Welcome to DU!
The truly grassroots left-of-center political community where regular people, not algorithms, drive the discussions and set the standards.
Join the community:
Create a free account
Support DU (and get rid of ads!):
Become a Star Member
Latest Breaking News
Editorials & Other Articles
General Discussion
The DU Lounge
All Forums
Issue Forums
Culture Forums
Alliance Forums
Region Forums
Support Forums
Help & Search
JoJoFromJerz: A White House "Address," a Penis Price List, and the Endless Theater of the Absurd
https://jojofromjerz.substack.com/p/what-the-fuck-was-that . . .
What the actual, clinical, OSHA-reportable fuck did we watch the other night?
That was billed as a White House “address,” which is adorable — like calling a Times Square Elmo knife fight a wellness retreat. What we got instead was a prime-time address delivered with the unhinged cadence of a ventriloquist’s dummy whose puppeteer wandered off to smoke behind the building, leaving Satan — recently lobotomized, to freestyle.
It wasn’t calming. It wasn’t steadying. Hell, it wasn’t even English half the time. Watching him try to string together sentences was like watching someone in oven mitts try to defuse a bomb—sweaty, desperate, and liable to end with a fire drill and a visit from animal control.
Honestly, if you told me that was Candid Camera on crack, filmed during a power surge, and nobody bothered to tell him the joke was over, I’d believe you. It was like Captain Kangaroo got blackout drunk, snorted a line of Metamucil, and wandered onto the C-SPAN set with a head full of Ambien, just making up words and numbers for the fuck of it.
. . .
What the actual, clinical, OSHA-reportable fuck did we watch the other night?
That was billed as a White House “address,” which is adorable — like calling a Times Square Elmo knife fight a wellness retreat. What we got instead was a prime-time address delivered with the unhinged cadence of a ventriloquist’s dummy whose puppeteer wandered off to smoke behind the building, leaving Satan — recently lobotomized, to freestyle.
It wasn’t calming. It wasn’t steadying. Hell, it wasn’t even English half the time. Watching him try to string together sentences was like watching someone in oven mitts try to defuse a bomb—sweaty, desperate, and liable to end with a fire drill and a visit from animal control.
Honestly, if you told me that was Candid Camera on crack, filmed during a power surge, and nobody bothered to tell him the joke was over, I’d believe you. It was like Captain Kangaroo got blackout drunk, snorted a line of Metamucil, and wandered onto the C-SPAN set with a head full of Ambien, just making up words and numbers for the fuck of it.
. . .
Glad we don't have to worry about those seven dirty words here!
4 replies
= new reply since forum marked as read
= new reply since forum marked as read
