Good Times at Pottersville

Pottersville Digest

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     Hey, ambulance chaser, it's hilarious that you think a cheap, cynical PR stunt by a guy who cheered on your cop-beating clients will get off on a technicality. And aren't you MAGATs always the ones letting loose with the water works when you don't get your way? Asking for 81,000,000 Biden voters.

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     Regardless of all his bankruptcies, civil judgments for fraud & settlements with fraud victims, Trump never runs out of idiots who trust him. That's his superpower, his genius, to always find victims eager to sacrifice money, pride & reputations.

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     Republicans really are democracy-loathing ratfuckers, aren't they? Take Kentucky, for instance...

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     I can tell you exactly when the stock will go belly up: Now that Trump knows he has billions waiting for him, he'll pressure the board to change the rules for him so he can cash out now instead of waiting for six months. The board will knuckle under, give him what he demands and he'll cash out as soon as he can while the stock price is still high. The other investors will see this, and they'll sell their shares in an orgy of panic selling. The stock price will inevitably bottom out and the lower tier investors will be left with worthless stock. That's how this company will end.

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     I wouldn't be so quick to pronounce this as "excitement for Biden" as it is fear of Trump. In that respect, the dynamic hasn't changed a bit since 2020 and that in itself is dispiriting. There's that and the fact that, in 2020, despite four years of the most nightmarishly dysfunctional years that anyone ever had in the WH, 6,000,000 more people voted for that umber buffoon than in 2016. That fact alone gives me cold sweats.

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     Just when you think Trump can't sink to a new low, he starts working on the barrel's bottom with a diamond-tipped drill.

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     Meme intermission.

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     You know, I've never had the slightest use for Ken Buck, or any Republican. But this dick move that he pulled in abruptly leaving Congress had all the dickishness of a disgruntled tenant nailing shrimp shells behind a kickboard right before moving out just to get back at his slumlord. And that gets my grudging admiration.

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     Don't forget, female voters make up 51% of the electorate.

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    Of course, not a word from the Sociopath in Chief about McDaniels' sacrifice of her career spreading his own Never NeverLand lies about the 2020 election.

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    And yet, one of the most absurd stats to come out of the last general election was that in 2020, Trump's support among Black voters was 8% whereas in 2016, it was 4%. Yes, it actually doubled.

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     As Rahm Emanuel once famously said, "Never let a crisis go to waste."

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     OK, if it's so cut and dry, then what are they waiting for? Break out the stainless steel jewelry.

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   Oh, that's rich. The Republican assclown who wrote letters to himself was screaming for transparency.

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     When is someone going to finally put this piece of shit behind bars?! Do you think any of us would get treatment this deferential? No, that deference is given to the asshole with a standing army of lunatics at his back.

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     I'm surprised Trump doesn't have a fake gold tooth to put in his maw when he hawks his Bibles.

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     Someone should literally ask this jackal, "When did you stop beating your wife?" And finally...

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    Who gives a rat fuck what these lunatics think? This is hardly news because MAGATs are always outraged over something.

The C Suite Bubble

     This is probably the only post I'm ever going to write during an interstate road trip but it seems starting the day I leave Massachusetts, the proverbial shit hit the fan.

     Starting yesterday, Trump was given a huge boost in the New York appellate courts and was allowed a week and a half more to come up with his $454,000,000 bond except it doesn't have to be that but $175,000,000.

     Which may be easier since Truth Social also went public yesterday, theoretically netting Donnie Dumbo an additional $5,000,000,000 due to 80,000,000 shares in a company in which he never invested a penny of his own money. According to the terms of this fishy merger, Trump can't cash out his shares for another six months, long after the bond deadline but that could be overturned by a simple vote of the board. Of course, if Trump did a quick pump and dump of his 80,000,000 shares like his old buddy Felix Sater, aka Mr. Stabby Face, he would induce panic selling that would render the rest of the shares worthless. But, hey, who cares as long as neck vagina gets to parachute out while the shares are still going for $70 or more?

     So, between the appellate court rendering this inexplicable ruling (a stay was also imposed on Judge Engoron's decision that forbade Trump and his greaseball sons from acting as officers of any New York-based company) and Truth Social promising to stuff five billion in Trump's pockets, it would seem evil not only pays but pays billions in stock dividends.

     Then today, I began to hear rumors on Twitter, sourced only to Dylan Byers of Puck News about Ronna Romney McDaniel getting shit-canned by NBC two days after hiring her to spread Trump's propaganda. MSNBC's on-air talent ranging from Rachel Maddow to Chuck Todd to Joe Scarborough were universal in their condemnation of not only McDaniel and her hiring but also the NBC executives who"d unilaterally made the hiring decision without consulting said talent, producer or anyone else.

     It was a classic case of a group of corporate cunts acting as if they were the smartest guys in the room then acting accordingly. They autonomously made a major hiring decision that was bound to be controversial with their brightest stars and deeply unpopular with their viewers.

     And they didn't care. Their arrogance and bloated sense of their autonomy from their C Suite bubble was nothing shy of breathtaking. At Exxon, their version is the God Pod. The C Suite is NBC's version.

     Still, I held off from judging and leaping to conclusions. Twitter is a shitty and dodgy place to get your news from, especially when it's currently in the grip of a nazi psychopath who likes to blow up huge rockets and incinerate people with electric cars.

      Then it became official. NBC's executives couldn't take the heat and they fired McDaniel today. True to form, Donnie Dumbo couldn't wait to dance on her vocational grave as if he was on a rally stage looking like he's jerking off two gigantic penises.

     This was a woman, a pathetic woman, who, in her service to her orange God, sacrificed everything, even to the point of changing her name and removing "Romney" from it. She flushed down Trump's golden toilet any shred of credibility she ever had as RNC chair by shamelessly spreading his endless lies about the 2020 election.

      So, it wasn't enough that he got her fired at RNC HQ and replaced her with Lara and it wasn't enough that she got fired weeks later by NBC. Trump had to kick her simply because she's related to Mitt Romney.

     Her two days as an NBC contributor came to perhaps one fifth of a Scaramucci. But it was one that never should have been made in NBC's maniacal quest for "fairness and balance".

The Loss of Identity

 

     I knew this day would come. The day when I'd be writing my final post from this house. I just honestly thought it would be on my terms.

    I'm now doing things for the last time that I'd taken for granted, things I'd done hundreds or thousands of times before. Yesterday was my last mail delivery. I'd already paid the gas and electric bills for the last time. Last Friday I did laundry at the local laundromat and shopped at the supermarket for the last time, deposited a check at the bank for the last time. I'm eating my last lunch here as I write this and later tonight, if I have time, my last supper before sleeping in my own bed for the last time after taking my last shower. My old friend Diane is coming by in a few minutes and we'll see each other for what might easily be the final time.

     This is how my apartment looked almost exactly 15 years ago. It was just before I got the kitchen table and the rest of the furniture I'd acquired from a Brazilian family moving back to the Old Country. This would've been right around the time that Barb and I had first discovered each other online through the Rude Pundit's blogroll.

      The living room would be the scene of much joy, especially during Christmas where we'd opened our presents every year, often with the blessing of family. The kitchen was where we'd enjoyed countless good meals. especially during Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Year's and Easter. When Barb was still with it, we'd have very deep and profound conversations and the Scott Carson series was midwifed into being right there at our kitchen table. The bedroom was where most of The Doll Maker and all of Hollywoodland was written and where, at bedtime, we'd both read many wonderful books by other authors.

      Now I find myself giving things away. I cleared out the van of anything I felt might be of value to my son and he gratefully accepted the gas and gas cans, jumper cables and booster pack I'd given to him. My friend Nick at the Shell station, already the recipient of the Carson trilogy, got a blank journal a few nights ago, for which he thanked me again via text message. Friday, I gave my son two or three books, one of them my own Gods of Our Fathers.

      In a way, it's akin to a death or an impending one. I've heard stories of people who know they're about to die and begin giving away their belongings. As far as Hudson, MA goes, I was a townie for over 30 years and Barb was one for nearly 14 of those years. We loved seeing the same people all the time, eating at our favorite restaurants. Yes, we were townies,. We leaned into it. It was part of our identity.

      Being forced to leave Hudson involves a certain loss of identity. I went through that when I had to put Barb in the hospital a little over a year ago and again when she died six months ago on Friday. And a loss of identity is a certain form of death that's difficult to explain to those who've never been forced to walk in my shoes.

      I couldn't stop crying at the laundromat knowing I'd never do my laundry there again. I thought of all the countless loads of wash Barb and I did there. When we did laundry, usually on a Tuesday, I tried to leaven the dreary experience by having fun. Go to the local Honey Dew and get some sandwiches and coffee, to the Petco and look at the parakeets and reptiles and see the occasional dog, maybe shop for our favorite foods. I did shopping at the supermarket next door knowing I'd never shop there again. I knew I'd never do banking at my bank again. Friday was my sad little farewell tour. Dead man walking and all that.

      And, of course, Friday I had to watch the van get towed off, the same van that Barb had traveled in with me more times than I can possibly count. My favorite poet Keats once referred to this kind of uncertainty as "the wide arable land of events". Of course, when he'd written that to his siblings, he was talking about a dark doom that awaits us when we least expect it and it was written in the spring of 1819 on the cusp of his annus mirabilis. It was nearly after a year after he'd begun to present the symptoms of the tuberculosis that would kill him and that had already killed their youngest sibling, Tom, the previous winter.

      And I'll be fucked running if I know how to get my identity back. I used to be a writer until Barb's condition began to worsen and I had to devote more of my time and energies to her care. Then she was forcibly abducted from me and my identity as her caretaker was also taken from me. I don't know what awaits me in "the wide arable land of events" that Phoenix presents with the looming presence of a dead force. But I don't like this unsettled feeling nor should I be expected to like it. The past, to me, offers much more solace than the future. And I make no apologies for that.

     Preteens go through the famous "identity crisis" and there's something to that, sure. But no one has ever ventured a phrase for the identity crisis that people my age go through when we lose our agency and autonomy, our freedom and independence that we'd worked so hard to earn and keep. What's the phrase for the unique identity crisis that faces almost all seniors? There simply isn't one any more than there's one for parents that lose children.

     Like Jim Morrison said, "the future's uncertain and the end is always near", especially when you don't have a fortune to ensure and firm up what future is left to you.

     So, whenever I get to where I'm going, and it'll involve three different states or more, the punditry will continue, the cartoons may continue. But it won't be the same. You'll know it and I'll know it. All but the first eight months of this blog's existence happened at Casa de Pottersville right here in Hudson, MA. Starting tonight, I'll likely be going radio silent, not that many will care, because I'll be restricted to my cell phone. The internet's getting shut off tomorrow since I'll be leaving at 10 AM tomorrow.

     It was a hell of a ride and I often had a lot of fun writing for you guys, starting with Barb.

Good Times at Pottersville

Meme o' the Day: Fuck Him. I'm Half in the Bag and Feeling Nasty edition.

 

Like a Light From a Distant Star

With three and a half days left to pack up the rest of my stuff (or what little I can take with me. It's more like triage than actual labor), I finally went through the last of Barb's presents to me in the final Xmas we'd spent together (2022). It was the first time I had the guts to go through that paper bag (By Xmas 2021, she couldn't wrap presents, any more). My son had to chaperone her when she did her final round of shopping on December 23rd so we could split up and do our shopping in privacy.
With Barbara that year, it was hit or miss. I suspect it involved little more than picking items at random and throwing them in the cart. Some things I could use (like the ugly plaid shirt that would fit Charles Barkley but which is the most beautiful shirt on earth because it was the last one she ever got me. I wear it nearly every day.), some things I couldn't (Like the Old Spice set. We dads and husbands and boyfriends keep getting it as some default or consolation gift when imagination or ingenuity fails. I keep thinking of Hannibal Lecter's withering appraisal of it).
But then I came across this- A beard trimmer that I tried to interpret at the time as something less than a tacit suggestion from Barb to manage my whiskers (she never complained about them). But I unpacked the trimmer for the first time since Xmas 2022. I painstakingly installed the batteries then began trimming my white beard, which is now a fine stubble that, fortunately, is fashionable, for some reason.
And life, and death, is like that, I suppose. It rarely if ever travels in a clean, linear direction, one that guarantees impeccable timing and desired outcomes. It often if not always travels circuitously with no conventional timetable or trajectory.
Sometimes the dead aid us in our moments of greatest confoundment, such as when we've run out of ideas and default to Old Spice during Xmas shopping. My whiskers often get out of control because, frankly, I hate shaving. Then, I have to get out the trusty old scissors that, yes, Barb brought up from Florida in 2009, and trim them painstakingly before I can put a razor to my face.
But the trimmer Barb got me nearly 15 months ago works like a charm and performed magnificently during its maiden journey across my weathered face. This poor old woman who's been gone from us for six months was still capable of an insightful idea and gave me something I can now use for the first time even if I didn't have the guts to open it.
And I can only offer my own words in Hollywoodland as to why I refused to go into that bag of final gifts from the love of my life. In a certain chapter, page 88, when Sarah discovers she'd just slept with the man whose son she'd murdered just a week before, he points to the presents his son bought him for his birthday that Sarah saw him buy just moments before she killed him. It was a pipe and pound of tobacco. They'd remained unopened and Zeke tells Sarah,
"I haven’t opened these presents because… I guess if I do, it’ll be the last thought Clem ever had of me and then once I know what it was, then he’ll be silent forever."
Barb was still very much alive and still capable of good days when I wrote those words in the earliest months of the pandemic in 2020 but, as proof of what I'm saying, sometimes our characters know more than we do and the wisdom and motivations we give them are often passed down to us like heirlooms. Then, like a light from a distant star, it finally arrives with the magic of serendipity attached to it.
Yes, I finally reopened Barb's final presents to me but she's far from silent. She speaks to me even though she's dead and through my characters because there would be no Scott Carson novels without her. She will never be silent. She was too wise even while she was staring down her worst adversity.

Good Times at Pottersville

Good Times at Pottersville

Pottersville Digest

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     Giving that Fifth Columnist classified intelligence is like hiring the arsonist who tried to burn down your house to do a fire inspection on that same house.

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     "And I'm finally gonna prove doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is not the definition of insanity!" Seriously, if rancid cheese could talk, it would sound just like Mike Lindell.

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     OK, this is now officially a farce. Why not just go all out and include Andrew Tate, for fuck's sake?

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     "Each time a Republican like Ken Buck resigns or retires in protest, it shines a bright light on the fact that Republican leadership is willing to hurt the American people..." Republicans hurt the American people just by staying in office. Their resignations are just the lesser of two evils.

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     In other words, "We almost lessened the chances for human casualties on a manned mission, so... win, right?"

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    One thing I didn't read in this article: The FTC. Wouldn't the Federal Trade Commission theoretically get the final say whether this deal goes through or not?

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     So what did they opt for, Soviet crimson?

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     Meme intermission.

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     Perhaps a bit extreme but I can't fault his analogy to comparing Latinos for Trump to Jews For Hitler.

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     Sure, because they realized that there weren't as many white voters to bail them out as they thought.

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     Ben Shapiro: A Sondercommando in a former life.

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     Since when the fuck is it up to Rudy to decide what he has to surrender? You think any of us would have that latitude?

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     This is all good and well but, once again, we fall into the trap of listening only to right wing apostates who were fooled into voting for that umber buffoon once or twice. The people we OUGHT to be listening to are the Democrats and liberal voters who were never once fooled by him. But, as usual, we're pushed to the wayside because we ARE Democrats and liberals, hence people guilty of having a "partisan" outlook.

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     "We should, ah say, we should be allowed to put our greasy thumbs on the scales of justice. For the Democrat Party to do this to us is the worst extreme of partisanship!"

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     How the hell do you perform an abortion AFTER birth?

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     So, this is what our future looks like, huh? Thank you, Uncle Sam, you avuncular asshole.

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     "And what's this country coming to if you can't fondle and grope your date in a theater in front of small children?" And finally...

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     Just forget the fact that the president has met with world leaders over the last three plus years to discuss real foreign and economic policy.

Good or Bad, Things End For a Reason

     Packing up my books today, I was struck by how many pages I've written toward my novels just since 2009 when I first moved into this apartment. The Carson trilogy alone comes to about 1300 pages and comprises about 504,000 words. Of course, that doesn't include countless tens of thousands of words toward other Carson novels that I'd started but haven't finished or the short stories I've written and published featuring Carson. It also doesn't include the other five novels I'd published since 2010, one totaling 175,000 words.

     That's a lot of words and it doesn't include probably a million words I'd written toward this blog at the same time. There was a common denominator in all this output since 2009: Barbara.

     When she was still able to read until the end of 2019, she'd read literally every word I'd ever written, especially toward my fiction. It was my writing that brought us together, after all. When she realized I was single again in early spring of 2009, she came from the shadows of the comment section of this blog (She'd discovered me through the blog roll of the Rude Pundit, something I have to tell Lee before I kick the bucket) and that's how it started.

      She became my number one fan and was my first editor years before I hired Tamra Crow to do all my copyediting. The Scott Carson trilogy, as it now stands, wouldn't have been midwifed into being without Barbara. (I told this story to a store clerk just 24 hours ago when I dropped off all three paperback editions of the Carson trilogy because he's a writer, himself.) This is why I say that:

      Since reading Caleb Carr's THE ALIENIST and THE ANGEL OF DARKNESS in the mid 90s, I decided I wanted to write historical psychological thrillers when the time came. That idea gestated for an unimaginable 16 years until, by 2012, I thought I had a throughline that I could turn into something. So one summer day in 2012, while we were, as usual, sitting at the same table at which I now I write this, I gave Barbara sort of an elevator pitch.

      "Here's an idea and tell me what you think: Buffalo Bill, Annie Oakley, Sitting Bull, Arthur Conan-Doyle and Sigmund Freud chase Jack the Ripper in 1888 Whitechapel. What do you think?" She said I should run with it. By November, I'd written the prologue and part of the first chapter. By February 2013, I was off to the races.

      It was the first novel I'd completed in five and a half years and it changed my life. A little over seven years later, I had a trilogy. And it wouldn't have come into being if Barbara hadn't given me her blessing. That's how much I respected her opinion. She read Tatterdemalion, at least a couple of times, then The Doll Maker, my Carson short story, "The Kid", my pair of short stories in Bridge of Tarnished Angels (another featuring Carson) and all my other novels.

      When she was no longer able to read, I read her every single word of Hollywoodland, all 186,000+ words, because I wanted her to know that story, too. I owed it to her because I owed the entire series to her.

      Looking at all the space those books took up on a shelf in my living room bookcase, I'm amazed that I was blessed with that much fecundity. 2009-2019, or right before Barb's dementia began to present, was the best decade I ever lived and I'd like to think the same was true for her. Let's face facts- I'm 65. How many more decades do you think I have left in me? That decade was the best one I ever lived or even will live. Yeah, not all my novels were easy to write but about half were blessedly easy, considering I'm a pantser.

      And when I had to put Barb in the hospital a little over a year ago, I was nearly 100,000 words into yet another Carson novel entitled, The Prodigal Son. I've started and dropped two others since then. I honestly cannot imagine marshaling the energy and discipline necessary to write even a short novel (which, for me, is under 130,000 words). And, if that's the way it shakes out, then I'm OK with that.

      That's because most of us don't even write one book in our lives, let alone nearly a dozen. But it was no coincidence that my fecundity starting in 2009 also dovetailed into the same year Barb moved in with me and we began a blissful life of the codependency that relationship experts tell you to avoid. She was my muse, my editor, my critic and number one fan and her faith in me, love for me and loyalty to me never wavered by so much as a micron in the nearly 14 years we lived together.

      And it's no coincidence that my desire to write novels died when she left this house for the last time on March 8th last year. And, again, if I never write another book again, I'm perfectly OK with that.

Good Times at Pottersville

Why Aren't We Listening to the Ones Who Were Never Fooled?

 

(By American Zen's Mike Flannigan, on loan from Ari)

Let's use an analogy:

     Suppose you had an opportunity to invest your money and you were seeking financial advice. Who would you listen to, a person who has a solid track record for making profitable investments and can boast of a history of making solid returns based on a working, pragmatic knowledge of the investment market or someone who's pumped tens of thousand of dollars into, say, Trump University and lost their life savings?

     Which one would you be more willing to listen to, especially since you're about to put some skin in the game?

    Well, unless you're another fool who deserves to be parted from his money, you'd listen to the former.

     So why is it that the MSM and grassroots organizations always, Always, ALWAYS listen to just right wing apostates who were fooled by that con man who bilked people of millions through one scheme after another, such as Trump University, for instance?

     At the very least, the political acumen of those who were duped by a palpably obvious swindler and cheat like Donald Trump would be so suspect that they cannot be taken seriously. Personally, I'd rather listen to people who'd been smart, perspicacious and pragmatic enough to be able to see past the smoke and mirrors from the start and were never fooled by Trump or any of his fellow swamp dwellers.

    Yet we've been trained to listen to only those right wing apostates who were fooled by these miscreants and could be, theoretically, fooled again by the next political Elmer Gantry to wander down the pike. "This is where I went wrong and why I saw the light," they practically blubber like so many Jimmy Swaggerts and wailing, "I have sinned!"

     Because we've been conditioned to believe that the people to believe are the ones who had sinned, had their Come to Jesus/Road to Damascus moment, had seen the light. What's there not to believe? They're former Trump voters. Those liberal, Democrat voters? Oh, who cares what they say? They have Trump Derangement Syndrome. Of course they hate Trump. They have a political bias.

     And this is why it's always easier to get invited onto a sound stage of a major network if you're one of those reformed apostates known as Never Trumpers, those in the Lincoln Project or Republican Voters against Trump. The latter has been troweling out a series of videos featuring people who were, obviously, easily deluded by Trump at least once and are now on their individual paths to political redemption, however short or long it will be, by telling us how they learned their lessons.

    Here's a guy named Darin, a Republican voter out of Illinois. Darin says, "“I voted Republican straight across the board my entire life (which alone ought to make his political judgment highly suspect) until I saw Trump and his role in January 6. I can’t support a person like that.”

      So, obviously, for these people, lifelong Republican voters, you have to cross a red line flashing in blinding neon red, a person has to hurdle a ridiculously high bar, like trying to sack one's own federal government, before they finally wake up. You'd think there would be more people like this, ones that can still be reached, that cannot get sucked into the Cult of Personality that Trump had erected over the last nine years.

     But, for some of us, we don't need to see a candidate or incumbent cross the Rubicon in order for us to see their true intentions and nature.

Who Cares If You Were Right All Along?

It's not as if there was a paucity of red flags to see, or enough room for doubt and plausible deniability. Long before Trump sicced a mob to stop the certification of Electoral College votes then gleefully watched the ensuing riot on TV from the safety of the White House while refusing to do anything to stop it, long before he stole Top Secret classified documents that he then refused to turn over even after being subpoenaed by the government, long before he ignored a historic pandemic that claimed the lives of well over 1,000,000 Americans, we only needed to look at the spectacle of Trump throwing his hat in the ring.

     It really should've ended as quickly in 2016 as it had in 2012 when Trump began hurling conspiracy theories about Obama's birth certificate and place of birth. Trump came down that golden escalator and immediately began bragging to a paid crowd of mercenary shills about how "really really rich" he was in a skyscraper owned by him and inveighing against Mexicans being, ironically, "rapists and criminals".

     Even Republican voters like Darin seeking a fresh, outsider voice should've been given the willies by Trump's conduct and remarks once his campaign caught fire like a mountain of old tires at the edge of an industrial town. The following month, he began taking pot shots at John McCain, a guy who'd initially endorsed him, by saying he was only a hero because he was captured.

     Then he refused to turn over his school records from Wharton, then he refused to turn over his taxes. Despite revealing himself to be about as transparent as a block of lead, Trump then creepily stalked Hillary Clinton during the debates, bragged about not paying his taxes, saying he was 'smart", and mocked a disabled reporter.

     And, still, these apostates who are now being listened to by solemn, serious people who were also duped by this con man, rapist and racist, still voted for him on Election Day 2016. And it was obvious even by that time that Donald Trump was several years past his shelf life and proved it by delivering an endless highlight reel of some of the stupidest, most ignorant things ever uttered by a political candidate.

     Where was this Lincoln Project that night? Where were they in 2017 when Charlottesville convulsed the nation with an orgy of racist hatred? Where were they in 2018? Nowhere because it didn't exist, yet. The Lincoln Project wasn't formed until 2019. And the former Trump administration officials who are even now sucking up oxygen on sound stages, save for Miles Taylor (who was formerly known as Anonymous) were silent during the Trump years.

     They were enablers then later cashed out with an endless skein of bookdeals.

    But we weren't listening to Democratic voters and liberals who'd seen Trump for what he was all along. And we'd heard from hardly any more Democratic lawmakers who'd also seen him for the danger he was.

     Because they had a political bias, don't you know?

     Yet, these are precisely the people we ought to be putting on TV, those who were not feeble minded enough or craven enough to let a madman have his way in order to cling to a prestigious job that offers access to power. And, if we were smart as a nation, especially in yet another election year that's the most important one in human history, we'd choose to listen to them and not those who'd been fooled once or twice by the worst and best con man in history and could easily be fooled again.

Good Times at Pottersville: Beware the Ides of March edition

Pottersville Digest

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     I think it was very cool that Lemon recorded most of this in front of the bronze doors at St. Patrick's Cathedral on Broadway. Anyone who'd read it would remember that St. Patrick's features prominently in one of my Scott Carson novels, THE DOLL MAKER. (Btw, if he's going to choose St. Patrick's Cathedral as a backdrop, he might as well move up the show a day so it'll be on, you know, St. Patrick's day.)

     As for Elmo, fuck him.

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     In other words, they want to purge Black and other Democratic voters.

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     Because bathtub gin worked out so well during Prohibition.

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     As far as I'm concerned, they're all fucking idiots for voting for him even once let alone twice.

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    “You are not engaging at this time (redacted)." The redacted part obviously read, "These are your fellow white people, for God's sake."

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     Jesus Christ on a rubber crutch, tell me this isn't happening!!! How could those charges not stand? They have audiotapes, they have evidence, with granularity!

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     Typical sleazeball Trump dick move. He may be demented but even he's well aware that Florida has anti seizure laws that prevent entities from grabbing property. That's why so many rich scumbags buy expensive houses in Florida they never occupy. (Tip o' the tinfoil hat to Constant Reader, CC)

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     And Republicans wonder why we call them ghouls.

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You go, Gavin! Johnson is a do-nothing fraud. And how can migrants be committing Social Security fraud if they're working honest jobs? Actually, the fraud is when these migrants kick into the fund only to be booted out after the harvest season is over and their work visas expire, so they never reap the benefits of those tax dollars.

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    And,speaking of ghouls... What, no thumbs up? Laken Riley, unfortunately, becomes this year's Ashley Babbitt for Trump to cynically use for political brownie points.

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     In other words, Kacsmaryk can no longer be trusted.

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     Ah, those rock-ribbed conservative Republican family values!

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     "Do you love me, now, Dada?! Dada, why won't you look at me?!"

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     "Are you now or have you ever been a member of the National Socialist Party?"

     "No."

     "You're fired."

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     I don't want to hear any shit from anyone who says I'm too hard on Republicans for calling them homicidal sociopaths. They passed a similar bill in Texas and the only conclusion is that Republicans are literally trying to kill us to appease their real employers in Big Business. (Another tip o' the tinfoil hat to Constant Reader, CC)

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     It's the only way those Nazi cocksuckers are going to beat Biden this year.

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   This is perhaps the only decent thing that DeSantis has ever done as Florida governor. Trump screaming about it is exactly how you'd expect a scared, guilty man would act. And finally...

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     Give them a few months. They'll start building the concentration camps when they get the funding.