Friday, January 20, 2017


All images above from The New Yorker, except for this one right here:  

(I was messing around with the Photo Editor app last night.) 

Monday, January 16, 2017


You know how Herr Cheeto mocked Hillary for having all these A-list superstars (Beyonce, Lady Gaga, George Clooney, etc.) going to bat for her, and how he tried to say he didn't "need" the support of those heavy hitters because he wanted a low-key, dignified celebration of America and American values or whatever? 

Yeah, not buying that for a second.

Seeing as how Donald Trump was, is, and always will be the most egregious famewhore who ever famewhored, the ONLY thing that matters to him is getting his bitter orange ass sucked by the cream of the crop, the most famous of the famous, the best of the best.

And he has to settle for Chachi Arcola from Happy Days and Jagger from General Hospital

Meanwhile, Hillary would've easily scored Richie Cunningham 
and Mick Jagger without breaking a sweat. 
That sort of schadenfruede is the only thing that's cheering me up about this whole mess. That, and the fact that Trump's narcissism is the only thing holding him together. I mean, when even right-wing douchetard Gene Simmons declines an offer to perform, you know The Great Pumpkin has gotta be like an ass hair away from suffering a giant orange meltdown. 

So it seems that at least he's getting the inauguration that he deserves. Cold comfort for sure, but in times like these you gotta take what you can get. 

Thursday, January 12, 2017


Many thanks to my friend Natalie S., who provided the original inspiration for this post. 

Paul Ryan has the countenance and wit of a guy who has been browbeaten, emasculated and humiliated by every significant female figure in his life.  

You know the guy, or--if you don't know him--you know the stereotype. The guy who's always on his cell phone having this sort of conversation with his wife: 

"Hey hon? I can't stay home with Kaitlynn and Dakota on Sunday. Remember, I was going to go over to Dave's house to watch the game? I did tell you. No, I did. But--it's the Super Bowl. You don't remember?" *Sigh*........................................"Yes, I'm still here. Yes. Yes. Right. Okay. Sure. No, I'm not mad. I'm not. I'm not. That's fine. That's fine. I'm fine with that. That's fine. You go have your spa day with Jenn and Jess. I'll just....I'll take the kids to Chuck E. Cheese or something. Maybe they'll have the game on there." *Presses palm into forehead.* "Right. Okay. Okay. Okay. I told you I'm not mad. I'm not. I'm not. All right. See you when I get home. Okay. Okay. Okay. Goodbye."    

Consequently, he makes this face a lot....

"No, really--I'm fine with that. It's fine. Everything's fine."

In a perfect world, Paul Ryan would still be living in Janesville, Wisconsin, working in middle management, shuttling his preciously-named kids around in a minivan, quietly resenting his wife, and clearing the cache on his browser every night so his "better half" doesn't find out that he jerks it to babysitter porn at every possible opportunity.

But alas, the little pindick is in Washington where at this very moment he is working tirelessly to push legislation that restricts access to abortion, birth control, cancer screenings, and anything else he can think of to shit all over women's healthcare and reproductive rights.

I prefer alternate universe Paul Ryan, the one stuck in Janesville with a passive aggressive, boner-killing wife. I even feel a tiny bit sorry for that version of him. 

But not this guy. Fuck this guy.


*according to a source who really hopes she's not related to him.