Why Yes, There IS a Waterloo, Indiana. Why Do You Ask? (Ferret/Shower Cap)
Now that commenting on the Offal in Oval’s glaringly apparent physical and mental decline has been officially declared treasonous, I invite you, dear reader, to enter into a humbly seditious conspiracy with me.
(O the links n’ shininess that await ye here: https://showercapblog.com/why-yes-there-is-a-waterloo-indiana-why-do-you-ask/)
Just for the record, the President of the United States will take somewhere between two and thirty-seven cognitive tests in the time it takes you to read this blog. We know this, despite the administration’s extensive efforts to conceal his health struggles, because the sloppy fop won’t stop bragging about them, as though the doctors monitoring his cerebral decay keep requesting command performances of his awesome identifying-drawings-of-animals skillz because they’re so dang impressive.
Perhaps the only thing declining more rapidly than his mental acuity is his grip on power. Whatsamatter, is the big, tuff stwongman no longer stwong enough to bully one little ol’ state legislature into mid-decade redistricting?
Lord knows they’re slow learners, but it seems a handful of Republicans have finally lost enough special elections to realize that all this frantic gerrymandering is only necessary because of one lame duck’s dumbfuck war on the cost of living.
Good luck getting the old narcissist to admit error and reverse course, by the way, now that they’re lobbing ersatz peace prizes at him. Of course he gives himself an A+++++on the economy he’s single-handedly wrecking; Lutnick's ass-kissing alone leaves him coated in a film no reality could hope to pierce.
YOUR KIDS HAVE TOO MANY DOLLS ALSO I’M FURTHER EXPANDING MY BALLROOM AS THERE WAS INSUFFICIENT PRANCING SPACE UNDER THE PREVIOUS LAYOUT.
Only A+++++ economies require $12 billion farmer bailouts, y’know. They’re only canceling all these inflation reports so Americans don’t splurge on unnecessary frivolities, like a third pencil.
And Donald Trump will never, ever, ever, ever, eeeeeeeever find his way out of this particular paper bag. He’s already deployed his biggest gun: the Hoax Maneuver.
“Mr. President, we just lost the election for mayor of Miami; we have to address the affordability crisis!”
“No, I called it a hoax, it’s fine.”
“Mr. President, with respect, your polling on the economy fell another --“
“QUIET, PIGGY!”
Yeah, somehow, his trademark blend of threats and incompetence failed him this time. A species long believed extinct, the Republican with a Spine, surfaced unexpectedly in the Indiana Senate, and Wee Donnie Dotard scampered away to pretend he never wanted the dumb ol’ gerrymander in the first place.
I love that he picked such a low point to finally take that futile stab at pardoning Tina Peters, by the way. And what’s that? Another grand jury refused to indict Letitia James? Kilmar Abrego Garcia has been ordered released? It’s like an impotence pageant.
Somebody call Ronny Jackson, maybe a cognitive test will cheer him up. Or perhaps one of those novelty condoms with his face on the package, you know, the ones from Jeffrey Epstein’s place.
Maybe meddling in the Warner Bros. sale would distract him. Obviously he wants his oligarch pals to gut CNN, but I bet Netflix could sway him by using AI to edit him into a few beloved American classics. Give him the Sydney Greenstreet role in The Maltese Falcon, only at the end, when he’s scraping at the statue (spoilers!), it turns out to be the Nobel Peace Prize, and he gives a ninety-minute speech about water pressure and windmill cancer.
Somehow, when the Roberts Court looks upon this shit show, they think the problem is that the deteriorating tyrant doesn’t have quiiiiiiite enough authority yet. In less than a year, he’s built an unaccountable, masked police force that’s detaining U.S. citizens and cutting their fucking wedding rings right off their fingers, but no, let’s give him a little more power.
Rumor has it Tom Homan and Kristi Noem are feuding, presumably over who gets the top bunk in the Commandant’s quarters at Alligator Alcatraz. I’m inclined to give it to Noem, who clearly needs a safe space to retreat to from all those congressional hearings she can’t handle.
I just got back from a time travel adventure that took me to the ultimate death of this universe millennia from now, where Nancy Mace is still rambling interminably about the fucking airport thing. “Wait, how can you claim to ‘back the blue’ when you’re calling cops filthy, stinking, deep state liars?” gasped the weary cosmos before committing suicide to get away from the crazy lady.
Speaking of airports, if you’ve ever wanted to do pull-ups there, you’re in luck, because we’re governed by idiots. The RFK Jr./Sean Duffy workout nook next to the food court will be a great spot to contract measles, though.
Some sort of civil war appears to’ve erupted amongst the shittiest figures in the wingnut griftosphere over where precisely to set Charlie Kirk’s Reichstag fire. Candace Owens. Nick Fuentes. Tucker Carlson. Megyn Kelly. Tim Pool. I wouldn’t dream of weighing in on who’s right or wrong here; I only hope they can all find a nice, abandoned sewage treatment plant and enough rusty forks to work everything out.
Speaking of intra-death cult hostilities, apparently Marjorie Taylor Greene is scheming to shank Mike Johnson on her way out of town. I certainly salute the spite, but isn’t the best available revenge here leaving him in the Speaker’s chair while everybody and their dog governs around him via discharge petition?
Seems the Reich plans to demand five years of social media history from prospective tourists from 42 nations, in what I can only assume is an employment program for the MAGA shut-ins who got that first, tantalizing taste of cancel culture during those heady days following Kirk’s death. Won’t even have to pay ‘em, they’ll work for the fleeting thrill of harming foreigners.
So, last week, a certain untreated dementia patient pardoned Democratic Representative Henry Cuellar, apparently expecting him to switch parties in gratitude. However, having failed to work out the details or even mention the arrangement in advance, he could only flail petulantly as Cuellar instead announced a run for re-election as a Democrat, taking a once-competitive seat off the board entirely.
This must be that “Art of the Deal” thing I’ve been hearing so much about.
And the artist is nothing if not prolific. Why, only this week, he swapped our nation’s most advanced AI chips to our leading economic and military rival for an unfulfilled promise to purchase some soybeans! Sure, that looks like a bad deal on paper, but if even one of those unsold soybeans sprouts a beanstalk that leads to some sort of precious metal-dispensing waterfowl, it could still work out.
Liddle Marco Rubio’s tenure as the nation’s chief diplomat (on paper, anyway) has been noteworthy mostly for its betrayals of our allies and our principles, but his triumph over an allegedly “woke” font shall echo throug history’s halls, surely.
All their “victories” are that petty. I assume you saw where they dropped Juneteenth and M.L.K. Day as free admission days at our national parks, replacing them with some rapist’s birthday. I bet that was a HUGE hit at the brainstorming session at Stephen Miller’s favorite mayonnaise bar.
Enjoy it, I guess. When your life flashes before your eyes in that dumpster behind the local meth lab, I’m sure the memory of the two or three Juneteenths when people had to pay to see the Grand Canyon will be a real highlight.
“I know! What if we make up some bullshit excuse to cancel a bunch of naturalization ceremonies at the last minute? We could even snatch ‘em right out of line when they show up!” And then Stephen orders that kid a giant glass boot filled with Hellmann’s, and all the other dickless losers chant while he chugs it.
The military somehow managed to seize a Venezuelan oil tanker without murdering everyone aboard, which must’ve disappointed Tom Cotton, who only gets invited on th’Sunday Shoz™️ anymore when there’re war crimes that need justifyin’.
Ron Johnson endorsed a new book by some quack who in turn endorses chemical disinfectant as a multipurpose miracle cure, cuz they’re Old Testament MAGA.
Glenn Beck made himself an AI George Washington to talk to, which my sources tell me has sparked significant jealousy in his Ronald Reagan waifu pillow.
Pete Hegseth’s mentor is into cuck porn. I…don’t think I can improve on that one.
Meanwhile, a Cinnabon worker fired for a racist rant has raised more than $130,000 from people who would rather see racism rewarded, while I toil in the fart joke mines for beer money.
Speaking of which, feel free to donate to my beer fund (via Venmo, Cash App, or PayPal!), to follow @john_luzar, or to join my email list! And if you missed the Kickstarter for my latest, bestest comic book yet, late pledges are still open! And please, stay safe out there if you’re able…
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