Posts by Zzyzx

I am a normative human being with standard coloration option #5 and chromosome-assigned sexual features.

In Memoriam: Sean Spicer

Every journey comes to an end. Some endings come as a sharp, sudden shock. Others are more gradual. You can see what’s coming and have time to brace yourself for the terminus. This ending feels like a little bit of both.

Come August, Sean Spicer will recede into the bushes for the last time and won’t be furitively whispering to reporters ever again. He is not deceased – physically – however, taking into account the morass that is the Trump administration, it is safe to assume he underwent some sort of spiritual death.

One hundred and eighty-three days ago, Spicer battering-rammed his way into our hearts. Here was a man sensitive to the unsettled national mood that pervaded Inaugeration Day. His ingenious remedy was an astringent attack on those who would question the president’s own truth.

He was a Press Secretary with pluck and verve. A man who, through a tilt of his head, a furrow of his brow, or an exasperated sigh, plainly communicated the toll of cognitive dissonance upon his person. When he finally broke, he broke hard, refusing to endorse Donald Trump’s selection of the execrable Anthony Scaramucci as his replacement.

It was almost a moral victory. That’s the best anyone in the Trump administration can hope for. Sean Spicer may be leaving, but he will never be forgotten.

(Year Zero/Day One Hundred and Eighty-Three)

Who Investigates The Investigators?

Or, that’s a nice team you’ve got there, Bob – it would be a shame if something happened to them;

Or, keep away from my shady dealings, I’m the goddamn president;

Or, another day, another startling thing;

Or, hopefully Trump’s dirty tricks team has a cool name like the Ratfuckers.

(Year Zero/Day One Hundred and Eighty-Two)

“People Were Startled”

Contra to more savvy political operators, Donald Trump holds his secret meetings in public. Perhaps at 71, he’s come to the conclusion that skulking around is bad for the hips.

By most accounts, the newly revealed second meeting with Putin was startling to nearby observers. Given the American president and his associates’ alarming proclivity to elide their contacts with the Russian president and his own cadre, it seems like yet another in a series of optical missteps.

For someone who is trying to get away from the cloud of suspicion, he does a piss-poor job of making escape attempts. As if on cue, today he said he wouldn’t have hired Jeff Sessions if he’d known Sessions was going to recuse himself on L’affaire Russia instead of faithfully running interference on attempts to investigate that tangled web.

Don can’t seem to quit Vlad. Vlad in turn seems to revel in the influence he openly wields over a man in a position it is often claimed is the most powerful in the world. Trump carries Putin’s water on issues like undermining NATO, the removal of sanctions against Russia, and ending a covert CIA program to arm anti-Assad rebels.

The nation’s CEO is a threat to the fabric of society on his own. And while a great many threads in that fabric are in dire need of repair or replacement, his inclination is to blame immigrants for the shoddy workmanship, throw it in the dumpster and buy a new one with his name branded on it. He hopes his extraordinarily rich Russian friend approves.

Under normal circumstances, some of the political actions undertaken wouldn’t be so concerning. Take his order re: Syria. Whether the CIA should be involved in the matter is an ongoing and legitimate question. American foreign policy can often be monsterous, yet is seems Trump lacks any moral or philosophical grounding in his decision-making process. From the outside, it seems like it has everything to do with giving Vladimir Putin what he wants.

That, for me, is the pith of what startles. A fascist who rose to power through an admixture of cult of personality, elevating racist/nationalist sentiments and foreign collision is eminently swayable to the suggestions of another, far cannier authoritarian. Whether the cause is intellectual enfeeblement or blackmail doesn’t matter. What matters is that nothing substantive has been done to stop it by the party in power, and the danger is rising.

(Year Zero/Day One Hundred and Eighty-One)

The Apex Of Political Criticism

The time has come to talk about Paul Ryan’s penis. Not because we want to, but because Steve Bannon does.

Bannon reportedly called House Speaker Paul Ryan (R-Wis.) “a limp-dick motherfucker who was born in a petri dish at the Heritage Foundation,” referring to the think tank whose fiscal conservative policies the representative espouses.

Obviously Ryan is a lab experiment gone wrong, but what does his tumescence have to do with anything? Why can’t Paul Ryan be a degenerate creep who sees Ayn Rand’s face when he closes his eyes and still be able to maintain erections?

(Year Zero/Day One Hundred and Eighty)

Trumpcare Slumped And Exhaled A Death Rattle…

And there was much rejoicing throughout the land. The terrifying kabuki the GOP was compelled to perform to justify countless Obamacare repeal votes came to a close, and the dancers, red-faced and exhausted, shambled away.

The bill was a revolting glob of toxic waste that corroded everything around it. It threatened to destabilize the health care market at large, which is why major insurers recently issued a forceful rejection of most of what it stood for. The president had a limited comprehension of the bill’s content, but he had enough wherewithal to decree it was “mean”. It would have ravaged Medicaid and allowed preexisting conditions to prevent access to vital medical care.

The Better Care Reconciliation Act of 2017 is dead as a three-day-old corpse, and few will mourn its loss.

Coming soon: Zombie Trumpcare.

(Year Zero/Day One Hundred and Seventy-Nine)

Ten Fun Facts: Marc Kasowitz

This guy, this fucking guy, who does he think he is? He’s Donald Trump’s personal lawyer and he’s probably okay with cold-cocking women, children, puppies and camels… but how much do you really know about Marc Kasowitz?

1. Marc Kasowitz is under considerable strain right now. He’s been given a lot of important tasks in the past, like successfully pressuring the Jane Doe who accused Trump of raping her when she was 13 to drop her lawsuit days before the 2016 election – but this is different. He’s supposed to keep his friend in power and out of jail? That’s a lot to ask. Pressure builds. All the tension has to go somewhere. Sometimes he vents.

In the Wednesday night tirade, Kasowitz first responded to the man, saying: “F— you.”

Fifteen minutes of later, Kasowitz added a second barrage: “How dare you send me an email like that. I’m on you now. You are f— with me now. Let’s see who you are. Watch your back, bitch.”

In the exchange, which was first reported Thursday by ProPublica, Kasowitz appeared to threaten the man, saying, “I already know where you live, I’m on you… You will see me. I promise.”

The still-unidentified man at one point offered the retort: “Thank you for the kind reply.” Though he did forward the threats to the FBI.

2. Marc Kasowitz probably does know where you live. He represents the president and several other individuals with close ties to Vladimir Putin, so don’t fuck with him. Don’t think he’s joking. He doesn’t joke, shitheel.

3. Don’t tell anyone, but it was Marc who told Donnie to fire U.S. Attorney Preet Bharara. “This guy is going to get you” he’d advised, and when there was little reaction to Bharara’s firing from the chattering class, he celebrated with a scotch on the rocks.

4. Last month the rumor mill had it that he couldn’t get security clearance at the White House and was on the chopping block due to a little drinking problem. Utter horseshit. He and The Donald go way back, they’ve been through thick and thin, and no two-bit prick was going to piss all over his life like a Ruskie escort. It was a situation that needed finesse, is all, so he hired a PR flack who described himself as a mob fixer in his official bio to prop up his image. He celebrated with 8 scotches, neat.

5. Marc publicly apologizes for his tirade. What he wants to say is “I’m sorry I let such a worseless nothing get under my skin. I hope my PR guy helps him find a stylish pair of concrete shoes,” but he holds his tongue. He congratulates himself on his restraint with a four-pack of B&J.

6. One of the associates at his law firm jests that Kasowitz has an anger problem. Marc responds in good humor by throwing a telephone through his office window.

7. Marc’s teleconference with the president isn’t going well. News has emerged that at least eight people attended Junior’s infamous meeting, including a former KGB agent. Shit.

8. He had a bottle of Russian vodka in his office at Kasowitz Benson Torres, but it appears to have gone missing. He supposes he’ll have to make a beeline for the nearest bar.

9. Someone must have pilfered all the top shelf liquor in his house. No matter, it’s time to get creative. He celebrates his ingenuity by guzzling a full bottle of Listerine.

10. Who do you think you are, judging him that way. Yer just a nobody. A nobody! You wanna fight him about it? He’d like to see you try!

Or are you chicken?

That’s right, run away, punk. Run back to your shit job that doesn’t place to weight of the world on your shoulders. Yer not a reaaal man. Or woman. Whatever. It’s hard to see straight. Cocksucker.

Marc feels… dizzy. And a little pukey. Make that a lot pukey. Oh no, here it comes…

(Year Zero/Day One-Hundred and Seventy-Six)