No. of Recommendations: 14
-A Sunday Sermon by JoJo from Jersey- |It's old, maybe a week old, but stands the test of time.
I wrote a post critical of Kristi Noem on local social media (Nextdoor) far far milder, and was promptly called misogynist. Perhaps if I had attributed my post to a woman it would have been acceptable?
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JoJo:
"Are you f'ng kidding me?
Let’s start at the top—or what remains under the chemical-orange lacquer job that looks like it was applied with a leaf blower in a Home Depot parking lot.
This is a coverup. Of a coverup. Of a coverup. Covered in coverup.
It’s lies caked on lies, frosted with banana-colored stage paint, and sealed beneath a combover so fragile it looks like a dead ferret clinging to life in a wind tunnel. It’s medical concealment via clown cosmetics. A tube of concealer doing the job of a physician. National stability outsourced to the beauty aisle at CVS. A wheezing tribute act to narcissism held together by makeup and malpractice.
They’ve been airbrushing his decline for years—painting over purple bruises, layering makeup like geological strata, slapping spackle on his vascular system and calling it vitality. The man looks like a Vegas animatronic that caught fire mid-show and got doused in self-tanner and shame. And still, the entire Trump operation is betting the farm—our farm—on one bet: that the American people are too stupid, distracted, propagandized, or tired to notice that the orange elephant hobbling around the Resolute Desk isn’t vigorous—it’s rotting in real time.
And fronting this deranged circus of deception?
A woman so committed to the bit she should win an Emmy for Outstanding Performance in a Staged Collapse: the White House Press Secretary. Or, more accurately: Secretary of Gaslight, Girdles, and Government-Approved Hallucinations—moonlighting as the nation’s top stylist for fascism in a funhouse mirror.
You can smell the bullshit before the “press secretary” even opens her mouth. Her delivery is robotic, her gaze haunted, and her voice gets louder and meaner the more outrageous the lie. It’s like she thinks volume equals credibility—shouting about “robust stamina” as if that’ll drown out the sound of democracy flatlining in the background. She sneers her way through every briefing with the brittle ferocity of a substitute gym teacher on their last nerve. And the more unhinged the script, the more she snarls, like a glitching Stepford wife possessed by a QAnon PowerPoint.
She recites these absurdities with the dead-eyed intensity of someone who knows this is all completely fucked—but also knows she can’t stop because she traded her soul for a title and a corporate discount at Sephora. Her face says, “Everything’s fine.” Her eyes say, “Get me out of here.” Every time she parrots a line about Trump’s vigor, one eyelid blinks “SEND HELP” in Morse code while the other one rage-quits the job entirely.
And now, she’s been sent to sell America its dumbest whopper yet:
That Donald J. Trump—78 years old, convicted felon, right leg dragging like it’s been ghosted by the rest of his nervous system—just suddenly got diagnosed with chronic venous insufficiency. A condition where the valves in your veins break down, blood stops circulating properly, and your legs swell like a microwaved sausage. Stage 3, which is what it very much looks like, means it’s been going on for years. And anyone with eyes—and basic human decency—knows it.
But they think we’re too dumb to notice.
Never mind the sock-swollen ankles we’ve noticed for weeks.
Never mind the cartoon-smeared hand makeup to hide bruises we’ve noticed for months.
Never mind the suits tailored like they’re hiding a leg brace, a catheter, or a crime scene.
Never mind that we’ve never seen his ACTUAL ankles, because Trump doesn’t show skin unless it’s the shade of nuclear cheddar and flaking under hot lights like a molting lizard.
They expect us to swallow this sudden “transparency” like it’s honesty—when it’s just the latest PR diaper strapped to a man who’s been leaking lies since the ‘70s.
And why now?
Because they thought they could “pivot.”
They thought the medical diagnosis would kill the Epstein story. They thought if they finally fessed up to something—anything—the press would get distracted, start drooling over sock gossip, and forget the real scandal unraveling behind the scenes. But just a few hours later, another headline hit like a cinderblock wrapped in slime: Donald Trump sent a birthday letter to Jeffrey Epstein. Back when they were party pals. The letter, exposed by The Wall Street Journal, was reportedly collected by Ghislaine Maxwell as part of a grotesque birthday scrapbook—a glitter-glued time capsule of elite predator sleaze. Trump’s note, framed by the outline of a naked cartoon woman (because of course it was), ended with the line: “Happy Birthday — and may every day be another wonderful secret.” That’s not a distraction. That’s a confession with a decorative border.
Let that sink in.
The White House tried to preempt that explosion with a limp rollout of medical trivia about Trump’s circulatory system—as if swollen legs and poorly-functioning veins would make us forget about a man who joked his way into a predator’s scrapbook.
It backfired immediately.
Now they’re left holding two headlines: one about failing veins, the other about shared secrets with a convicted sex trafficker. One medical. One monstrous. And both damning.
The distraction didn’t just flop—it collapsed like a folding chair at a Golden Corral brawl, taking the whole cover-up circus down with it.
Donald Trump is not vigorous.
He is not “sharp as ever.”
He is not even functional.
He is a decomposing cautionary tale of impunity—bronzed like a rotisserie fever dream, stitched into a suit that’s begging for retirement, hobbling through headlines like a collapsed casino mascot on day four of a bender.
And the only thing more grotesque than the secrets he’s keeping are the sycophants still willing to lie for him. This is a man who slurred through rallies, nodded off mid-sentence like a tranquilized buffalo, forgot that he appointed Jerome Powell to the Fed, and then spun straight into a dementia fanfic about his uncle teaching the Unabomber. (Spoiler: his uncle taught at MIT. The Unabomber went to Harvard and Michigan. But reality has never once interrupted Trump’s fevered carousel of self-mythologizing gibberish—and his inner circle is all too happy to nod along like it’s gospel.)
He walks like the floor is lava. His leg drags. His balance is shot. He needs both hands to steady a glass of water like he’s maneuvering plutonium. He wears lifts like Mussolini on stilts, cinches himself into a girdle tighter than his polling margins, and paints his face like he’s going on stage to perform Cats in an underground bunker.
And still—the cult claps.
They cheer for the fall.
They call decay “dominance” and collapse “strategy.”
They scream “deep state” while he’s over here bruising from “shaking hands too hard”, according to the secretary of bronzer denial.
This is not strength.
This is not normal.
This is not okay.
And the same ghouls who spent years dissecting Joe Biden’s gait, shoes, throat clears, and gym schedules are now actively helping cover up a medical crisis so obvious you can see it through Trump’s socks.
Every accusation was a confession. Every time.
They accused Biden of hiding things—while Trump’s team literally painted over his symptoms and called it leadership. They accused Biden of weakness—while Trump’s organs are holding an open revolt in real time. They accused Biden of aging—while Trump has to be airbrushed like a mattress tag to look remotely alive.
This isn’t just projection.
It’s pathology.
And the press? You’re on notice.
It is not fair, balanced, or remotely credible to obsess over Biden’s sneakers like they’re a national emergency while letting Donald Trump lumber across stages like a dying cruise ship hypnotist, slurring through half-melted catchphrases, clinging to the podium like it owes him child support, and staring into the middle distance like he’s trying to remember what planet he’s on.
Report the truth.
Or be complicit in a cover-up lacquered in Cheeto spackle, sealed with Aqua Net, and marinated in the musk of Adderall, resentment, and expired McNuggets.
Because Donald Trump is not strong.
He is not sharp.
He is not sound—physically, mentally, morally, or spiritually. He is the punchline of a collapsing empire, too bloated to flee and too demented to shut the hell up.
He is a decaying monument to fraud and sexual misconduct, limping through history with swollen ankles, a vanishing mind, and a cult too far gone to see the embalming fluid pooling at his feet.
And the only thing more distended than his vascular system is the avalanche of bullshit his enablers are still shoveling down America’s throat.
And with that, today’s song. (Hat-tip to Dean Obeidallah for the suggestion).
I love you guys!
Stay sane(ish), stay strong, and steer clear of birthday cards for sex offenders.
Jo Jo
No. of Recommendations: 4
Circus Felon. yeah...
Recently I've been seeing ads in my streaming (a few things I stream are "free with ads", so I get some ads). I think it's Kristi Noem I'm seeing. I try to tune it out because there are pictures of the Felon behind her, and she's saying "Thank you, Donald Trump...". It's really sickening how obsequious the tone of that message it.
And I actually approve of the concept. "If you're here illegally, leave now, and you'll have a chance to come back legally." Great. But the reality of the implementation (e.g. deporting people who are here legally) is so egregious, that I would rather disband ICE than continue this path.
Fortunately, that is not an either/or situation. We just need to get enough Dems in Congress to oppose this rubbish, and then elect a non-MAGA in 2028. But we are stuck for at least another year with this travesty.
