With memories of the divisive presidential primary fading faster than the idea of Ron DeSantis as a viable national political figure, MAGA Nation has turned peacefully inward, to contemplate the really big questions in life, like “is the rapist game show host we worship more like Jesus, or Nelson Mandela?”
And of course historians will grapple with that issue until the sun goes out.
I come down on the Jesus side myself, for do the gospels not teach us that He did beg and plead and pitch a holy fit three times on the eve of His porn star hush money trial, hoping to avoid said trial altogether? And were His pleas not thrice rejected, by the Roman Deep State and their unfairly nonwhite legal professionals?
But look, if your position happens t’be more along the lines of, say, “while certainly Christlike in many regards, he resembles Mandela MORE, because of his threats to vindictively prosecute his political opponents,” I can totally respect that. I think we can find a way to disagree without being disagreeable. But no, see, I can tell you’re upset by the way you’re waving that nail gun around.
Sigh. I hate the Culture Wars.
Point is, it’s an especially golden calf y’all have elected to lewdly undulate before, and I assure you, the rest of us are super impressed. Why, watching him order Chick-fil-A this week, one could not help but gush “DAMN, he very nearly navigated that brief social interaction like a cognitively unimpaired adult human!”
…but not quite.
And now we get to watch him grumble and fidget through an honest-to-goodness criminal trial. He’ll spend the whole thing sneaking sweaty glances at the doorway, anticipating the emergence of any number of potential nightmares, ranging from bail bondsmen to process servers to the bogeyman that keeps all Republicans awake at night: the post-Dobbs electorate!
They’re right to be scared. Arizona’s all-Republican Supreme Court decided to rewrite women’s bodily autonomy rightsusing outtakes from Braveheart, and the Republican-controlled House, given the chance to respond, bleated THE MEDIEVALER THE BETTER, which I suppose might maybe somehow come back to bite these theocrat fucks in the ass come Election Day.
It’s actually pretty unsettling, watching Kari Lake backpedal. You’re so used to that fervent certainty glistening through the Joan Crawford filter while she rants about the bamboo fiber-eating gremlins who live in Maricopa County’s voting machines, and suddenly it’s “p-pay no attention to my extensively documented history of batshit statements on this issue, I’m really quite m-m-moderate!”
The Dotard’s strategy to counter his vulnerability with the critical Women Who Want Legal Control of Their Own Bodies demographic appears to once again rely heavily on making a bunch of shit up, and hoping a mob takes care of the rest. Unless I missed the meeting where the Democratic Party adopted a new platform advocating to keep abortion legal through the second slow song of the child’s first homecoming dance, in which case I retract this paragraph.
The way Off-Brand Orbán casually abuses his power over the institutional GOP generally frightens me, but I’ll admit I enjoyed a dark chuckle at the unceremonious squishing of Lindsey Graham. In a party overflowing with proto-fascist taint remoras, nobody, absolutely nobody guzzled more taint juice than Lindsey, and when he finally got flicked away into that grey, hazy space where the Spicers and McDaniels shamble through their sad, brittle half-existence, it barely merited mention. Enjoy yer wages, Senator!
If you stand outside the House Republican Cloakroom, you can distinctly hear the ghost of James Doohan bellowing SHE CANNAE GOVERN, CAP’N while Mike Johnson sobs and sucks Marjorie Taylor Greene’s toes in supplication. In other words, Easter recess is over.
Moscow Marjorie, in her most magnanimous beneficenceness, permitted Mike to spend another week juggling turds atop the flaming unicycle that is the Speakership under the MAGA micro-majority. Kind of her.
Still, you can lead a messianically delusional fuckwit to the House floor, but you can’t teach him how to count votes. Honestly, every week we get through without these dolts kicking over a lantern and burning the whole fucking town down should be looked upon as a miracle.
For now, they’re stumbling over one another to make sure their personal favorite brands gain protected status under a proposed Endangered Appliances Act, before Marj blows her whistle, setting off the latest round of musical chairs.
Because these things are up to MARJORIE TAYLOR GREENE now. Marjorie “the wrong side won on January 6th” Taylor Greene. The Speaker serves at the pleasure of the hate-mongering dewormer shill who made the decision to INVEST REAL MONEY IN TRUMP MEDIA; that’s right there in the Constitution, plain as the nose on your face, frankly I can’t believe you forgot the Schoolhouse Rock! video.
This “who shot Tim Sheehy” subplot may be a tad derivative, but I’m sure it’s just the opening act of the always fruitful Vetting of the Republican Senate Candidates, a ritual destined to provide future anthropologists with endless hours of befuddled delight. “Wait, why is she telling us she’s not a witch? No fucking way that’s a real campaign ad, that’s SNL!” And the other guy just smugly pulls up some Herschel Walker clips he’s been saving, the ones about trees and such.
(My working Sheehy theory: while I cannot yet conclusively determine whether the shooting occurred in the national park or Afghanistan, I’m confident it was Professor Plum.)
The first thought I had when read “Donald Trump's New Hampshire campaign chair threatened to kill his colleagues in a shooting spree, murder the department chief and rape the chief’s wife” was that somebody must’ve plagiarized a gag I wrote six years ago, but no, it’s real reporting from real life. And, honestly, the sort of thing that happens all the time now. Ho hum.
The Gerald Ford Foundation was rocked to its very, um, foundation, amidst recriminations, resignations, and more than one old man slap fight over the decision to not give Liz Cheney the prestigious Gerry Woulda Liked You, Probably award, which is like an Oscar to America’s thriving People Who Like to Argue About What Gerald Ford Would Think subculture. Their basket art is…breathtaking.
Been tinkering with a pitch targeting the audiences of those “dangerous jobs” shows, where it’s not crab fishing or logging, it’s working in a state elections office, or a rural library. Or maybe a Planet Fitness, in this age of power-drunk internet bigot Chaya Raichik, who’s having way too much fun mashing that Incite Bomb Threats button to stop any time soon.
I certainly appreciate the bluntness of that RFK Jr. staffer who confessed the campaign’s true goal is to ratfuck America back into kakistocracy, though of course she was promptly exiled from Crackpot Narnia for such profane honesty.
I’d like to offer my full-throated support for Kevin McCarthy’s apparent decision to transform himself into a creature of pure, incandescent spite, aimed at Matt Gaetz. I LOVE this for you, Kev. Become Matt’s personal Max Cady. Get some tattoos and work up some labyrinthine revenge plots. Your life was always meant to be a cautionary tale; let’s give it a banger of a last act.
Jacob Wohl received a visit from the Comeuppance Fairy this week, that was fun. Man, remember Jacob Wohl? He seems so charmingly harmless now. Remember when right-wing creeps staged Waiting for Guffman-quality fake Elizabeth Warren sex scandals instead of hunting BLM protesters, or erecting gallows on the grounds of the U.S. Capitol? Those were the fucking wonder years, and we should’ve appreciated them more.
Actually, I think I’m gonna go drink some beer and write a mournful country song about the good ol’ days, before the weirdos turned violent. I should warn you, I don’t know how to write songs, so it’s gonna take a fair amount of beer. And this may seem like a wild coincidence, but I’ve framed this very blog’s tip jar (accepting PayPal, Venmo, and Cash App!) as a “beer fund,” as part of my hugely successful “drunken, bathrobe-clad internet loudmouth” branding.
And of course I can always use more email addresses on the ol’ mailing list, and more followers @john_luzar on Elon’s Broken Plaything, annnnnnnnd I’ll stop askin’ for stuff now. You stay safe out there, see you next week!
(Incidentally, looks like there may still be a few copies of Cover A available for preorder for the imminent new print run of my one-shot WWII comic book, Marguerite vs. the Occupation! Hoping to have additional comics news to report soon, but I gotta grind out a lil’ more work first. Couldn’t do it without y’all’s kind support, of course, and I remain deeply grateful.)