August 29, 2024: Fascination with Crowd Size, Shit Attracts Flies. He is Dickless

 

 “And what is this fascination with crowd size?”, President Obama asked at the Democratic National Convention to roaring laughter as he brought his hands together as if he were staring down at an ever disappearing penis. Indeed, what is it with Caesar Disgustus and crowd size?

We have noticed this at least since the first presser held at the White House launching his maladministration back in 2017. He's always bragging, especially about the size of the crowds he attracts. Nobody attracts bigger crowds, not Obama, nor Hillary, nor Martin Luther King, nor Biden, especially now not Harris. Disgustus is king of them all attracting crowds as shit attracts flies, Disgustus is the greatest among all men, just ask him.

It is, of course, grandiose delusion which, combined with an attenuated sense of persecution, composes textbook paranoia. The man is not only a malignant narcissist but is deeply paranoid. Disgustus is mentally ill and cannot ever again be allowed anywhere near the Oval Office nor the nuclear code.

Psychologists Gartner and Segal have hinted, more than casually, that this fascination with crowd size betrays a form of penis envy, with crowd size replacing the 19^th century fascination with locomotives and the peculiarly American fascination with guns as phallic symbols substituting for penises among the tragically less endowed. And, given the testimony of Stormy Daniels, who knows something about well endowed men, tRUMP is “small, but not freakishly small”. It appears even Harris is more endowed than the pathetic excuse for a man that now heads the ReSCUMlickan Party. In the immortal words of Bill Murray's character in “Ghost Busters”, “ he is dickless”. Senator Marco Rubio may well have nailed it. It explains his tiny hands. Perhaps this explains as well his lifelong consistent cowardice, his need to denigrate the brave and the fallen, and his constant sense of victimization. He is a tiresomely pathetic little 'man'; a hopelessly boorish braggart with nothing about which to brag.

It's all projection and confession with Disgustus. Occasionally, nearly always inadvertently or by mistake, the truth slips out. Keep you diaper on Donald and stay out of the locker room lest the truth be discovered and suspicions be verified.

Imprison the Bastard.

August 18, 2024: Lead Us Unto Convention, Deliver Us From Evil, Ours is the Republic

 

“Oh, Kamala, lead us now unto convention and deliver us from evil, for ours is the republic, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen”

----Quotations of Chairman Joe

For the first time in 56 years the Democrats are gathering at Chicago to hold their quadrennial convention, forge a platform and nominate Kamala Harris for the Presidency of the United States. Unlike the dark days of 1968 this will be a brand new sunrise.

The ReSCUMlickans still reeking from their freak show in Milwaukee and suffering from fornicator's remorse find themselves rudderless in turbulent seas. Ranting and raving like a madman, Caesar Disgustus flails about, rambling endlessly about sharks and the 'Great' and 'Beautiful' Hannibal Lecter, a fictional character in the film “Silence of the Lambs” who was, perhaps tellingly, a serial killer and cannibal. Disgustus regales every audience with constantly glowing references to Lecter as well as sharks in what has recently morphed from simple campaign speeches to well publicized press conferences on, for example, the economy. You figure it out, I simply no longer possess the levitational powers nor the mental agility, nor the simple required energy. tRUMP's madness is becoming increasingly irrelevant and, more importantly, boring.

Against boredom the gods themselves struggle in vain. Disgustus finds himself addressing half-empty auditoriums whose crowds begin to slowly file out as he drones on about electric batteries in boats and sharks awaiting in threatening waters, about windmills that kill imaginary birds, about sinister forces afoot to waylay him at every turn. It's all about him you know, hell in a rare moment of honest confession he laid bare his malignant narcissism by telling one crowd that he didn't care about them, he just wanted their vote. Of course what was left unsaid was that he wants their vote not to improve their lot in life, but to stay out of prison.

This is proving all too much for even maggots drawn to the most rancid shit. One witnesses them wriggling free, recoiling from the stench and making for the exits. Even they can no longer stomach this shit.

But while the sun sets on Maggotland, the sun rises on America. Harris and Walz are drawing huge crowds; people are showing up and volunteering in droves to join the 'crusade'; Over half a billion dollars has been raised in the last month, mostly in small donations. In Chicago the Democrats meet to build a new platform for America and nominate a new slate, younger in age, bolder in vision, and openly joyous is celebrating the greatness of this republic and its infinite potential. Happy warriors about the earnest business of delivering us from evil.

Amen

Imprison the Bastard.

August 18, 2024: Politics of Joy, To Breathe Free, Impotence and Agency

 "Against boredom the gods themselves struggle in vain. against laughter every tyrant must fall."

                  ----Quotations of Chairman Joe

When President Joe Biden announced that he was stepping aside and that he is throwing his support behind Vice President Kamala Harris it was as if a millstone had been taken from our collective necks. There was an immediate relief, indeed an exultation, the stench of Barron von Shitsinpants no longer fills the nostrils, at last to breathe free once again.

Thousands gather at her political rallies as she smiles and openly laughs with the audiences.

At a campaign rally where she introduced Tim Walz Her Vice Presidential choice put it most succinctly: “Thank you Madame Vice President for bringing Joy back to our politics”. In this pithy yet telling observation Walz has captured the essence of the contest.

For nearly a decade Caesar Disgustus has been the Merchant of Death. Always gloomy, always moving behind a thinly veiled threat of violence, always the harbinger of disasters real and imagined, and mostly imagined, on the immediate horizon, Disgustus has parlayed fear into political capital. Journalist turned historian Bob Woodward put it clearly with the simple title of his first book on tRUMP: “FEAR”. Disgustus terrorized the country then turned on his own party driving out what little intelligence, courage and honor it possessed and distilling the Grand Old Prostitute into a full blown fascist enterprise with the Donald as the supreme leader. What remains are sniveling lickers of boots and kissers of ass, Donald's ass.

Caesar Disgustus has miscalculated. He has always thought that he could institute a reign of terror and thereby rule not understanding the culture in which this country's political institutions operate. At some point we will have had enough and that point has now been reached.

Psychologists John Gartner and Harry Segal host a weekly podcast called “Shrinking Trump” in which they catalog the mental and emotional decline of our 45^th 'president'. In this weeks edition Gartner made the observation that in a contest between joy and despair or, more precisely, joy and victimization, joy will always win.

In sum, this is why: victimization implies powerlessness. One is constantly victimized and, in the fascist fantasy the strong man emerges to assume agency for the powerless. But, unlike Hitler, tRUMP has internalized the powerlessness by himself becoming the victim, the martyr. “They are doing it to me because they want to do it to you”, he constantly tells his people. “I took a bullet for you” he proclaims in his faux messianic persona in a secularized version of “I nearly died for your sins”. His hero Adolph Hitler, it must be observed, never said that he was the victim, that he was stabbed in the back at Versailles. This is tRUMP's tragic miscalculation. The bond that Disgustus has forged with his following is one a mutually shared grievance and thirst for revenge, but it is born of a naked powerlessness, a powerlessness that can find no relief through any form of revenge, it is simply naked rage, a howling at the moon.

Biden had been making the mistake of empowering tRUMP by highlighting his threat to the republic and, by extension to the nation. Yes he is an existential threat and extremely dangerous one at that, but to inflate his persona is to play into his hands. The answer is belittlement. In the words of our psychologists, the answer is “Shrinking Trump”.

Along comes Harris. Kamala is tRUMP's kryptonite. She is black. She is Asian. She is Indian. She is a woman. She smiles. She laughs. And, devastatingly, she laughs at him.

Poor Donald has no idea how to handle such a force. He rails against her. He belittles her name. He questions her ethnicity claiming that she only recently “turned black”. He tries to mock her laughter telling the great unwashed that he never heard such a laugh and that her laugh makes her sound crazy and that her advisers have put a muzzle on her laughter claiming that if she ever laughs again the race will be over. The truth here is that our fearless leader, a man who is never seen to laugh, is terrified of her laugher.

And this is telling. Laughter is a sign of joy. It is a visceral reaction not easily faked. It communicates not only the absurdity of the moment but the liberation from it. It liberates the audience from the oppressiveness of everything tRUMP represents. Against boredom the gods themselves struggle in vain; against laughter every tyrant must fall. To turn the Dear Leader, the Fuhrer if you will, into a laughingstock is to render him impotent.

In this ridicule is simply not enough. One must bring Joy to bear. Joy is optimistic. Joy gives one Agency, Joy is empowering. It is for this reason that civil rights demonstrators danced and sang songs of hope and promise.

Kamala Harris has plumbed the depths of the national crisis. The battle lines being drawn now, at base, have become a contest between not simply between fear and hope, nor between despair and joy, but between impotence and agency.

There is no doubt where America will turn.

Thank you Kamala for kicking open the doors of the dungeon. We can see and breathe again, we can laugh and dance again.

Imprison the Bastard.

August 17, 2024: It's the Stench, Table is Set, Reason For Hope

 

“It's the stench, stupid!”

----Quotations of Chairman Joe

The table is set. Old Joe has withdrawn from the race, close on the heels of a dismal 'debate' performance against our rotting Caesar Disgustus last June 27. It took about a month to persuade Joe to take a curtain call but in late July Biden did the honorable thing and bowed to father time.

This may not be, however, the whole story. One suspects this may well have been the plan all along. Continue the administration and secure his legacy by passing the torch to his able Vice President, twenty years younger than the drooling, gibbering buffoon lying incessantly and babbling incoherently in opposition immediately after Disgustus, fresh from his coronation at the ReSCUMlickan National Convention already boasting of riding a great 'red' wave, an electoral landslide, back into the oval office.

Instead, after spending months and hundreds of millions in treasure running against our aging president Disgustus now finds himself in in entirely new contest against an opponent 20 years his junior, moreover a black woman, a candidate tailor made to attack his most vulnerable susceptibilities. If ever Disgustus demonstrates his electoral weaknesses it is over gender and race, two issues he simply cannot leave alone. Kamala Harris is precisely the candidate best suited to call out and display to the world the fast decomposing turd that is Donald J. tRUMP.

From a certain perspective Biden's fast footwork transforming the contest from a verbal boxing match into a tag-team wrestling contest appears pure genius. Passing the torch to Harris at this late date eliminates the long and bruising primary contests, the threatened fracturing of the Democratic Party, and the undermining, had the Democrats chosen someone else, of the continuity and legacy of his administration. Pure genius and it looks like this may well have been the plan all along. Why else would Biden have challenged the aging idiot to a debate so early in the electoral cycle?

So, having seamlessly passed the torch, the contest has been reset. Disgustus, now the oldest candidate ever placed before the electorate will face off against Harris. Old vs relative young, white vs. black and East Indian, male vs. female, fascist vs. democrat. The lines could not be more stark, the significance more glaring: barbarism vs. civilization. The very survival of the republican experiment now approaching a quarter of a millennium, at stake.

It all boils down to a simple calculation: will the recoil from the stench of Caesar Disgustus be strong enough to overpower the country's underlying and pervasive racism and sexism? That is the question.

The 'ragin cajun' James Carville, Bill Clinton's 1992 campaign manager, has given us some perspective. Pointing out that in the last four election cycles the American people have twice elected a black man President of the United States with over 50 per cent of the vote. It has chosen by popular vote a woman for President albeit losing in the electoral college. And it has elected a black woman Vice President of the United States. There is every reason for hope.

Indeed there is. And the greatest reason is that the stench the permeates Caesar Disgustus, “Barron Von Shitsinpants” as Michael Cohen famously calls him, is so overpowering that the country simply cannot bring itself to get near enough to the rotting turd to wrap it's arms about him. The stench permeates everything. It flares the nostrils, burns the eyes and lungs, it leaves a putrid taste in one's mouth. One cannot imagine the country willingly returning to the days when every morning it would awake to find yet another steaming pile of fresh shit deposited in one's living room via Fox and Fiends, or Shitter, as the Coward in Chief, sitting on his gold plated 'throne' deposits yet another outrage for the country to confront. No, the Drama Queen has long since worn out his welcome. He, alas, no longer entertains.

And that too, is reason for hope.

Imprison the Bastard.