Look, I'm Sure Milli Vanilli Ghosts Lots of Superpowers (Ferret!)

Hello, friends. Forgive my longer-than-expected absence. It’s just that, well, I fancy myself something of a humorist, and to wind up so overwhelmingly, effortlessly out-satired by the very target of my ridicule…it’s been humbling.

“Dumocrats”

GOD, IT WAS RIGHT THERE! (The blog site is RIGHT HERE: https://showercapblog.com/look-im-sure-milli-vanilli-ghosts-lots-of-superpowers/)

“You take the E out. You don’t use the B,” Trump said. “They are Dumocrats. You know why? Because their policies are dumb.”

I think we can skip the cognitive screening this week, Walter Reed! Although if he’s already there for the cankles or the death splotch or the narcolepsy or the incontinence, I suppose you may as well. He’s always so pleased with himself after the bit with the animal drawings, and wins are getting harder and harder to come by these days.

Sloppy old fop’s neglecting the economy he wrecked and the war he botched to focus on his birthday party, and he can’t even pull that shit off.

Technically it’s America’s birthday party, but spoilers: any and all presents are destined for Mar-a-Lago restrooms. For example, officials from the Department of Idolatry propose a new $250 bill, intended as legal tender for all bribes, hush money payments, and tariffs on imported Russian hooker pee…guess whose face is on it?

When your starting point is The Best We Could Do is Milli Vanilli, you’d think there’d be no way to sink any lower, but these people are impossible to underestimate. Looks like the nation is in for a deep dive into Vanilla Ice’s oeuvre, because apparently Bret Michaels is washing his hair that night.

The humiliation somehow hasn’t slowed the remodeling bender. Shoot, they’re spending so much money gilding and/or rubberizing everything in sight I worry there won’t be enough left in the Treasury to compensate those poor domestic terrorists for that justice they all too briefly faced.

And we wouldn’t want to cheat any insurrectionist child molesters out of their settlements, would we? Shoot, I’d volunteer to pay extra taxes if I weren’t getting fucked six ways from Sunday by the tariffs and the war and the inflation and the corruption.

Although I think I saw someplace that the Iran War ended in total, glorious victory, and hey, if we have to pay a massive bribe to reopen that one strait that was already open before the war we started, just remember the preferred denomination is “pallets of cash.”

Luckily we can afford all these payouts to theocratic regimes and violent seditionists and horse statue gilders because of how strong the economy is. Pay no attention to the inflation report behind the curtain, please. Or to the consumer sentiment survey in the coat closet. It goes without saying how impolite it would be to mention the revised GDP numbers protruding from beneath the bed in the guest room.

No, all things are both hunky and dory. In fact, war is so fun n’ easy we might just blow up Oman next. They got any o’ them “straits” in Oman? Somebody oughta check on that.

You know you’re living in a healthy democracy when Cabinet meetings contain enough ass-kissing to merit statistical analysis. In this day and age, one probably shouldn’t write “it turns out Marco Rubio has the brownest nose,” but the numbers don’t lie.

Speaking of the Cabinet, it seems Markwayne Mullin is finally getting his jackboots under him, rolling out a breathtakingly idiotic plan to divert international flights from (blue) cities who fail to show sufficient deference to the nurse-murdering agents of ICE. We’re lucky the Dumocrats aren’t in charge because they might prioritize the economy over spite, and then where would we be?

I enjoyed my first night of sound sleep in I don’t know how long, secure in the knowledge that steely justice had FINALLY caught up with public enemy number one, E. Jean Carroll. I don’t understand how people can bring children into a world where a woman can sue Donald Trump JUST BECAUSE he raped her.

I’m kinda sad I missed my chance to say Well, Bye to Tulsi Gabbard and Bill Cassidy, but at least I made it back in time for the sad, sputtering end of John Cornyn’s long, feckless meander through the halls of power. John may not’ve been much of a senator, but perhaps we should judge him as a walking exemplar of the theory that weak men create hard times.

Despite rare squawks of independence, Cornyn was a reliable enough stooge, but I guess he just hadn’t helped enough child molesters evade justice to suit the Texas Republican primary electorate. No, Ken Paxton, fraudster, adulterer, traitor, and cake thief, proved more to their liking. They take their Christianity real serious down there.

And James Talarico may not’ve put any pedophiles back on the street or betrayed any constitutions, but he sure is a sissy and a nancy boy and lots of other things I can’t quite say again yet, but just you wait till term three, libtard.

Yes, the Texas Senate race is to be a referendum on masculinity. Stephen Miller and Jesse Watters have convinced themselves of that ground’s favorability, and I am not inclined to interrupt them. Especially amusing of Miller to appoint himself keeper of that particular gate, given that he’s such an ugly little fuck.

Cosmetically, of course, he’s like if a wax dummy of a Xenomorph jerked off on Eva Braun’s ashen remains, but the real ugliness is inside.

Katie Miller hoped to ride the week’s discussion of her mate’s ugly fuckhood to the MAGA griftosphere celebrity that has thus far eluded her, but earned only mockery. I imagine it’s tough to get ahead when everyone assumes you have some horrifying STD that only an exorcist can cure.

A federal judge ordered the Dotard’s filthy name scraped off the Kennedy Center, triggering an unusually embarrassing meltdown from the all-time career leader in embarrassing meltdowns. He may launch nuclear strikes if his new man-crush (NY Giants QB Jaxson Dart) doesn’t return his increasingly desperate texts.

Rapist Jr. must’ve inherited Daddy’s deal-making genes. How else do you explain the uncanny foresight to randomly invest in a random startup that randomly received a $620 million loan from the Pentagon after random arm-twisting from a random White House official named, like, I wanna say Ron Vara?

Following Kash Patel’s thirsty hockey incursion, professional sports teams have learned to dork-proof their locker rooms, and thus was Vivek Ramaswamy repelled from the New York Knicks’ victory party. The impulse to glom onto someone who doesn’t spend their days marinating in loserstink is certainly understandable in this political climate.

Shit, it wasn’t so long ago we were a superpower. We won two world wars and put a man on the freakin’ moon. One game show host later, we’re such a shithole that Milli Vanilli backs out of our semiquincentennial.

Lordy.

Okay. I would once again like to gently remind any Kickstarter backers who have yet to answer their surveys to please do so that I might mail you the comics you bought! They are wonderful comics, and I want you to read them for many reasons, not the least of which is that it’s just about time to start promoting the Kickstarter for issue #2.

If you can’t wait that long to send me money, I understand completely and have established a tip jar accepting PayPal, Cash App, and Venmo for just such emergencies. You are also welcome to join my email list and to follow @john_luzar. No matter what, please-o-please stay safe out there, old chum…