- Dan Coats.
- Kellyanne Conway.
- Melania. (“I didn’t write it. Did u?”)
- Mike Pompeo.
- Ben Carson. (“Uh, hi, Times? This is Dr. Ben Carson, Secretary of Homes and Better Gardens. Ummm…it’s just weird that no one’s called from your office to ask for my denial. Which, of course, I do. I deny it. I didn’t write the whatever-it-was. And, uhhhh, I heard you called the other cabinet members. But no one called me, so I was just checking in. Okay. Call me back. Are you getting these messages? Maybe I should try texting.”
- Betsy Devos.
- Raj Shah.
- All the surviving members of KISS, who don’t know how they got roped into this.
- Steve Bannon. (Actually, he claimed authorship but no one believed him.)
- Omarosa. (Same as Bannon, but louder and also threw a drink in someone’s face.)
- Hope Hicks.
- Steve Mnuchin.
- The Ghost of President Lincoln.
- Mike Pence, but he was giggling.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: new york times (Page 1 of 2)
Who gets kicked?
Brett Kavanaugh It’s Cavanaugh. With a ‘C.’ And it’s a Woman’s Right to Bodily Autonomy. With a “None of your fucking business, you generic white cocksucker.” Jesus, get something right, asshole.
England Why have you not dragged Boris Johnson from his home and ripped him to bloody shreds in the street? Guy Fawkes did waaaaaay less damage than this butterball bastard, and you hanged him. (FUN FACT: Guy Fawkes wasn’t executed. He fell off the gallows and broke his neck while waiting for the rope. Do you think the muckety-mucks tried to get out of paying the executioner? I bet that they did.)
Whoever the motherfucker who tweeted that bullshit about “Hey, you know what? Trump’s gonna be great for punk rock, maaaaaaaaan.” Fuck you until you split in half, person whose name I can’t remember.
Billy Dee Williams’ parents What’s Billy Dee Williams’ real name? His legal name. His Christian name. What is it? I’ll wait for you to catch up.
…
That’s right: Ma and Pa Williams named their dashing son William Williams. Don’t do that shit to children. Richard Richardson, Kelly Kelly, Phil Phillips…just don’t. Very rarely does someone laden with such a dopey sobriquet end up administrating a mining facility high above Bespin.
That Asshole Soccer Coach Now that everyone’s safe: that dumb fuck should be in jail. Don’t bring Thai children into caves. That’s the second rule of coaching soccer. First rule: make a schedule for whose mom brings the orange slices. Second rule: do not herd your team several kilometers into a cave.
Literally Everyone at the New York Times I want to set up a big slide–like the ones at local carnivals that you ride down on a burlap sack–except at the end of the slide is just a brick wall covered in broken glass and Sriracha sauce, and then ride all the Times employees down it. I would sit on Bret Stephens’ back and down we go–WHEEEEE–and at the end PLONPH! right into the glass and Sriracha. Then I’d roll him over to the side and bounce happily back up the stairs where it’s Maggie Haberman’s turn.
The World Cup It just won’t fucking end.
All These Civility Numbnuts At what point do we take the streets and start setting people on fire in front of their families? When precisely does Mookie throw the garbage can through the window of the pizzeria? Because my asshole is getting sore.
Who gets kissed?
Rachel The transwoman that Lou Reed married in the 70’s. People were low and cruel to her, Lou included. The internet says you died of AIDS, Rachel; the internet says you went back to Philly. Wherever you are, Rachel, I hope Lester Bangs isn’t there.
My son,
By the time you read this, I will be dead. They came from out of the Wests: Hollywood and the Village. Their underwear was so expensive, and their hair was only on their heads. Son, their skin was so creamy that we did not see their teeth. The twinks devoured all they saw.
(Not “devoured” in a sense of eating. Occasionally, the twinks would pick off someone else’s plate, but other than that no one ever saw them eat.)
They came for the women first. They were “gross,” the twinks said. The old were next; they were also “gross.” Then, that guy who works the door at Calypso’s, because “he was such a dick.” Finally, they came for us: the daddies. The hottest of us were put to use, sexually, and the richest were used financially. The rest, myself included, were forced to work in the lube mines.
It was the Age of the Twink, my son.
They came for us in the middle of the night, or at around ten in the morning when they got home from the clubs. I tried to fight them off, but their skin was so smooth I could find no handhold. A busload of us were brought to the fields. Our assignment: to “grow electricity, or build it, or whatever.” The twinks are not mechanically inclined, but require massive amounts of power for their EDM festivals and to maintain the Grindr servers.
We have been given no food. Just random pills and shirts that are too tight. I do not have much longer. The daddies talk about an island that the twinks did not invade, as they can drink and fuck and take pictures of themselves on boats, but not pilot them. I choose to believe in the island. Perhaps one day I will see you there.
They blew it all to hell. Goddamn them all, they blew it all to hell
Love,
Kevin James
As usual, Jennifer Boylan makes a good case over in the (failing, lying) New York Times comparing Trump to Gump; her thesis is based on a reputed conversation between Erick Erickson, who is to be taken exactly as seriously as his name suggests, and an anonymous Congressfucker in a produce section somewhere in Alexandria. This Rep–most likely the living avatar of Staten Island Peter King–describes Basketball Head thusly:
“It’s like Forrest Gump won the presidency But it’s an evil, really stupid Forrest Gump. He can’t help himself. He’s just an idiot who thinks he’s winning when people are bitching about him.”
Professor Boylan goes on to make her case comparing the two idiots. She writes beautifully, as always, but I must respectfully disagree with her. (And the Congressman, but without the respect. Fuck you, nameless government employee.) Yes, both Trump and Gump are mammals. Both, too, are nominally bipedal. The Krebs Cycle applies equally to both men.
But to posit a Forrest Gump who is “evil [and] stupid” is like talking about Darth Vader, but without the suit and he’s modest, kind to animals and children, and obsessed with hockey. We all–factual and fictional alike–have within us certain essentialities of character. A cruel Gump is not a Gump at all, just as a lazy Teddy Roosevelt is not a TR, or a giggly, loose-lipped Elizabeth II isn’t the Queen of England.
But, Enthusiasts, we surely must be able to compare Le Merde Orange to a fictional character. But whom? Moriarty doesn’t fit: while both men are clearly evil, Moriarty was a genius who could hold his own in a fistfight. (Sure, the fistfight was against a middle-aged opiate addict, but still.) Dracula is similarly wrong: both men suck, but Dracula could dress himself. Lara Croft? Both she and Turnip are children of privilege with big ol’ floppity tittyballs, but there is little correlation beyond that.
Perhaps Shemp? Shemp was a physically unattractive man, unpopular with the public, and replaced a much more talented and beloved performer.
Maybe Elmer Fudd. They are both perpetually confused, involved in disasters of their own making, antagonistic but cowardly, and convinced that the outcome will be in their favor no matter what the facts on the ground say. The two also resemble giant ugly babies.
Jabba the Hutt is too easy a comparison, so let’s move on.
What about Garfield? Hmm…
- Fat.
- Lazy.
- Orange.
- Use specialized glands in their cheeks to mark their territory.
- Need to be taken care of.
- Hate dogs.
- Despise any sort of order or natural beauty.
And they both shit in a box in the corner! There you go, Enthusiasts: the fictional character Donald J* Trump most resembles is Garfield. You’re welcome.
*The “J” stands for “Jamoke.”
MARIN COUNTY – In a cooperative on a block with three other cooperatives and lined with Uber Blacks, there is a rusting from the racks. Often, there is no noise because Satori Groceries has sold out of the newest health craze sweeping several discrete zip codes, all of which are vying to be the first to be burned when the Revolution comes. Tied up in quirky, small-batch ribbons featuring poems from Rumi Kaur, the bushels of Raw Bread fly off the shelves. (The product is also available in snack-sized pecks.)
“It has a piquant and crunchy mouthfeel, with a hint of cereal. You get a real whiff of grass off it,” Lester Pingling, who would not reveal his age nor admit to having an age at all, said. He is the shift manager at Satori Groceries; Mr Pingling was not supposed to be working the day he was interviewed, but several of the store’s employees were home with intestinal disorders.
“The Bread Consciousness movement is growing every day,” he said. “People want simplicity in their lives, and they want to take back control, and they want to eat Raw Bread.”
Several start-ups, all of which are valued at more than a billion dollars, have stepped into the burgeoning market: Combinator and Loafr, based in Silicon Valley, and Yumpernickel, based in a different part of Silicon Valley. Loafr’s 26-year-old CEO, Brayden Dayton, met me at his company’s first brick-and-mortar shop called Hole Foods.
“Basically, we’re telling Whole Foods to suck our dicks. I explained this on my YouTube channel, you should follow me, I got like 3 million followers. But we’re talking about Whole Foods. Lies. Just lies. What do they give you? Here, here’s your bagel or your baguette, but they don’t tell you the story of that bagel or that baguette. It’s a crazy time right now. People want to understand their roles, and their rolls.”
Hole Foods did not smell like it was full of bread, but it was full of customers.
“The market proves me out. What people want more than anything is choice. And authenticity. Authentic choice. We also deliver via our partnership with GrubHub.
Colombia University-affiliated nutritionist Carry Bringums, 51, disagrees.
“Raw bread is wheat. Are these hippie assholes and tech bros eating wheat?”
The Times sent Dr. Bringums a bushel of Raw Bread.
“It’s fucking wheat! What the fuck is wrong with people?”
Satori Groceries is sold out again today, and Loafr is scheduled to go public in March.
Eddie and Brenda McCaughey were married this fall. They registered at Target. On their list was a muffin tin, a fancy ice cube maker, and a sofa. Ms. McCaughey, 25, was worried about Antifa bashing up the ceremony. Weddings are hard enough to plan for when your fiancé is not an avowed white nationalist.
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder in an Applebee’s outside of Dayton and finished each other’s sentences. He was in a tee-shirt, and she was in a sleeveless jean jacket, and they were in love. They decided on the boneless chicken wings.
“Nigger dinner,” Eddie told this reporter, who did not follow up on that assertion and instead asked him about his tattoos. One was of a piece of pie, which symbolized his love for the cult television program Twin Peaks, and another was a swastika.
“Tell me about the pie tattoo,” this reporter said.
The rolling hills of Ohio flatten into lumpy brown plains covered with Steak & Shakes outside, but inside the Applebee’s is a young couple that could live next door to you. Some Americans might take umbrage to Eddie’s beliefs, statements, actions, and plans, but the Times decided to give him a chance to explain himself.
“I want every kike dead,” he explained himself.
Eddie’s face is lean and pale, with pointed eyebrows that make him look like Victor Mature. Everyone he comes across, he addresses as “Sir” or “Ma’am,” and he smells like sandalwood. He asked after this reporter’s family several times, about their health and careers and whether they were Filipino. He and Brenda have two cats in their small, tidy house named Hitler and Hitler; they came in and out as Eddie prepared dinner, prowling under the couch and over the improvised explosive device that sat half-finished on the living room chair.
“That’s for a mosque a couple miles away,” Eddie said, motioning to the IED. Then he showed off how well he played the drums. Brenda arrived home from her job as a kindergarten teacher, and Eddie leapt from behind the kit to welcome her. When they kissed, it was like everyone in the world was in love all at once.
“That smells wonderful, honey,” she said.
“The Holocaust didn’t happen, but I wish it did,” he answered.
The stars were coming out in the Ohio sky, and a copy of Behold A Pale Rider sat next to the DVD’s from season 3 of Seinfeld, and two crazy kids tried to make it in this world against long odds.
When I first heard of the idea of sewing my asshole shut, I, like most people, thought it was a foolish idea. A week later, though, I happened to see a TEDx talk on the benefits of a sewn asshole. I was riveted.
I supported the procedure in dozens of articles, radio, and teevee appearances, even as everyone in my life said that I had to be kidding. As early as 2015, I wrote “there cannot possibly be a downside to lacing up your sphincter” and that it was “the smartest elective surgery” one could undergo. I believed that the sheer audacity of the move would be both balm and succor for all in these divided times, which is why I started a quarterly magazine entitled Asshole Affairs dedicated to promoting and defending my decision.
It is now clear my optimism was unfounded, and I should not have sewn my asshole shut. I thoroughly regret my decision and would strongly urge others considering the decision not to continue along their path. Far from making America great again, my actions have instead damaged my internal organs possibly beyond repair. I feel like I’m dying.
What did I see in sewing my asshole shut? I must now admit that I paid attention only to what I wanted, and discounted the many warnings from doctors, nurses, colleagues, and every single other person I know. The surgery would, I believed, save me, a person who went to Harvard, valuable time previously wasted in the bathroom. Financially, it was a no-brainer: thanks to Obama’s job-killing over-regulation, toilet paper is now the most expensive it’s ever been. No stains on your underwear, a cessation of flatulence, the list of positives went on forever.
Immediately after having my pucker zipped, I noticed that life was not, in fact, becoming great. When friends and family inquired, I would tell them that “it was early,” and “I’ve lived with a wide-open asshole for so many years; the transition is going to be a little shaky.”
But we are out of the transition. It is no longer early, and it is now clear that I was deluding myself. The body-wracking pains and gut spasms will not stop; they are, indeed, intensifying. Any time I thought I would save by no longer needing to poop has been replaced in treble by seizures and vomiting. As it turns out, everything my critics said was true.
I have seen the errors of my ways, but, perhaps, a bit too late and now I am completely and totally full of shit.
The path back to power for the Democratic Party today, as it was in the 1990s, is unquestionably to move to the center and reject the siren calls of the left, whose policies and ideas have weakened the party. – “Back to the Center, Democrats” by Mark Penn and Andrew Stein, New York Times, 7/6/17
By SOME INCOMPETENT ASSHOLE and HIS TRUMP-SUPPORTING SIDEKICK
The path back to power for the Democratic Party today, as it was in the 1840s, is unquestionably to support slavery. Failing that, they must reject the shrill, hysterical, high-pitched voices of the left, some of whom speak with accents or perhaps in “jive.”
Since the 90’s, the Democratic Party has increasingly turned to identity politics, which is a phrase that means “noticing some Americans aren’t straight and white” and this has clearly failed. The Dems must stop pandering to minorities and start catering to white men. You must also reject class warfare. America is a classless society, we have been told by many rich people, and this issue is a non-starter.
Central to the party’s failure has been the loss of support among working-class voters, which is not a euphemism. Instead of just throwing everyone in jail and letting cops shoot whomever they wanted, the Democrats became mired in political correctness, such as the so-called “bathroom bills,” which as we’ll all recall were the idea of the Democrats, and not that the Dems were just responding to acts of wanton and stupid cruelty.
The Democrats must stop trying to “help” people with their “social programs” and “healthcare,” and instead allow Milo Yioannopolis to speak at their convention, and begin praising those brave patriots who murder abortion doctors. It might not hurt to have a few prominent Democratic leaders shoot a few abortionists themselves.
By continuing to push for the leftist agenda of fair wages, affordable healthcare, and civil rights for all, the Democratic Party will continue to appeal only to the fringe whackadoodles who subscribe to those frankly Bolshevik ideas.
Opioids, Democrats. (Also not a euphemism, swear to God.) The road to the White House is paved with opioids.
- Hitler was a snappy dresser.
- Pol Pot’s name is so easy to spell.
- Yes, 700 young men died in the USS Arizona, but remember that shot from Michael Bay’s Pearl Harbor?
- Stalin’s hair was gorgeous.
- Many people in the burn ward forge lasting friendships with their fellow patients.
- The Diary of Anne Frank has earned its publisher millions of dollars over the years, spurring job creation.
- The Reverend Jim Jones had a very diverse congregation.
- Mobuto Sese Seko could wear the fuck out of a leopard-skin pillbox hat; most people–hell, most dictators–couldn’t pull that off.
- Mao was prolific.
And we close once again with the Big H:
- No Hitler, no Bill Graham: if the Nazis don’t exist, than Wulf Grajonca stays in Berlin and grows up to manage Can.
This is a fun game, New York Times. Can we not play it anymore?
Brooklyn, New York — Rhonda Lynn is a kindergarten teacher and a Democrat who didn’t vote for Donald Trump. Now she’s wrestling with the consequences.
Lynn’s deep-seated exhaustion is matched only by passion for her students. Up to 70% of them utilize some sort of government assistance, from housing vouchers to free breakfast programs. She became teary as she described a student who never seemed to want to go home in the winter. Her family’s heat had been turned off. Mrs. Lynn reached out to the parents and connected them with a local program that provided relief from utility bills.
“They were sleeping by the open oven,” she said, her eyes liquid.
So she is not surprised in the slightest that one of Trump’s first proposals is to cut federal funds that help the organization.
“We told y’all this shit would happen!” she said.
Here in Brooklyn, I’ve been interviewing many people like Mrs. Lynn: supporters of Mrs. Clinton, or a third party, or non-voters, who were ignored by the mass media as it went traipsing through Oklahoma to gently interview the stupidest white people in existence. And they’re upset.
“They’re surprised Trump’s a scumbag? I coulda told ’em,” asked Jesus Ortega, a reluctant Clinton supporter who is enrolled in a program called Brooklyn WorkAdvance that trains mostly unemployed workers to fill well-paying manufacturing jobs. Trump has proposed eliminating a budget pot that pays for the program. “My cousin Louis worked for him. Orange pendejo paid him 60 cents on the dollar.
“First damn words out of his mouth announcing his campaign was some racist bullshit,” Ortega’s friend Kermit Vance added.
We were in a diner, because in these types of articles you have to go to a diner. I came to Brooklyn to see how residents would react to the sadness and disappointment of Trump voters, who are now realizing that they may have been sold a bill of goods.
“No sympathy,” Vance said.
“You shitting me?” said Ortega.
I reminded them about rural voters’ economic anxiety. Vance was speechless; Ortega stabbed me with a fork. I left the diner to speak to the only other source acceptable to a New York Times columnist: a cab driver. Yousef Duallo is from Haiti, and has been in Brooklyn for three years. I told him that many Trump voters felt resentful for being mocked as dumb.
“Then tell them to stop doing dumb things! Do you speak to these people?”
I told him that I was flying to Kentucky that night to speak to Trump voters in a diner.
“Tell them!” He let me out of the cab, and I immediately hailed another one. Michel Dubois is also from Haiti, and has been a cab driver for six years. I tell him that Trump voters are surprised that his budget would cut programs they relied on. Mr. Dubois started laughing and didn’t stop until he dropped me off at home.
I remember something Mrs. Lynn, the kindergarten teacher, said to me.
“Why don’t you stop commiserating about being wet with the idiots who steered the ship onto the rocks?”
I went upstairs and flagellated myself with a whip for twenty minutes, then packed for Kentucky. There were coal miners waiting for me at a diner.
© 2025 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments