A turdball rolling downhill
Just a little contemplative rant on today’s news.
Today’s news arrives like gravity discovering a new object: slow at first, then undeniable, and soon to be very messy at the bottom. Start anywhere and you end up wallowing in the same shit-filled ditch.
On one slope sits pervert president and senile sack of shit Donald Dipshit Dump, suing his own government for ten billion dollars because a federal contractor leaked his tax returns years ago. Not the contractor — that case is over — but the Internal Revenue Service itself, plus Treasury, for the sin of existing near a crime. It’s the legal theory equivalent of suing the ocean for a shipwreck. The damages claim is round, aggressive, and completely imaginary, like Dump’s love for his fellow human beings. The novelty here isn’t that a public figure is angry about a leak; it’s that a sitting president, admittedly the worst ever, is demanding a private payout from agencies he commands, while insisting this proves his devotion to transparency. The circle closes. The turdball picks up speed.
Across the hill, the currently misnamed U.S. Department of Justice releases what it claims is the “final tranche” of Jeffrey Epstein material — roughly 3.5 million pages, thousands of videos, a blizzard of images, but only a modest part of the total files — and calls it closure. What the public gets is not revelation but sediment: tips without corroboration, social proximity without charges, diagrams of an inner circle where only one person ever went to prison. Officials promise that redactions were humane and legal; lawmakers promise they’re not done asking why the most interesting documents remain invisible. Everyone promises this is the last release. No one believes them. The turdball rolls on, now lubricated by process.
And then there’s the cinema.
Melania, the lavishly backed portrait of the whore First Lady, opened to the kind of box office that requires a microscope and a forgiving accountant. A few sold-out screenings in friendly ZIP codes, a lot of empty seats elsewhere, and some theaters quietly canceling showtimes out of boredom. The gap between hype and attendance could host a convention. Industry trackers call it “soft.” Critics use shorter words. The reported spend — acquisition plus marketing — suggests the real audience is a spreadsheet waiting for streaming to make the math feel less embarrassing. Gravity is ruthless with prestige projects that mistake notoriety for curiosity. It’s blatant-ass bribery funded by your Amazon.com purchases. But at least it’s tanking like a son-of-bitch.
Then Dumpy remembered his flying monkeys still have handcuffs. Thus, federal agents arrested Don Lemon and Minneapolis reporter Georgia Fort for the unforgivable offense of standing in public and recording what was happening there. Not bribery. Not assault. Observation. The charges — wrapped in sanctimonious language about “worship” and “order” — are a transparent pretext, a clerical fig leaf for punishing the act of looking too closely. A federal magistrate judge had already declined to authorize charges against Lemon, which the Justice Department treated as a polite suggestion rather than a legal boundary. The message couldn’t be clearer if it were engraved on the cuffs: the First Amendment still exists, but only as a decorative object — like an antique musket on a courthouse wall — admired in theory, useless in practice, and absolutely not to be handled during live demonstrations of fascist power. Cameras are allowed, but only as mirrors. Point them outward and the regime will kick your ass.
Put all of this shit together and a pattern emerges, less ideology than physics. Lawsuits framed as martyrdom. Transparency staged as endurance theater. Cultural products marketed as movements and received as cultural garbage. Journalism depicted as religious harassment. Our American institutions are not collapsing; they’re being leaned on until they creak, then blamed for the noise. The Dumpster’s personal brand is not expanding; it’s shedding mass and pretending the loss is momentum.
What makes today’s little slice of the overall Dump disaster compelling isn’t scandal fatigue — America can metabolize scandal like caffeine — but the persistent lie that each slip is actually a stride. A leak becomes persecution. A document dump becomes absolution. A movie that no one sees becomes proof of devotion. Mere reporting becomes an offense against Christianity. Each claim pushes the same stinking turdball downhill, faster now, louder, daring gravity to blink.
It won’t. Gravity never does. And it’s clear as hell there’s gonna be a mighty, hideously disgusting splash soon.
Time to put on your goggles and contamination suit.
