it was those nasty FBI and CIA rogues running a false flag operation.  And if anybody died, it was their own damn fault.  

Hey, Kevin, why not let someone beat the living shit out of you with a pole while waving an American flag and squirting bear spray in your face, and see just how friendly it feels?  The pervert wrestling coach, Jim Jordan too.  I bet you boys would love it, fluffy.  

mvd

Memo to the Media: Stop Helping the Enemy

I’ve been trying to understand the constant, deafening twaddle about Trump.  Popular media shrilly repeats that his popularity is growing.  No newscast, even in left-wing media, is complete without talking heads wringing their hands over Trumpazoidal influence over the zombie that was once the GOP, and the possibility of Trump making a bid for the presidency in 2024.  It is certainly true that the toad with the long red tie would be a disaster for our nation and our democracy if re-elected.  (My apologies to toads around the world.)  But it’s my considered opinion that Hoppy will be unable to jump when the time comes. 

Donald Trump loves to cultivate the myth of his imperviousness to disease, his fabulous wealth, and his genius I.Q.  But it looks to me like this genius junk food addict is only a couple of Big Macs away from a myocardial infarction.  From where he sits, 2024 is a very long line of cheeseburgers away.  Aside from having uncertain health, the Fake 45th is so thoroughly discredited as to make him irrelevant to all but the mouth breathers up in the bleachers, and the longest of long shots to become president again.  His lying is the stuff of legend.  His boasted about wealth is known to be  imaginary.  No one with an I.Q. over room temperature ever believed the I.Q. bullshit. 

Here’s the deal:  Trump is about to be indicted by the New York attorney general.  Steve Bannon, blinking through the morning after haze from a bottle of Glenlivet, is on his way to court cases, lawyer’s fees, and ultimately jail too.  Before his dry out is over he’ll be happy to give up the boss to Congress for a shot of cheap Suntory.  Please, please MSNBC, CNN, and CBS, stop with the all Trump, all rightwing GOP, all the time news.  He is the enemy of our republic.  You made this mistake in 2015-16 and you helped get the sonofabitch elected.  Don’t do it again.

mvd

Dammit, Capt. Kirk!

Captain James T. Kirk, aka William Shatner, was the first nonagenarian in space.  I am so happy that Bill got the first ride for a 90 year-old.  He was moved to tears by the experience of sticking a toe in the edge of space, experiencing a few minutes of weightlessness, and witnessing the sight of Mother Earth serenely rotating below—and who can blame him?  Wouldn’t you thrill to a sight that only a handful of humans have seen?  

Of course, I’m also jealous that I wasn’t first.  Now I’ll have to angle for being the first 90 year-old in earth orbit.  It could happen.  And I’d go in a nonagenarian second.  Just ask me, Mr. Bezos, Mr. Branson, or Mr. Musk.  

By the way, don’t make sport of 90 year-olds in space.  There are close to 60 million of us and still counting, so don’t fuck with us.  If someone 90 can climb into the capsule, ride that rocket, and then walk down the stairs afterward, you’d better salute, rubes.  It’s got to be the funnest ride at the carnival.  And the adventure of a lifetime.  Did I say I’d volunteer?  Hell yes!

mvd

Fungi Effects

Just watched Trump climb the stairs at a rally in Iowa: S L O W. He can barely talk to his crowd of halfwits. Side effects of those Confetti mushrooms are a bitch. Keep your eyes peeled for more deterioration.

mvd

In Defense of Madonna

I’m pulling rank on all of you: give Madonna a break! She’s made a career of doing the unexpected and shocking thing. And you can bet your sweet ass she’ll keep doing it no matter how old she gets. And more power to her. I’ve flashed a couple times myself after reaching a certain age—notably at an LAPD celebration honoring the evil Jack Webb. You’ll have to wait for Secrets of the Goddess to read that one. But to those of you who ridicule because of her age, I’m telling you now that you’re way out of line. Don’t make me come over there and bitch slap you.

mvd

The Moon Too Close

“He appeals to the werewolf in us on the nights when the moon comes too close.”—Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 1972 

Hunter Thompson’s quote regarding Richard Nixon could easily be applied to the disgraced ex-president, Donald Trump.  The werewolf in us was especially visible on January 6th when Trump supporters mounted an assault on the Capitol in an effort to stop the certification of Joe Biden’s election.  It turns out that Trump’s effort to put the erection in insurrection was a spectacular fail, exposing the combed over lycanthrope to be merely an ineffectual, whining pup.  That is, however, not the whole story. 

According to leaked documents I have obtained, what began as a sophomoric prank in the White House nearly sparked the overthrow of the United States.  A Bonsai garden on a secretary’s desk in the West Wing had been secretly planted with rare Confetti mushrooms, an obscure fungi native to Nepal and the Himalayas.  At certain times of the year, the Confetti mushroom reproduces by releasing a cloud of powerfully hallucinogenic microscopic spores into the air.  Clearly Trump got a snoot full.  His aides discovered him cowering under the Resolute Desk, screaming that the Rose Garden was full of Komodo dragons wearing sombreros and wielding machetes.  “Hide me!  Protect me!  Tell the Marines to shoot the fucking lizards!”

No amount of reasoning could calm him.  Before long Rudy Guilliani, John Eastman, and Stephen Miller were seeing snakes and scorpions skittering about in the Oval Office.  By the time Trump and Eastman got to the Ellipse to cheer on the crowd of supporters, they were doubtless looking in horror at a sea of werewolves, reptiles, giant termites, and poisonous spiders holding Stop the Steal signs and wearing MAGA ball caps and tee shirts.  By the time he staggered off the stage, aides testified that he was gibbering, “Get the pest control people!  Call Orkin!  And get me to the bunker!” 

High doses of the Confetti mushroom can be permanently damaging.  Trump’s out of control rages have continued.  His mental condition has deteriorated so sharply that his handlers at Mar a Lago even struggle to keep him focused on his morning oatmeal and hair appointment.  

Meanwhile, Mike Pence, who barely survived being lynched on Trump’s orders on Jan 6th, has begun to abase himself to the boss because Pence wants to run for president.   Trump won’t hear it, of course.  He’s telling Pence, Ron DeSantis, Gregg Abbott, Marco Rubio, and all the rest of the douches warming up in the presidential primary bullpen to back off.  He’ll be going for the big prize again, even if he has to do it in an orange jumpsuit.  

mvd