Sunday, June 12, 2016


Monday, May 30, 2016


Wednesday, May 25, 2016


Now that the general election is virtually underway, not a day goes by without some new bombshell. Some of them fired by Trump, like when he does his passive/aggressive “people are saying” routine by bringing up Vince Foster. And it works. It works because the media chews on how insane it is. But they talk about it. Which is why it works.

Although most of the on-air talk lately revolves around Trump and his travelling reality show – The Daily Contradiction. He contradicted himself once on climate change, twice on guns in schools -- in the same sentence. He’s being challenged on his alleged $1 million contribution to veterans, his refusal to release his tax returns, his flip-flopping on self-funding. The accusations were dead on, backed up by facts and research, and delivered with an air of finality, like a final checkmate move in which one’s opponent has no choice but to topple his king and admit defeat. And that might be true, if this were a chess game. But it’s not. It’s a street fight. And only Trump knows that, which is why he can’t be hurt by any conventional political weapons, like facts.

Contradictions bounce off the man like bricks off Superman. He doesn’t give a crap about hypocrisy. Accuse him of lying, he’ll call you a liar for accusing him. Attack the attacker. Just like Scientology.  Or he’ll strike back on Twitter, and you can’t beat him on Twitter. There’s no judge on Twitter. No ref. No fact-checkers.  And he’s not visible, which means he’s not vulnerable. Or he’ll call in to some friendly morning show to offer a one-sided rebuttal, where, in most cases, he won’t be challenged because the shows fear losing access.

You can’t expose Trump’s beliefs because he has no beliefs. Shit flows out of his mouth on an ad hoc basis, crafted to rile up the crowd. And it works, because they don’t know what he’s saying, they just love the way he says it. If he says to boo journalists, they boo. If he said to applaud them, they’d applaud. He’s a clown, pulling streams of colored handkerchiefs out of his sleeve at a children’s party. And the children are delighted. Their love for this guy isn’t rational. It’s emotional. Trump promises change, but has no ability to deliver it, nor any core philosophy to base it on. He treats the electorate like woman he’s trying to talk into bed. “It’s going to be fantastic!” “You’re gonna be so happy! “You’ll have so many orgasms it’ll make your head spin.“

The Trump train is running on smoke, mirrors, and bullshit, His rallies are partisan love fests. And the convention in Cleveland will have all the gravitas of halftime at the Super Bowl. It’s not a campaign. It’s a show. And the only way to reveal the inner workings of a show is to lift back the curtain. And that won’t happen until the debates, where he’ll be naked and exposed, and can be hit in his Achilles heel – his stupidity.

Trump is stupid. Yes, he’s rich, and clever and shrewd and ruthless. But he’s stupid. A dunce. An imbecile. An ignoramus. That’s why he claims to be so smart. You know who goes around saying, “I’m smart?” Stupid people who don’t want to get found out. Who else would proudly say, “I love the poorly educated!” He claims to have an amazing vocabulary yet speaks in simple sentences. Noun, verb, superlative. “My bank account is huge!” “My rallies are fantastic!” He’s also a flagrant liar. He’s not a clever, debating team liar like Cruz, who hides his lies inside careful language. Trump is the guy who’s caught in bed with another woman by his wife, and denies it with a “who you gonna believe, me or your lyin’ eyes?” Protestors in Jersey City after 9/11? Absolutely. Climate change a Chinese plot? Why the hell not. He can say all this shit now, then just double down on the lie, and wait for the news cycle to run to the next shiny object.

But that act won’t fly on a debate stage. Unless he makes up some outrageous excuse to duck them, he’ll have to go head-to-head against Hillary, and face questions by real moderators who won’t let him slide. And this will be the game change. He’ll have to give substantive answers to real questions, and follow-up questions. He’ll have to go head to head with someone who has knowledge, facts and experience on her side.

If she’s smart, which she is, that’s where she will take him apart, and then take him down. He can yell Benghazi, and Vince Foster, and Monica until he turns whatever color he turns next when he’s pissed off. It just won’t fly. This will bring out all his insecurities and he’ll get mean and implode. He’ll be embarrassed on national TV, by a woman, his worst nightmare. This will make him look weak and lose face. And then, his supporters will lose faith.

For the moment, the media can have a field day exposing his lies and contradictions, but they won’t land. Right now, he’s invulnerable which, to his supporters, makes him look like Superman. But the debates should be his Kryptonite.

Monday, May 23, 2016


For the last year, people have been struggling to comprehend the Trump phenomenon. Not just why he's winning, but what does he want? He's already rich, so it can't be money. Fame? He's got that. Power? He's got that, too. But perhaps it's not enough power. What would this odious, ignorant, malevolent, misogynistic, misanthropic, xenophobic piece of shit want that he doesn't already have? Why would he amass legions of devoted followers who hang on his every word? Who would behave like the personification of pure evil... other than the personification of evil itself.

There have been whispers on closed circles for some time that Donald J. Trump is not who he claims to be. People are saying that the man's singleminded quest for power has actually been a smokescreen to hide his true mission: world domination. In short, people are saying  that Trump... is the Antichrist.

Of course, most reasonable people say that's ludicrous. That there is no devil. No Satan. That it's just a metaphor for the evil that exists in the heart of man. Or is that itself a meme that has been floated into the world to distract people from his true agenda? Now, many say that this is just a wild accusation. After all, where is the evidence? Where is the proof? The proof is on his head. The mark of the devil: 666.

It's a well-known fact that the mark of the devil -- 666 -- is imprinted on the head of his spawn. This is documented in the Book of Revelations, Verse 18: "Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six." The Bible also says that the Antichrist will first accrue great wealth as a steppingstone to political power. But where is the proof that it applies to Trump? The proof is in the man himself. The proof... is in the hair.

Trump is an egomaniac. He's rich. Arrogant. Vain. For some ungodly reason, he takes pride in his appearance. However, no man with even a modicum of self-respect would orchestrate a ridiculous front and side-whip cotton candy confection like he's rocking on that head. Why would he go to such ridiculous lengths, unless he's hiding something. Something... like the mark of the devil. Trump obviously suffers from male-pattern baldness. And while baldness has been the bane of existence for men over the ages, recently the shaved head has established itself in the culture as a legitimate fashion choice. So, why hasn't he shaved his head? Or gotten hair transplants? He can certainly afford the best. Some say it's because he can't risk anyone seeing what has been imprinted on his head. 666. The mark of the devil.

Still, some apologists counter that this is mere conjecture. Maybe so. But it's not the only evidence. There is Trump's birthday itself. Donald John Trump was born June 14, 1946 in Queens, New York.  New York. June 14, 1946. 6/14/46. The first number: 6. The last number: 6.  And the middle: 144. 1+4+4=9. And 9 upside-down... is 6. 666. The mark of the devil.

Yes, it's shocking. Bone chilling. People shudder to think that someone who has accrued vast wealth, and has plastered his name all over the world on phallic ego palaces may be the personification of evil. Others will argue that this is idiotic. Just a cheap shot, a cowardly attack on a man's background and character to score points in a political fight. But until it is put to rest we will never know the truth.  And the American people need to know the truth. They need to know the true identity of someone who is trying to become the most powerful person on Earth.

That is why it is necessary for Mr. Trump to settle this once and for all in the only way possible: by shaving his head, live, on national television. It would certainly be a fantastic, tremendous, terrific, event, watched by, using Trumpian metrics, tens of trillions of people. But it's the only way to put this controversy to rest and ease the minds of God-fearing Americans who need to know that a man who is running to be the leader of the free world is not the spawn of Satan. It's up to you, Mr. Trump. In the name of all that is holy -- show us your head!

Monday, May 16, 2016


Dear Jeb: I'm a Democrat. I dislike your policies. They hurt the country, and bring misery to the lives of regular Americans. However, I do feel your pain. Because Democrats are compassionate. Not from of any religious dictate, but from basic human decency. So, I know what you're going through. Having to sit back and watch that bloviating parade float Donald Trump become your nominee -- America's Berlusconi, turning your precious GOP into the Bunga Bunga party. Having to listen to his moronic statements on serious issues without cringing. Or weeping. It must be like seeing an ex-girlfriend ride off on the back of some guy's Harley, after he stole the bike from your garage, punched out your mother, and violated your dog.

I know how humiliated you must feel. He mocked you. Taunted you. Called you low energy. Insulted your wife. And all you could do was stand there and take it, incapable of lowering yourself to his level to slam him back. Not that you didn't try. You were just incapable. And it was just sad. The man gutted you on national TV. He broke you. And all you wanted was to give America another Bush presidency. Not that we wanted it. The last one was sufficient, thank you very much.

Still, I know it hurt. And I know you think there's nothing you can do but sit back and watch Trump cut a swath of destruction through the country, like a tornado ripping through a trailer park. But there is something you can do, something that would really hurt him. Run. Run as a third party candidate. Yes, I know there's talk of Ben Sasse getting in. But, c'mon, there's no irony in Ben Sasse. You need to do it.

All through the primaries Trump taunted the party by refusing to sign the pledge. Then he signed it. Then he flirted with backing out. He thought he was the one with the third party power. But now you've got it. Do the very thing he taunted you with. Stick it to him. Cut him with his own sword. You must have a few bucks in the coffers. Go Green Party. Libertarian. Bull Moose. Or, given the intellectual level of the debates, the Know-Nothing Party.

Think about it. You'd siphon off enough old-school Republican votes to make sure he'd go down in flames. Sure, Trump will probably screw himself eventually, but who wants to take that chance? We all know he's shrewd, and ruthless. But he's dumb. Way too dumb to actually be president. On a debate stage, Hillary will stomp him like, well, like a protestor at a Trump rally. She'll dazzle him with facts and he'll lose his shit because he won't be able to respond intelligently, and he can't deal with being attacked, especially by a woman. But why take that chance? You're the one who could hurt him now. You know you want to. Imagine the sweet, sweet taste of Jeb's revenge. But if you're just too hurt, too wounded to get back on the campaign trail, I get it. It might be too hard to summon up the facial muscles needed to force out that sad clown smile. Then, do the rest of us a favor, pass this on to the other losers in the Sweet 16.

Carly. He mocked your face. Christie. You endorsed the son of a bitch, then he dragged you around like a pug on a leash. And if he didn't call you fat, he was thinking it. And Marco. Little sweaty Marco. I know you're saving your reputation for 2020. But get out there now and talk some shit. Hit him with the small hands thing again. Lindsey. You're a fun guy. Have a Mint Julep and let that acid tongue loose on the trail. Kasich. For a brief, shining moment, you were the least ugly guy in the bar at last call. Get back out there and stuff your face with ethnic food. And Ted. Lyin' Ted. Instead of venting your anger by forearm smashing your wife in the face, take that evil that swirls around you like Fukushima fallout and channel it for some good, old-fashioned revenge.

Or maybe all of you do it together. I know that sounds socialist, but you'd be uniting to defeat a common enemy. Like when FDR and Churchill met with Stalin at Yalta. Imagine the look on Trump's face when you steal his votes. Jeb can sting him in Florida. Cruz can kneecap him in Texas. Pataki and Christie can nail him in the northeast. Carly can screw him in California. Someone must like her there. Jindal and Lindsey can take the south. It would be like the ending in Agatha Christie's Death on the Nile. The suspects' hatred for the victim ran so deep they all killed him. C'mon. Don't do it for the country. Don't do it for the party. Do it for the most Republican reason of all: political payback. Hook yourselves together like rats pulling a ratfuck Santa sleigh. Now Kasich! Now Walker! Now Graham! Now Carly! On Ted! On Bobby! On Marco! On Christie! It will truly be Christmas when that cocky smirk is wiped off that asshole's fat face, replaced by a befuddled "what in the heck just happened?!"

It would be the perfectly insane ending to an insane year. You're Republicans. Even though some of you are displaying an uncharacteristic sense of honor by refusing to support the man, most will follow party orthodoxy and fall in line like good little apparatchiks. But don't do it. Don't unite! Rebel! Go rogue and gut the arrogant son of a bitch. 'Cause you know damn well he would have done it to you.