The Wrath of Con

“You did what?”

Is Khan Noonien Singh running Starfleet in this timeline?

No, he’d have been deported to the Klingon Empire by now. The braying asshole whose shysters just extorted $16 million from Paramount is merely a student of his methods:

To boldly go … where? To the bank for a cashier’s check, it seems. Hold the phasers, drop the shields, piss on the dilithium crystals and call in the Tribbles.

Beam me up, Scotty — there’s no intelligent life down here.

Heil, Caesar!

Another dick-tator with a golden comb-over.

On the first day of July, the month named for Julius Caesar, the Senate bent to its dictator’s will and approved his giant, ugly-ass, abortion of a bill.

Susan Collins of Maine, Rand Paul of Kentucky, and Thom Tillis of North Carolina— who will not seek re-election after Orange Julius Caesar threatened to find someone to primary him — were the only Repugs to vote nay. All others assumed that fabled position.

Prince MAGAbelly had to cast the deciding vote, and now this huge, loathsome turd must float back to the House for resolution of the changes made in its version. A vote there could come as early as tomorrow.

Might there be a few hurdles involved? Hear ye, hear ye, from Ye Oulde New Yorke Times!

Hurdles, you say? It is the hee, and also haw. The majority in the House makes the Senate look … well, senatorial by comparison. The Senate is up to its saggy tits in senile old hoors, to be sure, but the House is the political equivalent of a Bizarro World Alice’s Restaurant, where you can get anything you want, including Alice, her husband, Ray, Fasha the dog, the entire complement of the Group W bench, and maybe Officer Obie too, all rolling around in a half-ton of garbage, if that’s what blows your skirt up.

So poor people will starve, get sick, and die, rich people will get richer and write letters to their senators complaining about how they have to step over the stiffs on their way to the squash court, and Elon Spunk will start a new political party in a frantic attempt to … save us from ourselves? Nope. To put himself back in the news cycle as anything other than a bad joke, despised even by the people who bought his cars.

Better debug that exploding Starship stat, bruh. I hear OJC wants to claw back your subsidies and deport you to Mars, and for sure he’ll make you drive your own paddy wagon.

Dispatches from Barad-dûr

It’s only our bedroom chimney. You go to war with the Barad-dûr you have, not the Barad-dûr you might want or wish to have at a later time.

OK, lemme see if I’ve got this right. …

Pope Naked I, the Unclothed Emperor, Avatar of Peace and Very Stable Genius, elbows into a Middle Eastern pissing contest without checking with Congress, an elite cadre of drunkards, turncoats, lickspittles, ring-kissers, and Keyboard Kommandos at his side.

Next he unilaterally declares a cease-fire — a short while later the belligerents mumble, “Yeah, right, cease-fire, sure. …” — and get right back to murdering each other.

Finally the Warrior Pope finds a convenient camera to holler into, barking that the belligerents “don’t know what the fuck they’re doing,” when it seems pretty clear to even the most casual observer that when it comes to killing each other, these people are at the top of their class.

Does that about cover it? I think I’m all caught up now.