Pseudo Book Review Of “Fire And Fury” Or If Only There Was More Space Between The Lines

scary author pic
From the back cover.

Books with scary pictures of authors on inner or back covers should be avoided at all costs. At least that’s what I used to tell myself. Which brings me to this worst-question: did Michael Wolff pick the pic (above) for the back cover or did some other corpo dastardly automaton pick it for him? Nomatter.

Just don’t let you kids near this guy–or President Stupid.

And by-the-buy, I didn’t buy this book. Never in my wildest thoughts did I ever seriously consider even going near this book. What can one read about President Stupid that one hasn’t already had stuffed down his/her throat with gulps of desperation? Either that or one can just watch some moronic TV, preferably WWE or reality-tv, and one can be just as informed. And that’s not all. One can also watch redneck, white trash #americant. Indeed. Watch it or read it. For between the lines of this book might just be a chronicle of the end of the beginning… Or is it the beginning of the end? Nomatter. At the least Wolff is a damn good writer.

I mean, he can spell and he knows how to use some big words. Or maybe not.

Kudos to my son for gifting me this book for my birthday. It’s his thing, don’t you know. I mean, gifting books during gifting season. As best as I can tell he’s mostly only gifted me, his stepmom and his mother, books. Wait. He gifted some bath oil to my better-half recently. So I could be wrong. Jeez. He’s twenty now. I don’t really know what he’s up to anymore anyway, what his motivations are, youthful prodigy confusion, etc. Yet he gave me a book that he should be reading. Yes. This book is for the youth of tomorrow. For those who would see how things shouldn’t be. Oh my. Confusion. Ditto. Confusion.

Let me begin this pseudo-review with some outtakes.

  • Chapter 20 (about The Mooch): “He had paid as much as half a million dollars to have his firm’s logo appear in the movie Wall Street 2 and to buy himself a cameo part in the film.”
  • Chapter 19(a): “Donald Trump’s sons existed in an enforced infantile relationship to their father, a role that embarrassed them, but one that they also professionally embraced. The role was to be Trump’s heirs and attendees. Their father took some regular pleasure in pointing out that they were in the back of the room when God handed out brains. Their sister Invanka, certainly no native genius, was the designated family smart person, her husband Jared the family’s smooth operator.”
  • Chapter 19(b): “The real swamp is the swamp of insular, inbred, incestuous interests (of Washington DC).”
  • Chapter 16: “In presidential annals, the firing of FBI director James Comey may be the most consequential move ever made by a modern president acting entirely on his own.”
  • Chapter 13: “The world of the rich is, in its fashion, self regulating. Social climbing has rules.”
  • Chapter 8: “It became almost immediately clear that the common purpose of the campaign and the urgency of the transition were lost as soon as the Trump team stepped into the White House. They had gone from managing Trump to the expectation of being managed by him–or at least through him and almost solely for his purposes. Yet the president, while proposing the most radical departure from governing and policy norms in several generations, had few specific ideas about how to turn his themes and vitriol into policy, nor a team that could reasonably unite behind him.”
  • Chapter 7 (on how money laundering works): “One way the process can work is, roughly speaking, as follows: an oligarch makes an investment in a more or less legitimate third-party investment fund, which, quid pro quo, makes an investment in Trump.”

Chapter 7 is a particularly interesting chapter. It contains five theories on Trump’s Russia collusion which is, probably, the most significant aspect of Trump–other than his regime increasing the US debt to new highs. Of course, dear worst-reader, I read the book in February 2018. The book doesn’t really contain anything new as its content pretty-much ends around the fall of 2017. With that in mind, it does feel like the book is the script from which all news is being reported now. Yet some of it kept me almost enthralled.

This book is, at best, a well chronicled history of the first six months to a year of President Stupid and more importantly President Stupid’s… Trump-ism. If you are anti-Trump then you can easily stomach this book. If you’re pro-Trump this book doesn’t matter because, well, like Trump, you probably don’t read anyway. Also, Wolff does a good job of hiding his biases in this book. Yet when one watches him try to sell it on tv or when he appears on the Interwebnets, it might not be so obvious if he is anti-Trump. Oh how the appearance of being objective might help sales. Except, of course, for the child molesting pic he put on the back cover of this book.

Anywho.

Even though I did find myself struggling through chapters here and there, skipping huge parts of Wolff’s attempt at making something interesting that obviously isn’t, I’d recommend this book. Reason? Trump is literally a projection of not just a weak, spoiled mind, but also of an America that is just as rotten. I mean, come on. How else could such a person get elected? And I’m not sure that was Wolff’s intention. This is certainly no prize-redeeming piece of work. Indeed. Wolff has done nothing more than chronicle a huge $hitshow. And he’s done it fairly well.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-T

Winston’s Fear Is Not The Rat

Subtitle: What The Ancients Forgot In Their Writing Of The Dystopian Future We Live In Now.

Since we are in this place dear worst-reader, this dystopia place so well designed and executed (but by whom), let’s have a moment or thrice to worst-write about fear, i.e., that which rules (us). I’m not one to say I fear nothing. I am afeared aplenty. Snakes, for example. I can’t stand them. Small and tight spaces is something else I can’t stand (platzangst). And then there’s my fear of height. Actually I don’t really suffer from a fear of heights. Instead I have a fear of distance. Specifically, I fear distance between my feet and the ground–and, in some cases, I fear the distance between smart people and stupid people. (But that’s all another post.) And then there’s one last fear I shall not forget. Perhaps this is the most important fear of them all. That’s right, dear worst-reader, I fear The Female. Better put, I fear the wrath of woman scorned. Yea, baby. Now that’s something to run away from–unless, of course, you’re a fan of comb-overs. And while on the topic of fear (and comb-overs), have a look at this to begin the process of dealing with the dystopia you’ve been putting-up:

Nationally, Clinton picked up 54 percent of women voters compared with Trump’s mere 42 percent. But Trump outperformed Clinton among white women, winning 53 percent of voters in that demographic. Drilling down further, he beat Clinton among white women without college degrees by 27 points. In the three states that decided the election — Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, and Michigan — that margin was enough to send Trump to the White House.1

The best way I’ve always found to describe fear, other than worst-writing about my beloved #americant and/or free-to-be-stupid people, is to worst-write about those who are so much better than worst-moi at doing it, e.g.: George Orwell and his wonderfully appropriate novel Nineteen Eightyfour. Specifically, understanding fear is best done by considering the fear of Winston Smith. As the story goes, it is revealed, after Winston meets a girl, that he is afraid of rats. Now, obviously, in the real world, in a world of man-rule (and not patriarchy miss-rule2), no man would freak out in front of a fresh lover when a rat pokes its head of a hole in her wall3. In fact, to prove his worthiness and to get another good fcuk out of her, a real man would kill that fcuking rat toot-suite and immediately after washing his hands (of the mess), do the nasty-deed again and thereby impose upon his new lover his obsession with other useful orifices. But enough about worst-writer’s fantasies.

Orwell had to offer up something in his story to show how fear is used to control the automatons that enable the system. I guess rats were (are) a good place to start. What’s missing in the story, though, is the automatons. Lucky for us, dear worst-reader, we live in times where we don’t have to look any further to find the automatons that have caused our dystopia. They are among us, we among them. And so. The necessity of the state to inflict fear as a means of control has kinda shifted in the last few decades. Reason? Fear is now manifested in our inability to look under the comb-overs that rule us. And not just President Stupid’s comb-over. The reality is, the rat in the story means nothing. Winston’s face being eaten by that rat also means nothing. And another thing that means nothing is the love that Winston betrays–as though Orwell gives a hoot about love. Indeed. What Orwell is dealing with is how the world (and those in it) so willingly allow themselves to be ruled by what’s under their comb-overs.

But I’m almost off subject. This is supposed to be yet another worst-post about worst-writer’s fear(s). And you know what motivated that fear? The women in the pic above that voted for president comb-over and the pic of the spider. Which one afears me more? And keep this in mind. Of all of the things I fear, one of them will NEVER be the spider. The reason for that is because I know the people that have enabled, facilitated our dystopia. You know them, too, dear worst-reader. Just take a moment. Take a deep breath. Feel the world clog up the lungs of your mind. Take a deep look at the spiders and snakes and distances (between us) that cause all the fear. And say with me: I am not afraid of spiders. I am only afraid of what that spider looks like, what it carries on its back, the texture that makes it what it is. It reminds so much of the mind-set of a woman scorned, of president stupid and of what’s underneath that which should be covered–forevermore.

All hail THE COMB-OVER.

Rant on.

-T

PS While I’m on yet another rant about blaming the women-folk for electing president stupid, the third pic above I thought would be appropriate. Maybe it’s not. Whatever.

The Bridge To The Cliff Has Already Been Crossed. So How’s The View While Falling Off The Cliff That Has Been Your Life Journey?

orwell big brother

The political payback president stupid owes certain republicans has been trickling in with ferocity lately. By certain republicans, of course, I’m referring to the bat$hit religious nutjobs that got Stupid elected. The best example of this can be seen in #Trump’s appointees. There are also a bunch of bat$hit appellate judges he’s been appointing–some of which have never tried a case in court. The way the State Department is being gutted is another example. The department is being headed by a #Trump appointee that is still a f’n Boy Scout. (Yes, I’m ragging on Boy Scouts.) Through new ideological leadership a bunch of long standing diplomats are either early-retiring or quitting their posts at the US State Department. I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader, but I thought draining the swamp had more to do with elected officials and not a bunch easy-target bureaucrats. And let’s not get too deep into the recent tax break that’s been approved by a bat$hit republican Congress–where the richest #americants are not only being giving the largest government hand-out ever but are also being enabled to hoard what’s left of an already decimated economy that probably can’t recover. And by-the buy, how much do you want to bet that of all the free-money the rich are getting after this tax-break none of it will recirculate back in the country? But all that nonsense is neither here nor there. Reason? I can deal with $tupid politics. Stupid politics can be fixed. But there is one thing in politics that can’t be fixed and it almost passed right be me the other day–if it weren’t for a German article my better half showed to me. Did you get the recent BS about #Trump telling the CDC (Centre for Disease Control) what words to use when publishing official documents, especially budget reports? Get this:

In some instances, the analysts were given alternative phrases. Instead of “science-based” or ­“evidence-based,” the suggested phrase is “CDC bases its recommendations on science in consideration with community standards and wishes,” the person said. -from Wash Post article

Gee, dear worst-reader, who do you think the community standards and wishes is in the quote above? If this doesn’t put creepy crawlers under your skin, than nothing should. This is Orwell newspeak, baby. And it’s being officially dolled out by your electoral college elected officials.

Look what you’ve done #americant.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:

Men With Combs Not Comb-Overs

Screen Shot 2017-12-17 at 07.12.06

Even when I had hair I never used a comb. For me it was a brush all the way. Is that why I’m baldy now? Nomatter.

Let’s worst-discourse about #emails once again, shall we. It was not long ago when emails were the thang. Or have you forgotten about Hillary’s emails already? So much time, effort and worst-words were used to get Hillary and her emails. In the end, no one got her emails. Instead, we got president über stupid. But I’m not complaining, dear worst-reader. My beloved and missed former federalist compatriots do honestly deserve what they received in the last election. I mean, come on. All these years of republican rule and they still aren’t able to see through the cause of all the damage? (That’s right. All these years of repub rule. Or am I the only one to recognise 1) a presidents only legislation power is the veto and 2) since Reagan, other than a few Dem stints, the congress, i.e. the legislature, has been majority repub.) And since I jumped the $hitshow ship so many years ago, all I can do now is whisper my sympathy for all those dumbed-down back home. And then, maybe, post something that is but yet another wasted opinion. So if you’re curious as to why I do this, well, it goes something like this:

Ha-Ha Ha Ha-Ha Ha Ha-Ha Ha Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Heeeee Hawww.

Seriously. I’m laughing my a$$ off. Considering that #Trump was/is supposed to drain the swamp, it’s no surprise that the exact opposite has taken place. Trump’s doings have done nothing but enhance the swamp and, on top of that, turned all irrational, i.e. non-thinking females (gold diggers?) into ITS-ALL-PINK-ON-THE-INSIDE monsters because, well, and I’m almost sorry to have to say this, their pussies aren’t holly and maybe they should think twice about using it to get what they want out of this suck-a$$ life and thereby giving the rest of the world Trump.  But I digress.

The only good thing that will come of the simple-minded fact that a special government prosecutor has come across thousands upon thousands of emails to help in his quest to bring down president stupid, is that at least a man with a real head of hair will be doing it. With that mind, may real men with great hair and real men without great hair bring down unreal men who fake everything anyways.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

Link that motivated this post:

The Harvey Weinstein Apology

road kill frog or toad

Subtitle: Or All Men Are Rapists And If So… Sorry About That.

Disclaimer: this post is NSFW; it contains material of a sexual nature; some of it is also what I like to call pseudo-fiction. (Good luck with that.)

As much as I try, I can’t put myself in a mindset that can understand what women go through when it comes to sexual abuse. Seriously. I’ve tried. During one Halloween I dressed up like a sorority girl and I was sexual assaulted by numerous men. There was also the time I had my hair permed—when I still had hair—which was probably the most feminine thing I’ve ever done—and the guy that did it offered to blow me at least three times while I waited for the chemicals to set in; to this day I regret not letting him do it. During yet another period of experimentation I jerked off three dicks that stuck out of gloryholes—and not one of the recipients said thank you.

But all belittlement aside.

The thing I learned during my growing up days was that women, mostly because of men, have to have a different point-of-view when it comes to all-things sex. The simple-minded male oriented explanation for it is simple: it is just sex. For women…? Oh boy. Is it because there’s an added biological component that it’s different for women? You know, that whole procreation thing and the fact that women can be men but men can’t be mothers? Or is there something else?

What I could never really grasp is what exactly goes through a woman’s mind when she faces the abuse? I mean, it’s been going on for so long is there a physiological, biological, chemical, ecological evolutionary change? Which brings me to this worst-question: was it ever really necessary that Daddy give his daughter away?

Again. All belittlement aside.

Sex is everything. Just look at how the world works. Money has failed us. Religion has failed us. What’s left? You’re either getting fucked or you’re doing the fucking. This differentiation, by-the-buy, is waaaaaaay beyond the birds and bees, don’t you know. Hence, what’s the point of sexuality or things like gender differentiation if everything is always just about getting your rocks off? And. Does political correctness actually mean what we think it means or is it ultimately just a call back to the days when sex wasn’t everything?

I suppose there was a time when minds weren’t spinning so much (about sex) but those are long gone. And I don’t think they’re ever coming back—even though so many in my beloved #americant hope they do. Those were the days when it wasn’t ONLY winner take all—and there was one fucker and one fuckee. But then again, do we really wish for the return of those days?

There might be one good thing about sex being everything these days. And here it is as only worst-writer can write it: The days of the three little king-queens are gone. That is, money, sex and religion once ruled the world. (Not necessarily in that order.) Now only one of the three rule the world.

Still with me, dear worst-reader?

The Actress

All of this talk of sex abuse has gotten to me, dear worst-reader. It reminds me of those days when I once contemplated: am I a rapist?

I’ve had my way with a few women, don’t you know. And not just women. I’ve had my way with a few actresses. (But don’t call me Harvey Weinstein, baby!) Indeed.

I was once a itty-bitty play producer. And get this. I utilised my itty-bitty play producer casting couch whenever the opportunity arose. In fact, after my first play production, the opportunity–of my casting couch–arose more than I deserved. But let’s focus on the first casting couch experience, shall we?

She was a lovely young actress. She had beautiful skin, long wavy hair, thighs typically early twenties thick. While she read the lines of my play I couldn’t stop my mind from drifting to you know what. I looked at her neck and her lips and her elbows. Yes, dear worst-reader, I am a stickler for joints—my favourite being ankles but they are at times the most difficult to see. Needless to say, within minutes of starting to read the script I had a raging erection. What does one do with a raging erection when the cause of it is breathing next to you?

Due to the discomfort, I stood up in front the actress while she was reading her lines. I thought I was gonna get a cup of tea. But, while my cock was trying to poke out of my relative loose fitting chino-pants, she stopped me. Before I could apologise and make some excuse, the actress said something like “oh my” and “my goodness”. She was staring at the bulge. She then put down the script and told me that I couldn’t cum inside her and she didn’t like the taste of cum. I then quickly placed a huge kiss on her face and at the same time undid my pants.

Within seconds her pants were off and I was caressing her ankles with my ears. I then went down on her and kissed and licked her till she came. Dripping from so much activity down there, I heeded her request not to cum inside her—assuming she was referring to procreative, vaginal activity—and entered her anally. She let out another “oh my” and “my goodness”. Her discomfort aroused me even more. To this day I can still hear her mumbling and gasping and slurping.

And, by-the-buy, she was an awful actress. Her voice had no cadence. She kept screwing up the timing of the dialogue. When I asked her to say some lines without looking at the page, she couldn’t. In fact, she was completely incapable of memorising anything. But before I get too far off subject…

It took a few minutes but the she eventually relaxed. I don’t think she enjoyed anything that afternoon except me servicing her and the shower I gave her after I dumped my goo in her ass. After a few dates she told me that she had found someone else and, she added, that she considered our first encounter to have been rape because of the way I helped myself to her ass. Then she also added that she has a new job and couldn’t continue with my play. I asked her for one last sympathy fuck and when she said no, I thanked her, said goodbye and told her that I had found another actress anyway.

(For those interested, as far as the play is concerned, I eventually put the female role of my play, using casting couch actress #2, into a TV screen. This helped the productions in many ways. First, we were no longer dependent on an actress remembering her lines, i.e. we could just feed her cue cards. Second, of the three other actresses that were on my casting couch for that play, none of them mentioned rape even though we never once talked about all the fucking we did. And I had them many varying ways, too.)

The Other Girl

I met this girl in college. We went on a few dates, the movies, the usual. I could get to every base with this chick except home base. That is, she wouldn’t fuck me but she would suck on my dick if I promised not to ejaculate. (Who raises these chicks, by the way!) Then I met her best friend who said that she would fuck me. But I couldn’t/wouldn’t  go there; I didn’t go there. I simply didn’t think it the right thing to do—you know: date one chick who wouldn’t and then fuck her best friend who would.

About a year later, long after the chick who wouldn’t fuck me (but would suck me) was out of the picture, I met up with her friend again. She mentioned how we were both caught up in a world of bad timing. Now she was seeing a guy and because she was fucking him she wouldn’t fuck me. She only fucked one guy at a time, she said. But she also said, “how bout the next best thing?” One evening after giving her a ride home she invited me in to her apartment. I was indeed curious… about the next best thing.

Within minutes my cock was at the back of her throat. After about ten minutes of her proving why it’s called a blowJOB, she told me it was ok if I cum. I told her I wanted to fuck and then would gladly finish in her mouth. She told me once again about the other guy that she was hoping to have a relationship with and also added: “he’ll know if you fuck me, so let’s just do this… the next best thing.” I guess she was referring to the mess a man can leave behind. And I thought of two things: first, who doesn’t like sloppy seconds and second, girls don’t leave a mess behind?

Another ten minutes went by. She was getting tired and resorting to the use of her hands. “Please, come all over me,” she said. “Let me fuck you and then I promise to come on your face,” I said. But she was incorrigible. She took a deep breath and tried to break the back of the bear that would be her last ditch effort to get me to ejaculate. I could tell her knees were aching, her arms were getting sore, her nose was slapping the tight skin of my lower abdomen, her tongue was losing its ability to jostle my sack. She eventually fell on her back and my cock was above her, raging hard and blue. “Ok. You win. I give up,” she said. “Are you ok,” she asked.

I packed my blue junk as best I could back into my pants and kissed her on the forehead as I left. “Let me know when things don’t work out with your boyfriend,” I said. I drove home and it took me two days and countless jerk-off sessions to relieve myself of blue-balls.

A few weeks later we were in the same situation. I had driven her home and she mentioned how much she wanted me to cum in her throat. I smirked and admitted that maybe I would give in this time. But I also asked her if she would at least let me play around a bit. “Ok,” she said. “But you still can’t fuck me.” When we got into her apartment she immediately removed all her clothes and I proceeded to fuck her mouth every which way. She laid on her back on the coffee table with her head hanging backwards over the edge. She made me get on all fours on her dinner table and she attacked my junk from behind. She blew me while she peed. She even tried to jerk me off while talking on the phone to her mother. Of course, eventually, we reached that special moment. “Ok, come now,” she demanded. “I’m not ready yet,” I responded. She then gathered her guns, prepped her jaw and continued the good fight.

That’s when something hit me. Fuck this! I don’t have to take this krapp. And so. While doing one of her change-ups, relieving her jaw, my dick and balls getting bluer and bluer, I grabbed both her arms from behind, holding them together at the elbows. She squirmed but didn’t really try to get out of my hold. Slowly, already lubed-up from so much contact with her throat, I slipped my raging cock into her ass. Her squirms turned to a slight jolt but I pulled her arms back towards my chest. I leaned in with my hips and before kissing her neck I said: “is this what you wanted all the time?”

After I finally released, I sat on the couch and said something about needing more of the same in a few minutes. You know, that old saying: “Hold a sec, baby. I’m not done yet.” Then she turned to me and said something about rules and how I just broke them. I smirked. “You’re not serious,” I said. “You can do what you have to do tonight–I’ll grant you that. But this is it. I’m the one that sets the rules. You broke them.”

My jaw was hanging even though my dick was still raging. Then she mentioned that she had done anal a few times before but it wasn’t really her thing. She added that she would definitely not suck on my cock anymore even if I washed it with turpentine. Then I asked her if she was crazy. She repeated: “I’m not crazy. I set the rules.”

Since I was a good listener back then, I got up off the couch, grabbed her by the arms again and turned her around. I bent her over the dinner table and fucked her in the ass till I came two more times. It was glorious.

Finding Love

And so. I’ve had my way with a few women here and there. As far as I can recall there have been a total of two No’s and numerous encounters where the issue was never discussed but I still had my sexual fun. Through out all my years I’ve often asked: Have I always thought enough about her while I’m doing her? Is her orgasm as important as my release? Does any of this make me a rapist?

While growing up in my beloved and missed #americant, while entering the world of sex and relations and fun, of the women/girls I was with, the majority of them complained about being abused at one point in their lives. That thought has never left me. So let me try to say it again, put it another way. By the time I was 25—and I started having sex when I was 17—the majority of girls I had sex with complained about sexual abuse–and not by me but by someone in their family, their stepfathers, church, athletics, etc.

Whaaaaaaaaa the fuck is going on?

And so. I have never cat-called a woman. I have never asked any of my girlfriends or wives or fuck-buddies to either make me a sandwich or iron my shirt. I’ve never entered a woman once without at least taking her out to dinner or to a movie … afterwards—where I then tried to fuck her again and most of the time succeeded. I’ve also never had a one-night stand because to me, no matter how bad the first time was or what my (relationship) intentions were, I always believed you had to do it with the same woman at least three times to even begin to get it right. With that in mind, there were still two women in my life that said “no” and I fucked them anyway because 1) they wouldn’t/didn’t leave (when they had the opportunity to do so) and 2) they didn’t stop what we both started.

Now. Am I a…

Which brings me to #Trump, Harvey Weinstein and being raised in sexually repressed #americant.

The worst part of living in these nightmare times of a president #Trump is that he’s not just a sexually repressed man but he’s also an atypical greed-monger–and he is one among the many. So in a way, I guess, it’s no wonder women are going nuts. Especially those raised by very confused mothers. And so. Where has feminism got them? Did they end up not being like their mother(s) or did they just become the same (as their mothers) albeit wearing more fashionable fancy coats and shoes?

The other thing is, I feel like the thing that #Trump really is, is that he’s something that is everywhere and he is, unfortunately, that which raised me. And no matter what I do the thought of being an abuser because I had my way with a few ladies will never leave me–as I’ve worst-written about here today. Indeed. I have to live with that. On the other hand…

While I was out there trying to find love the Harvey Weinsteins, the Bill Clintons, the Bill Cosbys, the Woody Allens, etc., etc., have been ruining good fucks since day one. And for that I am very sorry. I really am.

Rant on.

-T

Malice And Spite Make Not Everything Nice

executive crime by president
Source: DailyKos; see link below

You’d think that a criminal indictment of a presidential candidates campaign worker would be enough to fulfil the greed-needs of mongers, i.e. stupid white people that are unable to cope with the harvest they’ve sewn. No. Seriously. Harvest. Like a harvest of wheat totally and completely compromised by excessive ergot exposure. Are republicans finally so high (ergot poisoning) that even they can’t tell the difference between stupid and more stupid? But I digress.

I’m worstwriting, of course, about my beloved #americant and its current iteration of humanity’s grandest experiment. Btw, let’s worst-look at the word indictment:

Indictment: An indictment is a formal accusation that a person has committed a crime.

Unlike being arrested, where a policeman takes you in after you’ve committed a crime, i.e. given him/her reason to take you in, an indictment is like a letter from a dire foe that seals the deal of your destined failed relationship with not only fear but reality for the $hit you’ve done and tried to sweep under the rug. Of course, is any of this a surprise? Just check out the chart above, stolen from DailyKos. The coolest thing about the chart? Check out Barry-0’s record of trouble with the law. Is that cool or what? Do you miss him, too? Oh wait. If you’re #americant and dependent on the greed-mongering you live in, I guess you don’t like Barry-O. But on that issue, I digress once more.

And so. What are we (yes, I’m still an #americant, too) really dealing with in these times of free-to-be-stupid? Well, according to the newz–that I’ve been avoiding for the last two weeks–the proverbial $hit may be hitting the fan for president stupid (#Trump). Would you believe his chief of staff has publicly admitted to a new level of stupidity? The Civil War, according to mister chief of staff, was caused by an inability to compromise. Whaaaa! I can’t believe what I’m reading. Does this person know nothing about the years of abolition prior to the Civil War? Oh wait. We’re in the land of president stupid and his dumba$$ minions–not unlike the morons that voted for him thinking that he’s gonna drain the swamp.

To add oil to the stinky flame of stupid, the US congress, filled with morons that more directly represent the morons of land of the free-to-be-stupid, have reversed the small attempt under the Barry-O administration to put some curbs on banks thereby letting cheated consumers sue them. That’s right, dumba$$es. If your bank screws you, if equifax screws you, if insurance screws you… you now have no recourse other than to submit your complaint to a group of men who have been hand picked by the entity you’re suing–who will then arbitrate your complaint.

Way to go #americant.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:

Golden Rain Fun In Moscow

golden rain golden shower trump

As I’ve said here, #americant deserves #Trump. And. From the get-go, nomatter what believers (i.e. the fail upwards middle-classes) claim as they are chocking on that belief, there was no doubt in my mind that president über-stupid likes the peepee. Now. I suppose it’s debatable if he’s one of them perverts that likes to watch the/his women-folk pee or if he likes the other version–being peed on. But there’s no doubt that he likes the stuff–probably the yellower (or is it goldener) the better. And since the pee-dossier (see link below) has received some new life in the media, why not begin the arduous task of researching whether or not #Trump actually kissed his mother with that butthole of a mouth he sells (and #Americants have bought whole-heartily). No. Seriously. Dearest worst-reader! Get this. If/when #Trump gets impeached or quits, the idiot base that elected him will replace him. Indeed. The religious $hitbags will then have finally gained what they always wanted. Seriously. That’s it. There will be more wars of choice. Further looting of the treasury. And women will be required–according to the standards dictated by inept interpretation of a book written during the bronze-age–to bear the children of men… that like to be peed on.

Of course, the saddest thing about #Trumps despicable, obscene, abominable behaviour is that the really bad stuff in the pee-dossier will not only reveal some truths about the man but, perhaps, the whole of the united mistakes of #americant. Yea, baby.

Rant on. Suckers.

-T

Links that motivated this post: