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Week of Oct. 5

By October 9, 20205 Comments

This week: The VP candidates share the stage with each other and a special friend; Donald Trump catches what is definitely not his first virus; I never promised you a non-lethal Rose Garden; A very old lady shows us what democracy looks like; Our shitty leader can’t bring himself to denounce white supremacist terrorists… again!; And the rock world mourns the loss of possibly the greatest of all the Van Halens.
Dig it…

This week: Our 2020 VP candidates share the stage with each other and a special friend; Donald Trump catches what is definitely not his first virus; I never promised you a non-lethal Rose Garden; A very old lady shows us what democracy looks like; Our shitty leader can’t bring himself to denounce white supremacist terrorists… again!; And the rock world mourns the loss of possibly the greatest of all the Van Halens.


Let’s begin by talking about the elephant in the room… by which I mean the fly on Mike Pence’s head.
What form of miracle did we all witness on Wednesday?!
Kudos to anyone who had the “over” on how long a fly could sit still.
You could mold a tiny La-Z Boy recliner out of a pile of shit and a fly wouldn’t stay that long.
Nate Silver would blow a gasket trying to predict what we all saw.
I haven’t seen a fly commit to a single spot like that since The Amittyville Horror.
Even other flies must have been like, “Dude… I think Frank is dead. No, wait! Way to go, Frank!”
But like our democracy, I digress…

After at least one of the two vice presidential candidates seemingly washed their hair with a manure-based shampoo, Mike Pence and our future vice president faced off in what amounts to a debate these days: one person says something while the other mumbles “that’s simply not true” until the moderator politely says “your time is up” at which point you apparently have another 30-to-120 seconds to recite talking points completely unrelated to the previous question while the moderator tries to figure out a polite way of saying, “Shut the fuck up already!
It’s enough to literally put a fly to sleep.

Since I decided to take a shot of tequila every time either candidate said “the American people,” (57, by the way!) I passed out in the first ten minutes. Thank goodness for responsible fact checkers.
According to there were 19 noteworthy non-facts told at the VP debate and most of them came from Kamala Harris.
(pause for effect)
I’m kidding!
15 of the 19 came from her opponent, the self-described “born-again evangelical Catholic,” which makes about as much sense as a “devout satanist nursery school teacher.”
Among them, and I’m paraphrasing…

  • Joe Biden will break into your homes and raise your taxes!
  • Mail-in voting is only available to frauds and zombies!
  • Biden and Obama didn’t leave us anything but a floater in the White House pool!
  • My boss hates white supremacists a real lot!

And the biggest doozy of all

  • Your pre-existing condition will be covered.

That one must have got a huge laugh at the White House viewing party.

As for Harris, she did a little truth-bending of her own having to do with job losses and specific aspects of the administration’s (truthfully horrendous) COVID response, but the one undeniably true thing she said during the debate – and again, I’m paraphrasing here – was, “Hey, shit-for-brains. You’ve got a fly on your head.”

At the end of the debate, the candidates spouses came to the stage and despite clearly stated rules that “anyone who was not a candidate or the moderator must wear a mask,” Karen “Mother” Pence (shutter) took off her mask to stand next to her special little born-again evangelical penis flytrap.
Because why let COVID “dominate your life” when you can let ignorant defiance do it instead?

Feel the heat!

Speaking of which…


On Monday, after he defeated COVID, stopping it in its tracks using nothing but sheer will (along with treatment and medications available to literally no one but himself… and possibly Oprah) Donald Trump returned to the White House where he proceeded to lumber awkwardly up a single flight of stairs to stand on a balcony, immediately remove his definitely-infected mask, and wave to the masses while intermittently gasping for breath with all the grace of a person who has a pomegranate stuck in their throat.

Donald Trump (or someone very much like him)

Sorry. That’s Mussolini. My bad. But you get the idea.
But before officially leaving Walter Reed Hospital, the president went ahead and left Walter Reed Hospital, forcing a driver and a secret service agent to get inside a fucking car with his infected ass-face and drive around as if to say, “reports of my death, though completely understandable, have been greatly exaggerated.”

Baby On Board

And he was nowhere near done doing what he does best: setting an awful example for humanity.
Back at the hospital, just before his actual release, our long, national carbon-based nightmare reached for his phone faster than a tween who’s supposed to be doing her homework, and tweeted…

“Don’t let it dominate your life!” Even if it kills you. Which, as everyone who gives a shit knows, it has done to over 200 thousand Americans. So, solid leadership! I’d give it an A+… minus whatever you have to take away from an A+ to make it a very lenient D-.
And by the way, the reason you falsely believe you feel better than you did 20 years ago is because you were recently injected with more steroids than Lance Armstrong on Day 17 of the Tour de France.

It’s not known exactly how the president contracted the virus, though “from a random prostitute” seems as likely as anything else. What we do know is that a week earlier, the White House staged a display of what can only be described as unimaginable dumbshittery when it held an inadvisably-attended and tightly packed nomination ceremony for Judge Amy Coney Wade-Not-Roe Barrett in the White House Rose Garden where it appears a grand total of one person was actually wearing a mask!

And that person, Senator Thom Tillis of North Carolina, ended up contracting the virus as well, which I assume the White House promptly used as proof that masks don’t work. You know… because they’re immoral buffoons.

As of Monday the 5th, at least 11 people who attended that ceremony have since tested positive for the coronavirus.
Great party, Mr. President!
So, though perhaps not “super” in size, the outdoor ceremony was definitely a “spreader event,” though experts say the more risky time spent that day was at a reception inside the White House. It’s like planners decided…

Enough of this lightly fresh air! Let’s all move into a confined space with minimal ventilation!

The unlucky many who gained access to that literally “viral event” gathered around the president and the nominee to shake hands, breathe on each other, and pose for pictures that were consistently and predictably photo-bombed by the corona virus.


In Chicago this week, a young anarchist disguising herself as an extremely old nuclear plant technician from the 1950’s attempted to take down our great nation from the inside by clearly and boldly committing voter fraud.I’m kidding, of course, but I bet if I tweeted that along with #Trump2020, President Dipshit would retweet it faster than a fly falling asleep on his running mate’s apathetic coconut.
The actual story here, and it’s a great one, is that a 102-year-old woman named Beatrice Lumpkin (because what else would her name be) was so determined to vote in this election that she donned herself wrinkled-head to curled-toes in protective gear to drop her ballot in a mailbox that somehow still existed outside her apartment building.

Lumpkin told reporters, quote,

“The very future of democracy is on the line… If I had the chance, there would be a whole lot I could say to President Trump.”

Though my guess is “I would let you grab my pussy” wouldn’t be one of them.

Even Lumpkin agrees the outfit may have been overkill for a trip to the mailbox, but she felt that she had to prepare for the possibility she would be dragged away to a ceremony at the Rose Garden


And finally, after the President of the United States tweeted this last spring…

… plans apparently almost immediately got under way to supposedly do just that… whatever the fuck “that” is.
Cut to several months later and it has been revealed that Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer was the target of a kidnapping and/or possible murder plot by white supremacists posing as non-terrible humans. And to be clear, planning for this plot began shortly after that tweet. And yet, instead of publicly condemning the conspirators, Mr. “Good people on both sides” thought it best to redirect his attacks at the democratically elected Governor tweeting “Governor Whitmer has done a terrible job” and lamenting that she didn’t say “thank you” to the guy who’s rhetoric was undoubtedly the true catalyst for the plot in the first place.
I’m not going to bother with a silly punchline here, but I will remind you that everybody who is voting for Trump knows all of this and still pretends they’re somehow making America great again.


Now, more then ever, I’m happy to end, as usual, on a positive, albeit pretty damn sad note…
This week’s musical guest is, of course, Van Halen.
In 1978, I went to my first concert. It was called “A Day on the Green” and took place at the Oakland Coliseum in Northern California where I grew up. The line up included AC/DC (with the still-living Bon Scott) Foreigner (don’t laugh – they were huge at the time) and Aerosmith, who were headlining. The “middle act” was a band my friends and my 14-year-old self had not heard of yet: Van something-or-other. Here’s a photo I found a while ago from that exact concert along with my actual torn ticket stub in the upper left.

They blew everybody else on the bill out of the water (or is it “off the green”?) that day, and I became an instant fan, buying their ridiculously good debut album probably on the way home, and going to see them in concert every year for the next 10 years.
This is supposedly the set list for that show. I can neither confirm nor deny its accuracy, but imagine, if you will, a 14-year-old me, basically living on what was simply known then as “Hard Rock,” and being distracted momentarily by a fat joint (probably rag weed, Columbian Gold at best) when suddenly these guys come out and open their show with “On Fire”.
Like DLR says…

Turn me up real loud
I’m in your… eeeeears!


Peace, y’all.


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