For starters, we got to see our new brazen fascism in action when Dr. Teresa Borrenpohl dared to open her mouth at a town hall in Coeur d’Alene and was promptly set up by brownshirt thugs. We’re going to see a lot more of this now, especially with law enforcement lustily chomping at the bit to find ways to subvert liberties through deputizing randos to do more of their dirty work for them.
Long Island gym sock Dan Bingbong or whatever his name is makes perfect sense to be tapped as FBI Deputy Director when the job requirements are basically “must have a kink for revenge” and “be awful always”.
So, it isn’t really about closing the borders or reducing crime? If a shady oligarch or cartel leader wants citizenship all they need to do is pony up $5 million for a gold card and they’re in? Cool, cool.
Speaking of letting in only the right kind of criminals, it made perfect sense to see the Tate brothers being allowed entry to Forida, like a tapeworm returning to a small intestine. Maybe they’re headed to Mar-a-Lago to share some rape tips with Donald No-Hands, not that he needs the suggestions.
This week was the 13th anniversary of Trayvon Martin’s murder by cop cosplayer George Zimmerman. Poor George was a little too hasty with his bloodlust; had this happened today, he’d be a lock for Assistant Deputy Brownshirt at DOGE or Secretary of State or something.
File Mars Karen’s constant parroting of Hitler’s “parasite class” term under ‘Why This Piece of Irredeemable Crypto Shit Is Actually Like a Nazi”. And that he’s using this vile trash as cover for a naked money grab is especially on brand. As I’ve said, billionaires are like Trump’s next birthday: neither should exist.
Of course the Epstein flight logs would have Turd Reich’s name all over them, we have two eyes, and photos of these creepshows partying together have been around for years. I used to think that maybe Don was a little sad that his wingman had died, but he’s probably just happy to have less competition.
I would rather be forced to watch my own circumcision than sit through the Oval Office ambush video again, what a brutal shitshow. This is one image that came to mind as I cringe-watched the video, wishing that pacifier was slathered with some West Texas measle juice.
You just know Bearded Gollum wanted that room to clear out so he could have a little dalliance with the davenport.
Of course no one is sufficiently servile enough for Hillbilly Enema, but he’s just covering up that he’s still mad about the time Willy Wonka tried to drown him in a chocolate river.
Here’s a slightly older one, but this technofascist late-stage capitalist hellscape we’re all living in keeps these drawings evergreen. Naturally the richest man on Earth is content on letting this planet burn as long there are others in the solar system to exploit and abscond to.
Album of the Week
This week, I’m highlighting Arthur Verocai’s first (and for about 50 years only) release from 1972 because, well, it’s astonishingly great. I’m admittedly a bit biased when it comes to Brazilian music from this era, but this one is a real standout. Verocai initially cut his teeth as an arranger for artists like Jorge Ben, Gal Costa, and Marcos Valle but he put his full powers to use for his self-titled debut.
Arthur Verocai was almost totally ignored upon its release, and the artist saw this as his cue to stop composing music for decades and focus on advertising jingles instead. Listening to it now, it’s hard to imagine that such a solid collection of songs and lush arrangements failed to strike a chord. Samba-infused jazz isn’t for everyone, I suppose, but it is certainly for me. And for many others; J Dilla was famously a fan, and even used one of the tracks, “O Mapa” as his outgoing voice mail message.
In any case, please enjoy what is surely as close to a perfect album as there has ever been, starting with my personal favorite track, “Pelas Sombras”.
Until next week,
jesse
Great man! .. All of it.
Powerful as always!