Tag: the daily recounting (Page 2 of 4)

They didn’t know how much it costs. The conversation can stop at that, can’t it? They didn’t know how much it costs. The way it worked, back when the adults were in charge, was that the Congressional Budget Office would look at a proposed bill, and then they would do math at the proposed bill; this process would take a week or two because, even though some people I won’t name don’t realize this, government is complicated. Now, the CBO did examine the previous Murdercare bill and found that it would throw 24 million people off the insurance rolls and this bill is mostly the same, but it is not exactly the same and these sorts of things–as I mentioned–are complicated, so the bill needs to be re-scored.

The House Republicans didn’t wait for the new report from the CBO. Nor did they hold any hearings on the bill, but the CBO bit is the twist of the knife. The Republicans, we are told, are the Fiscal Conservatives™ in the Congress. There may not be an act less fiscally conservative than buying something without asking the price: that’s how a member of the Saudi royal family buys a car.

Things Less Fiscally Conservative Than What The House GOP Did Today:

• Marrying a stripper.
• Buying a boat.
• Making it rain.
• Putting all of your money in a pile and setting it on fire.
• The surrender bet in blackjack.

And so on.

If I may remind you, these are the people who cheered on their dried vomit-stain of a president with the exulting cries of “He’s gonna run the government like a business.” Can you imagine running a business this way? Don’t businesses generally, say, check how much a plan will cost before implementing the plan? Because, you know: it’s a business? Wait, there’s one, and it should be fresh in your mind. The Fyre Festival. That was a business run this way: a huge, splashy announcement without a single thought as to what the fuck they were doing.

They didn’t know how much it costs. Everything else is detail; all the corpses that this thoughtless and shameful action will create are mere background to that fact: they didn’t know how much it costs. No matter what may come in the Senate, these motherfuckers did this and no one should ever let them forget it. We are now in Scarlet Letter territory, and if the Democrats can’t take back the House in 2018, then fuck ’em for useless.

This has been the 105th day of our national nightmare; may we wake soon.

To Whom It May Concern:

I write this letter to persons, beings, or intelligences unknown in hopes of pleading my case. From the events of the recent past, I can only come to the conclusion that my consciousness exists in some sort of artificial construct. A “virtual reality” if you will. There are any number of Hollywood films I could reference to liken my situation to, but the point is this: someone needs to call IT; the program is malfunctioning, and things are getting weird. Whatever you’re doing with my body is fine by me: battery, sex stuff, food; I don’t care. Just debug the code.

Alternately, this might be a Twilight Zoning. If it, I demand to know what I did that was so ironic that it required a Twilight Zoning?

Excuse me.

ANSWER ME.

Stop yelling. You don’t even know who you’re yelling at.

I most certainly do. Have you read the papers?

Since it isn’t 1985, no.

It was a euphemism. have you?

I can do nothing but.

Is any of this bullshit possible?

Not a whit of it. Nothing that is happening right now could ever happen for a million years.

Right. Therefore, this cannot be the actual reality, and must instead be one created for us. By whom? I know not, but I will complain nonetheless.

You’ll complain to no one. This is the real life.

This is just fantasy.

Caught in a Trumpslide.

No escape from insanity.

That was fun.

None of this fun in any way. Anyway, Basketball Head is trying to look busy. His 100th day is coming up, and he made many promises that–for some reason–the media believes his supporters will care if he breaks. They do not. Whatever failures he has will be blamed on the obstructionist Democrats, or the activist judges, or the topic will be changed to Hillary Clinton.

However, the media is blinded in their desperation to normalize this carnival of nightmares, AND are therefore reporting about the 100 day benchmark like traditions still matter and we weren’t on the downhill side of the American Singularity, BUT Donald does nothing but watch teevee news and press the lever for his sugar-water, SO the 100 day thing is important to him.

(Note: the neologism “normalize” becoming so prevalent speaks to how weird everything’s getting, doesn’t it? See also: weaponize.)

An ontological question, Enthusiasts: what do you call something that never lived, but yet refuses to die? Not a zombie: a zombie used to be alive, died, and came back. This is a creature that was never a creature, just a husk of dark potential, void of sentience or empathy or compassion. I speak, of course, about the Republican health bill, now known as Pleasewon’tsomeonecare. It lives! (Even though it didn’t in the first place.)

Remember the Freedom Caucus? They were the bootstrap-lickers that rejected the last version of the bill for not being cruel enough. This new plan kicks more people off the rolls, and also permits the bow hunting of the poor. Moderate Republicans agreed with the first part, but prefer to be seen in public as disagreeing with the second. For the second time in 100 days, the GOP has fucked up their healthcare push.

But they got to hold a press conference about it and the president saw it on his teevee and that made him feel happy and strong.

In terms of “potential saviors of the Republic,” incompetence is running neck and neck with the Judiciary. This happened again today:

Trump Administration does thing.

Judge says, “No, you can’t thing.”

Turnip tweets out that the judge should suck his balls.

Repeat Ad Impeachium.

That keeps happening, and it amuses me every time. This go-round, he managed to get Circuit courts mixed up with District courts, plus he said “See you in the Supreme Court” and there’s at least one level before that. Then he mused about breaking up the Ninth Circuit, as if he could do that. It’s almost–almost, mind you–as if he doesn’t have a detailed understanding of the workings of the American government. Just almost.

And the day’s coup de grace, Trump’s tax plan. It is a piece of bald laziness: I was a terrible student, and I recognize the lack of effort in this meager offering. It’s got last-minute stink all over it.

Look at this bullshit:

That’s it. That’s the whole thing. Nothing on the back, either. This might as well have been hand-written. We can add “tax code” to the list of things Donald Trump didn’t know was so complicated.

This has been the 97th day of our national nightmare; we may soon wake.

I’ve been overestimating him, Enthusiasts. In my little skitches that I write? I have been spotting Trump at least ten IQ points, and that’s being charitable. My Donald speaks, if idiosyncratically, in complete sentences. His trains of thought run straight-ish.

But I have been mistaken.

The plan was to do one of said skitches, but I can’t; I don’t have it in me; not after this: the transcript from AP interview has left me without the will to live, or come up with racist things for Turnip to say. I feel like I need to be with people right now, and you’re the only ones available. Buckle up, it’s gonna be a stupid ride.

It does not start well. Also, “I don’t have to read it” is the Trump Administration’s motto.

(A reminder: he has had no legislative accomplishments, and spends the day watching teevee. His television habits will be a theme.)

It’s amazing the thing’s he’s always heard.

(You may be wanting to ripcord out of here right now, and y’know what? FUCK YOU, JACK! I had to read this and now I’ll never sleep again; you have to, too. I thought you were my ride-or-die.

Don’t be weird.

Get out of the parenthesis.)

It is at this point that my crush on the reporter began, and it was pure, Enthusiasts. I did not look at the byline before starting in on this…well, word salad isn’t correct, is it? Ingredients maintain integrity in a salad; this is more of a word slaw. Without any knowledge of physical attribute, or even clue towards gender, I fell in love. A sassy redhead? A balding schlub? Who were you, AP? Reveal yourself that I may love you.

SEE? She/he is the love of my life. And, yeah, the president’s a literal madman, but I need to make this journalist APotD. By this point in the transcript, I have decided his/her name is Agriculture Payne and will be played by Jessica Williams or Josh Molina when he was young and dewy.

“Have you seen the tremendous success? the bent man cried out. He had a stick. He had a bag. Where he was there had been a road when he was a child but now there was not. Three days since his last meal and two days since last saw a living creature. Squirrel. Missed it with his slingshot and did not waste a moment mourning. The squirrel looked down at him from its branch.

“Have you seen the tremendous success?”

When the fields caught fire they made a sound like banshees. The bombs just sounded like bombs.

“Have you seen the tremendous success?”

1.  No, it won’t.
2. Dummy.
3. One percent is a terrible investment for anything. Unless it’s, like, owning one percent of Apple. That would be wonderful. But if this demented dildo is talking about a return, then one percent is awful.
4. Also, he’s just pulling numbers out of his enormous ass.

We didn’t just buy a wall, we bought a super-duper, ultra-awesome, solid gold, red-white-and-blue, 3000 foot high wall with motherfucking RAIL GUNS and shit on it, and we’re gonna bomb Juarez or wherever.

Plus, the wall does not exist and will never be built. That means it costs either ∞ or ∅, depending on whether you’re an optimist or a pessimist.

“Though passion may have strained, let it not break our bonds of friendship. Can I get you some coffee?”

“Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country. Have you eaten? I’ll have them send something up.”

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. Try this peach. The best peaches, super-duper peaches.”

Oh, and that may be the biggest “by the way” I’ve ever encountered in the wild. They usually don’t grow that large. This motherfucker just by-the-wayed Only Korea.

If you’re keeping score, this is where I began drinking.

Here’s the question: do you think Donald Trump actually believes that this event he’s describing happened? (Representative Cummings most certainly did not say that to him.) Or is he just lying?

Second question: which is worse?

Barack Obama was the editor of Harvard’s law review. Just leaving that fact out there.

I wish I could not watch; we’re stuck here for now. Speaking of being stuck, Basketball Head kept the conversation firmly planted on the one topic he’s truly conversant in: teevee, and his love for it. Not kidding: the President of the United States spends a good ten percent of an interview discussing his favorite shows.

Did you know the man with the nuclear codes involves himself with news programs’ ratings?

Now you know. Weren’t you happier before you knew that?

Also: sudden 9/11. Where did that 9/11 come from? I didn’t see it coming, did you? That paragraph was just chugging along, insulting people and boasting, and then BOOM out of nowhere 9/11 shows up.

He won’t stop talking about his stories:

Peter Sellers was in this movie. It was called Being There. Oteil was in it, too.

It continues:

Agriculture Payne, I love you. Let me take you in my stumpy arms and put my face in whatever you’re doing for genitals. You are dryer than a martini made of sand, and I love you.

Otherwise, this game has gotten weird and frightening, and I would like to be benched. This has been the 94th day of our national nightmare; may we wake soon.

What didn’t Trump know today?

1. Who’s in charge of North Korea.
2. Which way the aircraft carrier that he, in defiance of all sanity and against all prayers, commands is going.

And let’s tie those facts together for some late night fun: he thought that the aircraft carrier was going to North Korea. Yay, we’re all gonna fucking die.

Is David Osoff the future of the Democratic Party?

1. First of all, his name is Jon.
2. Maybe?

Did that last question lend itself to a numbered answer?

1. Not at all.

Anyway, the United Kingdom is still Brexiting. In fact, they may be upping their game and going for a hard Brexit. All signs point to the situation turning into some sort of HyperBrexit by September. Theresa May is their Prime Minister now; she’s a Conservative, which are not like our conservatives, but they also kinda are. Brexit is British for Trump: an incredibly stupid idea foisted upon the cities by old people, racists, and the rural dumb. This morning, she called for elections, because that’s something you can do in England. It’s like calling Shotgun, I guess.

The Conservatives (also known as the Tories) are in charge now. David Cameron, who once fucked a pig’s head, was in charge but quit within minutes of the Brexit announcement, yelling “Fixed it!” over his shoulder as he sprinted towards somewhere, anywhere, just not here. So, Theresa May took over and promised not to call for early elections, but…oh, let CNN do the heavy lifting:

Romance isn’t dead.

Parliament is gridlocked and fractious now, but May and the Tories are strong in the polls; she hopes to consolidate her power before she starts the Brexit negotiations. Her challengers include the Labour Party (also know as the Wazzocks), the Liberal Democrats (also known as the Silly Pumpkins), and the U.K. Independence Party (also known as Nazis). None of them have their shit together; this Brexit is gonna get harder than Rocco Siffredi.

In other news, Turkey took a vote and decided that they wanted to be a dictatorship. Maybe the ebola virus is right.

This has been the 89th day of our national nightmare; may we wake soon.

JFK was in the Navy, and so was Nixon. LBJ, Ford, Carter, and George H.W. Bush, too. (Carter was even a Midshipman, just like the basketball player David Robinson and the football player Roger Staubach.) Cesar Chavez and Harvey Milk. Armistead Maupin and Thomas Pynchon and Robert Heinlein and L. Ron Hubbard. Neil Armstrong was in the Navy–a lot of astronauts were–and Don Rickles and Charlie Murphy, too. Lenny Bruce and Larry Flynt.

What I’m saying is: don’t judge the Navy for Steve Bannon.

Steve’s smart–he’s been successful in several fields spanning multiple decades–but somewhere along the way a bad command got in the system and now he’s King of the Racists. (I know we’re supposed to use the term “nationalist” or “Alt-Right” or “whatnot” but never tell a lie when you aren’t forced to.)

I think I know what happened.

You see what happened?

Class?

Anyone?

Hey, jackass. Are you chewing gum? Did you bring enough for everyone?

Oh, you did? Well, pass it out and let’s have a chewing party.

What is this?

I am asking an imaginary classroom questions, and also redistributing wealth.

Stop it.

Okay. On September 11th, 2001, I lived in Los Angeles: Orange Street in Hollywood, which is right in between Mann’s Chinese Theater and the Magic Castle in the Hollywood Hills. I had a studio on the seventh floor with a view of the Hollywood Sign and a pill habit. Two parts vicodin to one part valium, and then xanax so I could sleep. I had a routine in those days as far as music: Elvis Presley’s Sun Sessions in the morning and Panthalassa to go to sleep.

The phone did not generally ring at six a.m. It was my mother, and she told me to turn on the teevee, which I did and promised her I’d stay safe–as if that were my promise to make–and hung up and shut the teevee off and rolled back over to sleep. The phone rang again, my buddy Richie. I left the teevee on this time and watched for several minutes. People forget the chaos. There was supposed to have been a plane headed towards Los Angeles. There were supposed to be planes headed everywhere. Pants. If there was an emergency situation hurtling towards me, I thought, then I needed to be wearing pants.

I called my friends Chris and Tess, who lived six or seven blocks west of me. This was a long time ago, and they were very young and poor like I was, so the phone by their bed was a Wolverine phone, bright yellow with a foot-tall posable Canadian mutant atop it, and when someone called you it went SNIKT SNIKT. So that’s how Chris and Tess found out about 9/11.

Sitting on the edge of my bed watching teevee just like the rest of the country. Phone rings again. My friend Brian manages a bar; I’m a regular there. He lives with five guys he knows from Boston College in a Brady Bunch house in the suburbs of North Hollywood. There is a swimming pool in the back, and the kitchen has faded linoleum floors and pressboard cabinets stained to look like oak. The lawn is beyond salvation, but lemons grow on the trees unbidden. Come over, he said.

I had a sky-blue 1992 Chevy Corsica that had started smoking the second I entered Los Angeles County and not stopped breaking since; I would eventually take the plates off, pop the hood, and let the city claim it for scrap. It drove that morning, though, and so I motored through the Cahuenga Pass. You can take the 101, but Highland is faster even with the lights. I had my windows down and everyone else on the road was listening to the news, too. Right on Barham, park in the long driveway.

There is no one home but a very small dog who I will later learn is named Alabama. (True Romance was a very big movie at the time.) At the time, I took the puppy for a sign. Innocence, love, forgiveness. One of those, whichever. Now I know it was a dog on a Tuesday morning.

My friends were at a diner around the corner; I joined them and ate eggs and bacon while we watched the teevee with the rest of the room. When we went back to the house, I felt very guilty about getting high but I still did.

The next day was a Wednesday, and Wednesday is the day that the new comic books come in. I would meet my friend Gary at the Starbucks on Melrose, and we would walk two blocks west to the Golden Apple. There are always jet contrails over LA. Something about the weather. None today, though, and no helicopters. When we walked into the store, I looked at the wall bearing all the new issues and asked, “Where the fuck were you?”

No one thought that was funny.

The next day, the bar that Brian managed reopened and I was sitting at the bar drinking red wine and saying stupid shit.

“I’d join up right now,” I said.

There was a man who drank at that bar named John. I liked him very much. He had served in Vietnam, and he was kind enough not to laugh at me when I said that. The feeling faded quickly.

But for some, it didn’t. 9/11 turned a certain subsection of Americans raving mad, into crusaders for Western Civilization against the fierce Mohammedan hordes,this galvanizing call to arms that–for lack of a better word–radicalized them into action. (And, ironically, adopting the precise, but mirror-image, worldview of their supposed enemy.) It happened to Dennis Miller. Remember Dennis?

And it happened to Steve, I say with no basis to back up that statement. Just seems right.

Anyway: Stevie’s getting canned.

We know this because this is what The Foul One said before he fired Flynn and Manafort, and the man’s not clever; he only one or two tricks, but unlike those other two traitors, Bannon has backing. He is owned by the Mercers, who helped put Trump in office with their money and marketing. The Mercers also own Breitbart, which Bannon used to run but also still secretly runs.

This is going to be fun.

This has been the 83rd day of our national nightmare; may we wake soon.

I don’t understand any of this. I recognize the glyphs. Those are called letters, which are then grouped into words; I know most of these words. But the combination is making my nose bleed.

No, that’s not right. It’s supposed to be the other way around. I’m sure this is just an error.

Totally.

A drowning man will take you down with him. If you try to save him, that is, or get anywhere near him. Experienced lifeguards will advise you to render the victim unconscious with a length of rebar before attempting a rescue, or letting him die before you save him. Donny’s drowning, and he is desperately grasping for a handhold. A tiny, tiny handhold. He is attacking everyone in sight, with no regard for strategy or repercussion, and if it weren’t for the fact that the world was ending, it would be hilarious.

So, who’d Turnip pick fights with today?

HIS OWN RIGHT FLANK

I’m loathe to give the mushy pile of pumpkin shit advice, but NOOOOOOO. These are the stalwarts here, the ones who would have died marching for him, and Donny’s calling them out in public. He’s really fucking calling them out, too:

I give it until the end of next week: Trump in the presidential limo outside Meadows’ office, clinking beer bottles together.

“FREEEEEEE-dom Caucus! Come and out PLAAAAAAY-ay!”

This is not, as I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you, the way to get people on your team. It also notifies the rest of the Republicans in Congress that you’ll turn on them the second they’re not useful to you any more. Washington’s not like New York or Hollywood: one bank doesn’t like your deal, take it to the next one; there’s a million production companies, and dozens of big buyers in L.A. It’s not like he can peddle his healthcare bill to a different legislative body.

(“Y’know what? Fuck the House. Let’s pitch the Knesset.”

“We can’t do that, Mr. President.”

“Warm the plane up!”)

Also: Raul Labrador is not a real name. Raul Labrador is a character from Little Aleppo’s long-running soap opera Tomorrow’s Yesterdays; he is a geologist/masseur, and he has an identical twin sister named Succulent Labrador.

CHINA

What does this even mean, you rank simpleton? I guarantee you this ninny couldn’t explain to you why tariff wars are a bad thing if you spotted him the Smoot and the Hawley. China buys our cars, and some of our movies, and–I was surprised by this–American crops; we buy China’s everything. China made the thing I’m typing this on, and probably the thing you’re reading it on. America no longer makes a lot of stuff. Whether this is a good thing or a bad thing is up for debate, but it is a fact. We do, however, love buying stuff so much. The only thing Americans like better than stuff is cheap stuff, and slapping a 20% tariff on said cheap stuff doesn’t mean China gives us 20%, it means we pay Walmart and Target 20% more. Plus, China starts ratcheting up the import taxes on our stuff. We know this because this is what has happened every single time it’s been attempted.

I’m a moron and I can understand this.

Also, we return to strategy: not the best idea to announce before a meeting, “I’m gonna be real prick to this guy!”

Also also, the Wigged Whiner invited President Jinping to Mar-A-Lago–because of course he did–and asked him to play golf, and here’s why this is funny: golf is a bit of a sore spot in China now. It’s an aspirational and bourgeois activity, and therefore banned, but that didn’t stop people from building golf courses all over the place; naturally, all the courses had a local Communist Party mandarin attached to them and the corruption became so rampant that Beijing had to step in, and you do not want Beijing stepping in. So, like I said, it’s a sore spot that could have been avoided by ten seconds of googling. Or by not dismantling the State Department.

THE NEW YORK TIMES, HUNDREDS OF YEARS OF WELL-ESTABLISHED CASE LAW

I like how casual he is. “Change libel laws?” It’s like a note you leave yourself by the phone. “Ice cream cake for Timmy’s bday?”

Second: if those that claim these kind of tweets are “distractions” and that he does this intentionally are correct, then they must answer one question. If he’s so smart, why would he make himself look so stupid? There surely must be better distractions. Go after Arnold again. Call Elizabeth Warren “Pocahontas.” People love that one. You don’t make it look as though you have no idea what the president actually does.

Unless, you know: you have no idea what the president actually does. This leads me back to reminding you of the greatest failing of the media during this campaign season: no one asked him how a bill becomes a law.

CAN THE PRESIDENT CHANGE LIBEL LAWS: AN FAQ

Can the president change libel laws?

No.

Why not?

So many reasons.

This has been the 70th day of our national nightmare; may we wake soon.

Life is not a David Mamet play, Enthusiasts. You can tell by how arrhythmic the dialogue is. Things are mostly as they appear; people are generally who they seem. It looks like a cabal of Nationalists bent on alienating the world while wiping their asses with the Constitution led by a 12-year-old wearing an orange fat suit because that is what is happening: these fuckers are trying to privatize and/or destroy all government services so…well, there’s the part I can’t figure. The privatizing I understand: Trump and his buddies are greedy pigs who would shit in their own grandmother’s mouth to distract her while they rummaged through her purse. Alienating the world and destroying services…well, I’d say that endgame there is “the race war” if people wouldn’t accuse me of being melodramatic.

But–and this is the good news–they also look incompetent because they are. The Trump Administration is not playing the long con: they do not know what they’re doing. Imagine a monkey. Not even an ape, one of the little screeching fuckers with the long tails, and take that monkey to a high school and ask him to teach algebra. Back in the jungle, that monkey was in his element–great monkey, the best monkey, the most beautiful monkey–but now the monkey will not prosper, because he does not know the transitive property and will probably bite a couple kids.

They want to do such terrible things, and they’re so terrible at it.

(To continue the school metaphor because it amuses me: if the Trump White House became the administration of a high school, then–obviously–they would immediately begin planning to sell all the students into sexual slavery. Luckily for the students, Principal Trump would spend all day yelling offensive bullshit into the PA system (“I need the chemistry teacher with the giant cha-chas to come my office.”) and then get involved in decades-old intra-and-inter department battles; this would cause a strike. Also, the student newspaper would find out about the slavery deal, plus the cops would catch Bannon buying vodka for sophomore girls. They’d also maybe burn the goddamned school down, too. It is impossible to overstate how shit these jackals are at governing.)

So, here’s some terrible news from today, and the reason why the Monster Squad has already fucked it up:

Taxes – Oh, no!

As you know (if you only consume right-wing media), Turnip won big in the healthcare fight; from here, it’s on to a complete revision of the tax code that will slice rates for the rich, and for corporations. It might even include something the GOP is now calling a “border adjustment tax.” Who can guess what that used to be called? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Taxes – Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Since back here in Reality World the GOP took the worst kind of dick* on the healthcare bill, they no longer have the ability to pass the bill they want. They were counting on a trillion dollars in wiggle room that Obamacare’s repeal would free up, which is no longer there; this means they’d need to make their reforms debt-neutral to get through the Senate because of procedural rules OR get some Democrats to go in with them, and that isn’t happening.

Jared Kushner – Oh, no!

Look at this bullshit:

Did you see that bullshit? Sounds scary. Secretive group of unelected billionaires looking to use the Oval Office to imprint their philosophy upon history’s page. OOOOOOoooooooh. Scary.

Jared Kushner – Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You’re gonna laugh.

Did you laugh? I did. Jared Kushner is a little snot with a rich crook for a father–Ivanka married him for his money, not the other way around–and he’s got less blood than a normal human, and a double-eyelid called a nictitating membrane. He flickers them at people in meetings. Jared’s not particularly bright, but he chose the right mother and wife and so now he is going to save the world with the help of several tech bros and a couple guys from Goldman Sachs.

You wanna laugh again?

LEAD ADVISOR. So, you know: the VA, universal broadband, the entire computer system of the United States government aaaaaaaand the Middle East.

We need to pause here and delve into motive and intent, Enthusiasts. Let us state our assumptions first:

A) This is a herculean amount of work, and no human being could possibly succeed at everything; in fact, trying to perform all these tasks would most likely lead to poor performance at all these tasks.

B) These topics each contain an alexandrian amount of information, libraries’ worth, and mastering just one of them would require years of intense study and practice.

C) Any mildly intelligent person would understand A and B intuitively.

D) Jared Kushner is a mildly intelligent person.

And now we can ask our question. Is Jared Kushner: fucking around, not realize how mildly intelligent he is and think he’s capable of all of this, or does he think he’s getting away with something? My vote is C “thinks he’s getting away with something” partially because–like his father-in-law–he’s been getting away with it all his life, but also because he’s testifying in front of a Senate committee next on Thursday because he lied about a meeting he had with that pesky Russian ambassador who I simply cannot believe hasn’t been murdered yet.

The worst thing that ever happened to Little Jared was his father going to jail; if they have anything on him, he’ll turn on his daddy.

Devin Nunes – Oh, no!

There’s no “oh, no” with this guy, it’s all “oh, for fuck’s sake.” Remember when I told you (with no evidence) that when he disappeared the other day, only to emerge with top-secret documents that didn’t back up Turnip’s story but touted as if they did, that he got them from the White House? Yeah: he got them from the White House. The pinhead literally jumped out of a car at a light to go the White House. There were three other people in the car, and he thought no one would notice. Devin thought he was in a spy movie. And then he went to the White House, where they keep records of who comes in and out. You’re not just allowed to walk through the front door even if you’re invited: someone has to come get you, and they write down their name, too.

Devin Nunes is going to jail. I will take any bets that are offered. TotD makes no other predictions, but that man is too stupid to remain free.

This has been the 67th day of our national nightmare; may we wake soon.

*The worst kind of dick to take is surprise dick, followed closely by dry.