Dear Mary Peltola, Democratic candidate for U.S. Senate from Alaska,

I believe I speak for all good Democrats here in the Lower 48 when I respectfully ask you … What the fuck?

No. Seriously. What the actual, unrepentant fuck gave you the notion to greenlight election shenanigans designed to confuse voters and give you a better chance at winning?

And, yes, I know you say you had no idea but, well, I don’t believe you.

And, please, don’t tell me it’s nothing compared to what Trump & Co. have done, and continue to do, to hoodwink voters and rig the system.

It’s something. And it’s pretty damn despicable.

Mary, I feel I can speak freely since your emails appear in my inbox and your texts on my phone at least—and I am NOT exaggerating—20 times a day. We’re practically engaged at this point, the way I see it. It’s you, Mary, who greets me every morning and tucks me in at night. More than Jon Ossoff, more than James Talarico, hell even more than Josh Turek!

When the worst thing they had on you was your potty mouth, I admit it only made me like you more. The claims by former staffers that you routinely berated them (and even shoved one!) reminded me of my favorite sitcom, “Veep.” But here’s the thing, Mary. I didn’t worry about that because women, especially successful ones like you, are used to having their every utterance parsed while men are just being boys.

So, yeah. You probably cussed somebody out, maybe for good reason. I remember how many Republicans eviscerated Minnesota Democratic Senator Amy Klobuchar for a similar offense. The same Klobuchar who has been one of the most effective across-the-aisle senators to ever serve.

In other words, it takes a LOT for me to buy into handwringing over coded bullshit that’s some version of “she’s on the rag again.”

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Watching the likes of Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent (World’s Most Punchable Face Award Winner 2024-present) act like he can’t hardly get through the day without a big ol’ plate of Chicken Bellagio from his favorite chain restaurant is guffaw-inducing. I suspect Bessent never heard of The Cheesecake Factory until Obama made a funny about it at Trump’s expense over the weekend.

Yes, the quip heard ‘round the world. Wounded Republicans circled the Teslas and cried “Elitist!!!” after Obama jokingly said Trump’s “got the White House looking like Saddam Hussein opened a Cheesecake Factory.”

Bessent’s awkward, utterly rehearsed suggestion Obama “try the cheeseburger spring rolls!” was desperate and misinformed. Real patriots know it’s the pan-fried dumplings for the app win. Duh.

Fresh from a visit, my ownself, to The Cheesecake Factory last week in Los Angeles, I had to snicker at the faux outrage of the right alleging Obama was being an “elitist” slamming an affordable chain restaurant.

Chain, yes. Affordable? Hmmm. The Princess and I had a no-drinks lunch and SHARED AN ENTRÉE and the bill with tip was $82.

Scott Bessent, WMPF, staged a photo opp while leaving the Cheesecake Factory in downtown D.C. just to underscore his (ha!) fondness for the chain restaurant beloved by hardscrabble just getting by American families.

Except, well, no.

The Trump Administration can’t even get their “down and out, just regular folks scraping by and tryna have a nice meal” bit right. BECAUSE THEY HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE.

You know why we ate at The Cheesecake Factory while on vacation? Because we don’t have one in my hometown and we were feeling like a bit of a splurge.

To repeat: THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY ISN’T WHERE YOU GO FOR A CHEAP MEAL.

But, of course, they don’t know that. They think it’s like Taco Bell, where you legit can get a bean burrito (nutritionally sound) and a happy hour Diet Pepsi for under four bucks. Hungry folks on a budget can splurge and spend about $4.75 for a cheeseburger Happy Meal with fries, apple slices and choice of drink plus a toy! This is what “going out to eat” looks like for people who really are on a tight budget.

Bessent, the squishy softest near-billionaire in the bunch, was perhaps the worst choice to send into the wild to prove the administration understood the plight of Americans on a Trump-induced budget. Remember he’s the one who soothed young wannabe homeowners by suggesting they talk to their parents who, after retiring, may have purchased multiple homes.

As one does.

Scott Bessent has no clue about the hopes and dreams of average Americans and I can prove it: He exited the entirely staged Cheesecake Factory photo opp without clutching the requisite take-out shopping bag.

I’m sure he shoved food around on a plate while the cameras whirred, but when the waitperson offered a to-go bag, he was undoubtedly confused.

“B-b-b-but I don’t have a dog!”

Listen to me. No decent red-blooded American has ever left a Cheesecake Factory without clutching that to-go bag of leftovers. You don’t waste it. Not even the soup. Hell, I’ve been known to ask them to package up the soggy lettuce from my salad because the dressing is THAT GOOD.

Barack Obama wasn’t being elitist. He was being funny, which is, as we all know is something Trump and MAGA in general don’t understand.

It’s why Trump famously pouted and skipped out on the White House Correspondents Dinner all four years of his first term. He couldn’t take the joke, sure. But he also didn’t GET the joke.

Ugh.

All this talk of cheesecake gives me the perfect excuse to share my very favorite recipe with y’all. It’s from Paula Deen and, yes, I know she was canceled but let’s not hold it against her cheesecake, OK? Pro tip: Use that Salted Caramel Sauce as a dip for apple slices (Apples are remarkably affordable at Lidl and Aldi these days; just ask Scott Bessent. Ha!)

PUMPKIN CHEESECAKE With SALTED CARAMEL SAUCE

Crust:

1 and ¾ c. graham cracker crumbs

3 tablespoons light brown sugar

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

¼ cup melted butter

Filling:

3 (8-ounce) packages cream cheese, room temp

15-ounce can pumpkin puree (not pie filling!)

3 eggs

1 egg yolk

¼ cup sour cream

1 and ½ cups sugar

½ teaspoon cinnamon

1/8 teaspoon nutmeg

1/8 teaspoon ground cloves

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon vanilla

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350.

In medium bowl, combine crumbs, sugar and cinnamon. Add melted butter. Press crumb mixture down flat into bottom and a little bit of the sides of an 8- or 9-inch springform pan. Set aside.

Beat cream cheese until smooth. Add pumpkin puree, eggs, egg yolk, sour cream, sugar and spices. Add flour and vanilla. Beat together until well combined. Pour into crust. Spread out evenly. Bake for 1 hour. Remove from oven and let sit for 15 minutes. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 4 hours or overnight.

To serve…

Top with whipped cream (real or fake), a generous drizzle of Salted Caramel sauce and a dusting of pecan halves toasted in a skillet before chopping.

SALTED CARAMEL SAUCE

1 cup packed brown sugar

½ cup heavy cream

4 tablespoons butter

1 teaspoon vanilla

¾ teaspoon kosher salt

Combine ingredients and cook over medium heat while whisking gently until thickened. (About 6 minutes). Let cool. Serve warm or at room temperature over cheesecake. Refrigerate and reheat as needed.

Katie: Kimberly, you’re home! How was your first day as a Dasher?!

Kimberly: Not great, honestly, Katie. My Mercedes G-Wagon, which I had to refinance for, like, 4,000 months, reeks of onion rings and a quart of KFC comeback sauce leaked onto the passenger seat!

Katie: Sarah Huckabee Sanders back in town? (audience laughter)

Kimberly: You guessed it! Anyway, the worst part of the day was hearing YOUR boss act like he didn’t know me! I was engaged to his son for FOUR YEARS! And he says, “She, I guess, dated my son a long time ago.” He GUESSES?!? What the fudge?

Katie: Yikes, girlfriend! That’s awful. I can’t believe a man as kind and doting as Mr. Trump wouldn’t recognize you were practically family for years.

Kimberly: About that. He’s actually kind of an asshole. I know you graduated from Tem-U but you can be naïve about the world. Like how you said today the president has delivered on every promise he’s made.

Katie: It’s true! He says it in all his rallies and speeches.

Kimberly: Hon, I love ya, but I was waiting at the Applebee’s bar for 30 hot wings and a Triple Chocolate Meltdown - Ginni Thomas, natch - and I saw your first press conference. I’ve got some notes, if you’re interested.

Katie: Really? I thought it went great! And tomorrow it will be great again! Ha!

Kimberly: C’mon, sis. You SIGHED before you pronounced Venezuela. It was like you weren’t sure you were pronouncing it right!

Katie: Well, duh. It’s in Spanish. I never said I was bilingual. (audience laughter)

Kimberly: And when you said, “my president” when you meant to say “my husband”? I saw Natalie Harp knitting a little voodoo doll that looked like you!

Katie: Hmmm. That explains the stabby icepick headache I’ve had behind my eye all afternoon. I’m not stupid, you know. I’ve got a law degree. They don’t just hand those out like … things they hand out to people.

Kimberly: That’s another thing. When they asked where you passed the bar exam you said, “When I moved to China.” That didn’t make any sense.

Katie: If I’m so dumb why would the president hire me?

Kimberly: Long blonde hair and decent tits?

Katie: That’s not very nice, uh, uh, uh …

Kimberly: It’s Kimberly.

Katie: I knew that.

Kimberly: Katie, you’re pretty enough but you and I can’t expect our cartoonishly long hair extensions to keep us in the game forever. We need … brains.

Katie: (gulp)

Kimberly: Look, I’m just here to help. I love that we get to live together. But don’t you have a husband and four children? I was thinking about that when I was waiting on a dead meerkat to be tossed over the fence to me at the National Zoo for “RFK Jr., but definitely not the one you’re thinking.” (audience laughter)

Katie: My family doesn’t want to live here so it’s just you and me, a couple of power gals … well, one anyway. You’ll claw back, Kimberly. You’ll get an oligarch to marry you one day; I just know it!

Kimberly: I’m not so sure. Gavin divorced me and Don Jr. dumped me and married a woman so thin he has to shake the sheets to find her. (audience laughter)

Katie: Don’t worry. Remember your slogan? THE BEST IS YET TO COME!!!

Kimberly: Ugh. Don’t remind me. So embarrassing….

Katie: Look, you’re just in a rough patch. I can remember when I was just starting out, a young conspiracy theorist who people laughed at whenever I told them the Democrats were eating babies in the back of a pizza restaurant …

Kimberly: You know that was crazy though, right?

Katie: Crazy like a sheep. It sure got me on Mr. Trump’s radar.

Kimberly: It’s Fox. Crazy like a fox.

Katie: Oh! I almost forgot! Mike Lindell, the My Pillow guy who thinks he is a journalist now sent over some pillows for the apartment.

Kimberly: That would explain the aroma of foreclosed factory and black mold …

Katie: Rude!!

Kimberly: All I’m saying is be careful. These people are only in it for themselves. I used to be one of them.

Katie: I bet if you had it to do all over again, you’d do everything differently …

Kimberly: Hell yeah, I would. I’d have gone straight for the old man and not messed with Junior… Ouch!! My eye!!

Yoo-Hoo!

Amendment 25, you up?

Can we pluck you from a dusty drawer and have a lil chat? Pop a squat.

I like to think of Amendment 25 as the major league pitcher warming up in the bullpen, the stud closer that will trot onto the mound and win the big game.

These days, we like Amendment 25. A lot. There are four parts to it but the part we can use to blast Trump’s lumpy ass out of the Oval is Section 4, which permits the vice president and the cabinet (or a body approved by Congress), to jointly agree that “the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office.”

Section 4 is the part that makes it clear the president has an impairment of faculties and can’t make or communicate decisions as to his own competency.

The framers of the Amendment, which was ratified in 1967, considered Section 4 to be in play if the president suffers “a mental debility or is unable or unwilling to make any rational decision including particularly the decision to stand aside.”

Hmmm. Sound like anyone we know?

Once again, we ask: “What would the right have done if Obama had paused a campaign speech to admire the perky ass of a Republican senate candidate?”

We’ve got a clearly diminished crazy person in the Oval right now. You know it; I know it; tiny school children across the land know it.

The problem with Amendment 25 is that to invoke it you need the vice president AND either a cabinet majority or a Congress-approved “disability review panel.”

And while I don’t doubt J.D. Vance, a shape-shifting motherfucker who has one speed, blind ambition, would love to invoke Amendment 25 and succeed Trump as president, he is likely hesitant to conspire to toss dear leader for being unhinged and dangerous, because he’d risk forever alienating MAGA.

I hear you. “But MAGA’s so 2024! They’re bailing on Trump every day! They realize now he lied to them!”

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None of us should be. When Trump told an audience in Clarksville, Tenn., over the weekend “someone had said” he needed to rename an ocean, we knew the “someone” he was referring to was himself.

On account of he lies ALL the time.

Gripping the podium and lurching forward in his trademark “just spitballin’ here” pose, Trump appeared to warm to the idea that was his very own to start with.

“Someone said you need a river or an ocean,” he told the Tennesseans whose rural hospitals will be shuttered shortly after Election Day.

They clapped wildly. Because they are super stupid.

Yes, after signing executive orders renaming the Gulf of Mexico as the Gulf of America and Lake Ontario as Lake America, what else should a president concern himself with? Inflation? Iran? Measles? Pfffftt.

“We’ve got the Gulf. We’ve got a beautiful lake. So, we need a river and we need an ocean,” said Trump as though he was padding a poker hand. “So, I was thinking of either the Atlantic or Pacific. We call it Trump Ocean. Or Ocean of the Americas, something like that. We have to.”

Do we though? Do we really have to rename the Atlantic or Pacific after you? And, yes, I realize you also tossed out Ocean of the Americas, but we know your heart isn’t really in it.

We know that what you really want is to rename BOTH oceans for yourself.

It doesn’t make sense, of course. Oceans are awe-inspiring, deep and constantly evolving. You are, well, plankton.

Here’s the thing, lil man. You can put your name on a million buildings, bodies of water, ballparks … whatever. People will still, for generations to come, just laugh wryly, shake their heads and mutter “asshole.”

Where does it stop? Once you’ve rebranded the fucking OCEAN, what’s really left?

(It should be noted none of Trump’s silly Executive Orders are recognized by The Rest of the Entire World, and, most likely, will be reversed by the next Democratic president in the time it takes to say “Well, THAT was batshit crazy.”)

Ironically, Trump considers “branding” to be one of his greatest strengths. I’m not sure why a 34-time felon who has been entangled in more than 4,000 legal actions from contractors and employees for nonpayment of bills, thinks a name-change makes bad stuff disappear.

Put another way, if I step in a pile of dogshit on my neighborhood walk, I can say it was “brown cotton candy” but I still gotta spend the next gagsome hour using a wooden skewer to pick the shit out of my dumb honeycomb pattern walking shoes.

Renaming doesn’t substantively change a damn thing. So, yes. It’s Lake Ontario and it’s the Gulf of Mexico and it will always and forever be the Atlantic and the Pacific.

To replace those names with “Trump” would never work because how far do you have to go with that?

Will my favorite light Mexican beer become Trumpico?

Will the New Jersey beach town he damn near destroyed back in the ‘90s become known as Trump City? (Follow up question: Haven’t they suffered enough?)

Must we rent a convertible and enjoy the scenic splendor of the Trump Coast Highway? Nope.

In his pathetic attempt to create a legacy out of a spectacularly disastrous presidency, Trump just calls attention to his embarrassing neediness. His silly proposal smacks of desperation and, frankly, is giving public binky.

As literally the only person in the entire world who was surprised by his failure to secure the Nobel Peace Prize last week, Trump started tossing his rattle out of the playpen, claiming falsely he’d ended “eight wars, maybe more” and slamming winner Navil Pillay, a South African human rights lawyer and international jurist who, at 85, continues to expose genocide and seeks to punish those responsible. Oddly, Pillay has never once pouted about not having a river or ocean named after her. What a loser.

I have to admit it.

I will never get tired of seeing Republicans in high places trying to distance themselves from the sticky-fingered orange toddler crawling behind them wherever they go.

“Ugh,” they seem to say, “Can’t somebody distract him with a shiny object or something soaked in ketchup? Anybody??”

Maine Senator Susan Collins is the most recent example. During her first-of-four debates with Dem challenger Troy Jackson Tuesday night in Portland, Collins was basically, “Trump? Donald Trump, you say? Huh. No. I don’t believe I know him.”

Somewhere a cock crowed in the distance.

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Dateline: An undisclosed bunker somewhere on the outskirts of Tehran. Iranian soldier, Ahmad, reads his cell phone while sitting with two fellow soldiers.

Ahmad: “OK, you guys. You’re never going to believe what he just said.”

Babak: “Oh, Ahmad, are you talking about the U.S. president again? What has the foul pig most orange said today?”

Ahmad: “Seriously, you guys are never going to believe this. OK. Ready? He just told us we should use our (air quotes) nuclear bomb to take out Los Angeles or San Diego.”

Babak: “I don’t believe that. Stop lying. Those cities are in America, you fool. He would never say such a thing.”

Hossein: “Not so fast there, Babak. He’s what the Americans call a … what is it? … ah, yes “assdumb.”

Babak: “That doesn’t sound right. But it’s close, I believe…”

Hossein: “Where did he say such a thing? Did the guards come and lock him up? Will he now be in a cell until his sham trial can be held, sustained by only the crickets he can capture with his tiny orange hands as they skitter about the floor?”

Ahmad: “That’s the strangest part! He said it in a place called NEH-BRAS-KA. And all the people there clapped and cheered when he said it, especially all the blonde women behind him with the big lips and frozen foreheads.”

Hossein: “OK, my brother. Now I KNOW you are making this up. No American would clap for such a traitorous statement by their own leader. Nice try, Ahmad!”

Ahmad (clicking on more stories on his phone). “No, there is verification from multiple sources: The New York Times, the Washington Post … hmmm. Fox News says he was just, I don’t know this word … TEASING.”

Babak: “Isn’t that like joking? Huh. And they always say WE don’t have a sense of humor. That is a really, really bad joke for a president.”

Ahmad: “Ah, there’s much more. Mike Johnson, the tiny infidel who has power over all the American Congress, says he can’t talk about it because he’s not familiar with the president saying that.”

Babak: “Ha! I have heard of him. He could be in the center of a dog fight and claim not to hear the howls of the dogs. What? I don’t hear a thing, he would say. He is what Americans call a … gutless worm.”

Hossein: “But, Ahmad … why Los Angeles and San Diego? Does the president not know San Diego is home of the U.S. Navy’s Pacific fleet? Not to mention the Naval Station North Island, Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, Naval Base Pt. Loma, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Marine Corps Air Station Miramar, Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton and the Coast Guard Sector/Air Station?”

Ahmad: “Wow. Hossein it is almost as if you just Googled all of those things you never knew until this very second. Anyway, they seem to think he wants us to bomb these cities because they did not vote for him for president. They call him Mango Mussolini and President Petty Roosevelt and President Oompa Loompa and many other things that have left him (looks at phone) “butthurt.”

Hossein: “Ha! I like that. Butthurt. I have often thought the same of our Ayatollah Mojtaba Khamenei!”

Ahmad: “And now you must die.”

Hossein: “Kidding!! Like the president. It is a joke! Tell us more about what happened, friend.”

Ahmad: “OK. Apparently, he told the people at his rally …”

Babak: “Was it in a great stadium? Were there hundreds of thousands of followers in attendance?”

Ahmad: “Let me check. Nope. It appears to be a high school gymnasium. Perhaps like in American movie ‘Hoosiers.’”

Babak: “With Dennis Hopper as drunken assistant coach? I love that movie! But very, very small gym …”

Ahmad: “Oh, I am mistaken. That was night before. This was at fairgrounds. Whatever that is. Americans have many odd habits if you ask me …”

Babak: “So what are the Americans going to do about their president suggesting Iran blow up two of their largest cities? Storm their capitol? Demand his imprisonment? Certainly, they will pronounce him unfit and appoint the vice president?”

Ahmad: “No. The sound of silence is deafening.”

Babak: “That was deep, Ahmad.”

Ahmad: “I have my moments…”

Like many of you, I like to spend a leisurely Sunday afternoon watching football. Carolina Panthers football, specifically. It’s a time to let go of whatever unfathomable bullshit Trump has spewed all week long. I treasure this routine. I look forward to it. It is, frankly, sacred.

If the game is at 1 p.m., and it almost always is, I have discovered there’s just enough time to make it home from church 8 miles away with a stop at Jersey Mike’s for my turkey and provolone mini and hubby’s roast beef wrap, both Mike’s Way if you’re wondering.

Yesterday was a little dicey owing to the woman in line ahead of me ordering approximately 7,000 sandwiches (“Four with jalopenos. Wait, let me text to make sure. Yeah, OK, no. Three with extra cheese, no mayo…”)

My mildly impatient foot-tap transformed into an admittedly unattractive procession of heavy sighs and a muttered suggestion she USE THE FUCKING INTERNET to place her ginormous order next time.

Recalling the sermon I’d just heard, I was certain the Samaritan would’ve been equally vexed and would’ve scurried past anyone who chose that many toppings if he, say, encountered them later by the side of the road.

I got home at exactly 1 p.m. to watch my Panthers take the field against the Cleveland Browns (I’m assuming taupe was taken?).

At the end of the scoreless first quarter, I removed a load from the dryer and threw another one into the washer and rewarded myself with a Pure Leaf sweet tea (I may be the only Southern woman alive who can’t make decent iced tea), returning to my spot on the couch which, yes, is slightly dented in from my frequent occupation if you must know.

All of which is to say my mood was bright! Sunny, even! My favorite team was playing. The weather outside was glorious so all the windows were up allowing a freakishly crisp Carolina breeze to billow the curtains.

And then …

An abomination. What was Donald Jinterception Trump doing lumbering down a White House hallway in a sinister, black and white commercial? His phony badass stare while spewing gibberish about the “deep state” and similar propagandist bullshit was vintage Trump.

My jaw dropped. My Jersey Mike’s churned in my stomach. Because at the end of this whatever-it-was was a bold phrase: “Paid for by the U.S. Government.”

No.

Nononononononononononono!!!!!

This was a lie-filled political ad, forgive the redundancy. That’s no surprise. Here in North Carolina, faux Tar Heel Michael Whatley, the Republican nominee for U.S. Senate, is running an ad implying a woman’s killer was freed by then-governor Roy Cooper, his Democratic opponent. Problem is, the man was actually freed from a prison in SOUTH Carolina, an inconvenient truth Whatley has yet to correct because dirtball.

Closer to home, the Republicans are running a hilariously awful ad that seeks to paint a Democratic state senate candidate as dangerously liberal because she is a YOGA TEACHER complete with an AI-generated video in which she twists her devil limbs into a disturbing and physically impossible pose.

We’re used to silly, borderline libelous, campaign ads paid for by various political action committees, some of which have names designed to inflame. Think: “The Committee to Stop the Satanic Trans Furrie Takeover of Our Schools!” The more hysterical and handwringy, the more sus, in general.

Per usual, Trump has decided to do something corrupt and face the consequences (minimal most likely) later. So on brand.

He bought (with our money) several spots during several football games on Sunday. Let that sink in. The only good news is the blowback has been severe.

Many years ago, Trump told us only stupid people pay taxes. This is just the newest iteration. Not only does he not pay, he uses tax dollars to pay for his … everything.

Flag on the play, Orange Foolius. The midterms are your two-minute warning. I can’t hardly wait.

Let’s Dish! …

We’re long overdue for a recipe and here’s a favorite dip that’s perfect for game day.

BUFFALO CHICKEN DIP

2 (10-ounce) cans chunk chicken, drained

¾ cup buffalo wing sauce (Frank’s or Texas Pete brands are good)

2 (8-ounce) packages cream cheese, room temperature

1 cup ranch dressing

1 and ½ cups shredded Cheddar cheese

1 bunch celery, cleaned and cut into 4-inch pieces

Crackers or sturdy chips for dipping

Heat chicken and buffalo wing sauce in skillet over medium heat until heated through. Stir in cream cheese and ranch dressing. Cook, stirring until well blended and warm. Mix in half of the shredded cheese and transfer the mixture to a crock pot. Sprinkle the remaining cheese over the top, cover and cook on LOW until hot and bubbly (about 45 minutes). Reduce heat to WARM and serve straight from the crock pot with celery sticks and crackers.

I speak, of course, of James Donald Bowman, alias James David Hamel, alias James David Vance, alias J.D. Vance.

He and Medicare/Medicaid Services chief, Dr. Oz, have announced they’re rootin’ out all the fraud in Obamacare and kicking folks off the rolls because of suspicious (but not necessarily illegal) behaviors.

During a press conference, Oz, apparently unfamiliar with the concept of irony, pointed at a picture of a presumed offender claiming he had “a very punchable face.”

Pot, meet kettle.

While I have often said it is Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent who has THE MOST PUNCHABLE FACE in U.S. history, Oz is a close second. Bessent, the rosy-cheeked poster boy for privilege once suggested that if you’re having trouble getting into the housing market, you should talk to your parents who may have purchased in their retirement “5, 10, 12 homes.”

On what planet you dopey douche?

Vance and Oz should really take this show on the road. And they should definitely do their whole “Who ya gonna call? Fraud busters!” bro routine in every swing state before the midterms.

Be sure to explain how the cuts were decided. And then wait for the ‘maters to fly!

Because, turns out, these folks were flagged, says Oz, because of a documented “lack of health care use.”

Hey, I’m no TV doctor OR shady-ass Ivy League hillbilly but isn’t that a good thing? As in you’re healthy? As in for a healthcare marketplace to be sustainable, you need LOTS of healthy folks to balance out the ones who need the coverage for chronic illness? And now you get dropped because you’re healthy?

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Explaining the rebranding of the Arch from its initial description as a commemoration of the nation’s 250^th birthday to a Killing Machine Beside the Dippin’ Dots stand would’ve been a stretch for most people but not Donald Junatic Trump!

We were reeling from the size and location of the planned Arch already, but now a mere irritant has turned into a wacky Trojan horse ruse, and to the surprise of absolutely no one, Donny Dumbass has already spilled the beans.

Can’t you picture him starring in the mythological tale? Except he’d get whiny about being inside the horse and bust out, ruining Odysseus’ plan.

(“Odysseus is, and I hate to say it, a low-I.Q. individual.”)

Nothing surprises us anymore. When he inevitably sells the opportunity to climb to the top of the arch to be “Sniper For a Day” for $100,000 (payable to his loathesome spawn, of course), the nation will stifle a yawn before muttering, “That tracks.”

We are bruised and battered and exhausted by this fool. He will anoint Kid Rock as “American Pope” despite the fact he ALWAYS looks like he smells. And we will shrug and return to washing lettuce that may or may not have traces of poo in it, secure in the knowledge the Health and Human Services Secretary thinks this is OK because we walk around with it in our colons so what’s the big deal?

So why the change from what was just another tacky monument to a state-of-the-art military equipment container? And shouldn’t such things be top secret? Trump will probably post a sign: “The Donald J. Trump Triumphal Arch and Elite Military Weapons Site But Shhhhhh … Don’t Tell Our Enemies!”

Trump said he decided to change up the Arch’s design and purpose after he was “strongly asked” by the military. “Strongly” is one of Trump’s preschool words he trots out when he wants to sound tough.

Needless to say, no one except the syphilitic blobs of pork fat that live in his “brain” asked him jack shit. No one in the military asked him to turn the Arch into a bull’s-eyed target for our enemies (growing by the day). It never happened. Moving on …

One thing about being lied to ALL THE TIME ABOUT EVERYTHING is we never believe ANYTHING. So, even the most Magalicious of the MAGA’s recognizes this is the old ballroom switcheroo trick where Trump pouts and tantrums and finally claims it’s all about national security, so he has a better chance of getting approval for whatever idiocy he’s cooked up in his fetid gourd.

We didn’t catch on at first. When he tore up Jackie’s rose garden, paved it and topped it with patio tables and chairs reminiscent of the call-ahead seating corral at Olive Garden, we, frankly, needed a minute to process what just happened.

“Did he just ....?”

“Why did he …?”

“Who let him …?”

Those were such innocent times, when we concluded conversations with a hushed but hopeful “Surely, someone will stop him …”

Now, of course, we know better. Nobody is stopping him, most of all the Republican members of Congress, led by everyone’s least favorite tail twister from the Lion’s Club back home, Mike Johnson.

We are finally, completely and irreversibly shockproof. What’s this? Melania and Natalie will spar in a pay-per-view cage fight on the White House lawn where generations of pastel-clad children once gathered Easter eggs? Sure, why not?

Just when we think we’ve seen rock bottom with this administration, some creepy toad like Howard Lutkin says, “But wait! There’s more!”

You gotta laugh. No. Really. You GOTTA laugh. When Don Jr. and Bettina got huffy and defensive about letting a creepy Russian oligarch pay for their very expensive wedding party, I was grateful for the laugh afforded by their showy indignation. Well, I never! A nice person out of the blue offers you a multi-day, multi-island celebration and you say no? How rude would that be?

These are not real people, friends. And they are certainly not real Americans. They are trash. Tarted up, bedazzled trash. Never forget that.

XOXO, C.

I don’t want to come off as a crank - OK, too late - but I need to speak out for my shy friends who are horrified by this chatty grocery clerk trend.

“What activities do you have planned for the rest of the weekend?” was the somewhat stiff and supremely weird inquiry from the cashier.

“Oh, well, uh, hmmm …’’

“I mean are you doing anything fun this weekend?”

OK, now I gotta make some shit up, right?

“Yes! Oh, my gosh, of course!”

“So, what is it?”

Ugh. I detest persistence in the very young.

“Oh, you know, the usual. Hanging out with friends who are also old and married.”

“Oh, wow,” he said, totaling my order and looking utterly bored. “That sounds AMAZING!”

It struck me he was pretend-happier than I was about my own weekend. And then I wondered if I could summon the stones to replicate Kristen Bell’s iconic response on “The Good Place.” When asked “Big plans for the weekend?” she responds “Yep. I’m going to watch wedding video fails and drink margaritas through a Twizzler straw until I pass out on top of my vibrator.”

Hard to improve on that level of smartassery.

I was talking about all this with my octogenarian bestie, “J,” who cynically referred to his experience that morning as “an unsolicited interrogation by a hollow-eyed, feckless drudge.”

Ouch. But I had to laugh. We decided it’s all Trader Joe’s fault.

They started all this fake sincerity and they’re so good at it I tend to think it’s real. The others? Don’t make me laugh. You know they’re terrified you’re one of those “secret shoppers,” so the endless questions are painful for both of us.

No, I don’t have weekend plans. I’m a psychopath who stays home all day. Yay, Halloween’s coming up. Did you actually not notice I bought only two items: razor blades and apples?

Kidding! I would never do something so terrible. But, honestly, can we just not with the forced chatter? I know when it’s real and when it’s corporate edict. Meryl Streep has nothing to worry about is all I’m saying.

Recently, on senior discount day since you ask, the cashier observed I had a very large amount of groceries (great word by the way, President Trump, we will never know how you came up with it) and inquired “Family coming for a visit?”

I came THIIIIIIIS close to saying “I don’t have any family. I was born in a cocoon a group of aliens left on earth at a swimming pool in Florida that went undisturbed until some retirement home residents discovered me and the others and thought they had found a fountain of youth because the water was so rejuvenating.”

What a bitch, right?

But what are the odds a 20-year-old is going to have seen the movie? Zero point zero. So why not have a little fun?

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any more LAME (Sorry -differently abled) a cashier asked me: “What makes you happy?”

I had to fight a natural impulse to ask if someone had been reading too much Mel Robbins. As in any Mel Robbins.

“Hmmmm. What makes me happy?” I parroted back to buy some time.

And then I remembered the words of advice columnist Ann Landers who said if someone asks you something you either can’t answer or don’t want to, just say: “Why would you ask that?”

Genius, right? I mean also a bit hostile but mostly genius.

I know what you’re thinking (because you’ve got that Bill Gates thing in your head ever since your Covid booster) and you’re not wrong. They’re told to do this and it’s part of the job.

But, yeah. They should all go to Trader Joe’s where it seems more, haha, organic. You can’t go from: “Do you have a (store loyalty) card?” to “What makes you happy?”

I ended up saying “Oh, ya know. Everything.”

Such a stupid, lazy answer. But did he really want to hear the truth? Maybe so. When I go back, I will give him the real answer which is “kittens, excellent pizza and democracy.”

He will look at me funny because the question will have changed and may or may not be: “What do you like for breakfast?”

Wish me luck.

Sure, it’s a little unusual for an 80-year-old to start a new career but it should be obvious by now to even the most dunderheaded MAGA disciple that Trump is only happy when planning splashy events and discussing venues. Can’t you picture him futzing with the florals and zhuzhing the place settings while summoning “more GOLD!!!!” with the urgency of someone noting an insufficiency of cowbell? Of course you can.

Sure, the whole war with Iran thing was fun for a while but Trump would be much happier strutting about a wedding reception, barking commands to his team via headset while reflexively straightening the peacock chairs at the sweetheart table.

Alas, hindsight, like a great election year, is 2020.

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I seldom write about President Donald J’Oreal Trump’s physical appearance because it’s too easy to lampoon the man they’d call “Lard” Assian in Bridgerton. Notice I said “seldom” because one can only ignore the low-hanging fruit for so long before capitulating and commenting on the RIDICULOUSLY tiny hands, etc.

But, in general, I eschew the fat jokes etc. because it distracts from the Celia Dishes prime directive: making sure every reader stays focused on how truly awful Trump is as a human. The depth and breadth are deeply horrifying and have been known to send me careening toward the likker cabinet long before the sacred hour of 5 p.m.

All of which is by way of saying we can’t NOT talk about the HAIR. While I have, in the past, rather uncharitably called Trump’s unique and iconic ‘do “hair puddin,” owing to its careful swirling of something better suited for the contents of a maiden aunt’s parfait glass collection, I figured he’d cross Jordan with that unique look.

Which is why I was shocked to see the dye job last Friday. The swirly butterscotch puddin’ that has been Trump’s trademark for decades was now chocolate. He debuted it with nary a word as far as I can tell. Not even a lame “I dunno. I woke up and it was this color. I think I slept on it funny …”

Even Fox News was taken aback by Trump’s new fall look, describing it as “noticeably darker, more brunette.” (Fox, as ever, having the wordsmithing ability of mildew) Was the change a sort of “last chance for white pants” homage to Labor Day? Here in the South, we’ve always tucked away our light-colored clothing and shoes on Labor Day. Perhaps this was Trump’s follicular segue into apple-picking season. Yes. That must be it.

Not gonna lie. It’s a definite improvement. The brittle blonde stylings he had clung to for so long seemed impossibly dated. Perhaps this is Trump’s way of signaling to us he’s going to be a big boy president! He loves old movies and perhaps he has taken note the brunette is always the smart one while the ditzy blonde squeals “I’m pregnant! Sure hope it’s mine!”

Alas, my theory didn’t even make it through the weekend because Serious Minded Donald Trump posted dozens of memes Sunday portraying himself as various bemuscled action heroes. So, yeah. Moving on.

Perhaps the ubiquitous Natalie suggested the change? Oftentimes it’s a trusted companion who gently nudges a new look. Or maybe it was his White House barber, although I’ve heard Trump always does his own hair because no one can quite duplicate his patented Pillsbury Orange Roll swirl. It’s a gift.

It could be temporary in the same manner some women my age insist upon dying their hair purple or hot pink but that’s because we’ve all gone a little bit crazy. Why else would we gleefully share we haven’t showered in three days?

Trump need look no further than former bestie Rudy Guiliani for proof hair dye can be cruelly short-lived, unable to make it through a single humid D.C. day. Poor Rudy. Who can forget the time he stood in the boiling sun to address reporters, black hair dye pulsating from his scalp like someone was pinching his head from the inside?

Sometimes, of course, people change their hair color to disguise themselves. After careful thought for the past, oh, two, three minutes, I believe I’ve landed on this theory as the one that makes the most sense. Trump’s new mouse-brown hair puddin’ is less likely to draw attention while being hoisted into, say, an airport catering truck.

Of course, there’s no way to say for sure, but it could just be Trump grew weary with the upkeep. His biographer turned nemesis Michael Wolff described his hair as “a major enterprise … for many years.” In other words, the juice ain’t worth the squeeze these days.

Wolff reports Trump carries a kit filled with tiny tufts of blonde hair that can be glued to his scalp as needed to complete the look.

And men across America’s heartland nod solemnly, saying “Me, too. Sometimes I have to borrow Jim Bob’s hair tufts, but they don’t match that good …”

Yeah, he’s totally relatable, right? It’s why he feels our pain about high grocery, gas, rent and healthcare prices. You think you got it tough? He has to GLUE FAKE HAIR TO HIS SCALP!

L’Oreal? He’s not worth it.

Because today The Washington Post (apparently having drugged boss Jeff Bezos and stashed him in the janitor’s closet) straightened its metaphorical shoulders, cracked its re-installed spine and reported Hegseth has used your tax dollars and mine to secretly hire a cadre of retired colonels and military veterans with huge online followings to be influencers for Trump.

Has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? Not unlike “Prostitutin’ for Putin.”

This is confusing because I thought influencers just did makeup tutorials or “Jackass” inspired stunts for clicks. (And there was that dark time in our nation’s history when an influencer hawked a goop-coated block of feta cheese in a casserole dish and proclaimed it “dinner.” Blech.) But who knew Hegseth, no stranger to heavy makeup now that I think about it, would orchestrate a scheme to hire retired military PIPs (previously important people) to infiltrate social media and talk up the Trump agenda? Think all things white nationalism - anti-DEI, anti-woman, anti-black, anti-LGBTQ … That’s maddening enough but when you realize all the Tokyo Rose style spin is being paid for by U.S. taxpayers, it’s infuriating.

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Dolly: “Well, poop fire and save the matches! What in tarnation am I doing here?”

Trump: “Stormy? Is that you?”

Dolly: Guess again, Mr. President.

Trump: Dolly Parton?! Yeah, it is you. Huh. You know I’m a little bit mad at you because everybody keeps talking about how great you were. All week long, Dolly this, Dolly that.

Dolly: People have been real nice, that’s for sure.

Trump: Yeah, but all you did was die. I renamed Lake Ontario to Lake America and got all the hospitals in the country to do reverse gender surgery. They’re putting all the stuff back on they took off.

Dolly: Now, Donald, you know that’s not true.

Trump: It is. The great doctors have called me – Gregory House, Meredith Grey and that Chinese girl she works with, Marcus Welby … and they said, “Sir, we never knew this could be done but, well, when you sketched it on a napkin, medical science could only say: “Why didn’t we think of that?” So beautiful.

Dolly: Donald, you shouldn’t lie. Hey, did you ever see “It’s A Wonderful Life”?

Trump: Awful movie. Loved that guy Potter though. Good businessman.

Dolly: He was the bad guy in the movie, Donald. He lied and cheated his own neighbors just so he could enrich himself.

Trump: Great guy. Patriot. You know he was MAGA? Not many people know that about him …”

Dolly: (sighs) Also a lie. Donald, I’ve been sent here to try to talk some sense into you before it’s too late, just like in the movie.

Trump: So, you’re an angel now?

Dolly: Well, I guess so if you mean I care about people and want them to have the best life they can. I’ve always tried to look out for folks who needed some help. We all gotta do our part or else why are we here on God’s green earth?

Trump: Why are we here? Well, money and power, of course. And to have my name on buildings and money and parks and streets and my face on Mount Rushmore…

Dolly: Oh, Donald … that’s so very sad. All that stuff is temporary. It means nothing. No one will remember you as a great man because you had a big ballroom …

Trump: Stop talking, Dolly Parton. I’ve heard enough. Look, I need Natalie? Where is she, Dolly? Where’s Natalie?!?

Dolly: Well, I wanna say she’s an old maid and should be closing up the library right about now but you don’t have much of a sense of humor, I’m afraid.

Trump: Stop talking gibberish! I need Natalie!!!

Dolly: Mr. President, Natalie can’t help you. You have to do it yourself.

Trump: Do what? You’re very bossy. Also, you never smile. You’re a nasty piece of work, Dolly Parton.

Dolly: You say the same thing to all the female reporters. They’re just doing their jobs, you know. And they work waaaay more than 9 to 5.

Trump: Sounds like the title of a song I wrote. Big hit. Huuuuuge. Not as good as YMCA. I wrote that, too …

Dolly: Oh, Donald. Of course you didn’t. And you saying it doesn’t make it so. Vaccines don’t cause autism, you didn’t win the 2020 election, you didn’t cut drug prices 600 percent, Iran isn’t scared of us, Melania can’t speak 12 languages … you need to stop. And apologize! It’s not too late.

Trump: I don’t apologize because I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s people like you who do all the wrong. Telling everyone they have value. And this whole book thing. You know, I’ve never read a book in my life and look how I turned out!

Dolly: Oh, Donald. Well, I tried. I’m gonna head back to Carl now… I might come back in a … Whoa! What’s that?

Trump: Oh, you woke up Stephen Miller. He sleeps in that coffin in the corner. He’s working on a new project. Code word: McPony. Exciting!

So weird, in fact, I was moved to respond via poetry.

Kindly read this humble offering to the tune of Dolly Parton’s iconic “Jolene” for maximum effect.

“DARLINE”

Darline, Darline, Darline, Darliiiiiiiine

Girl, what are you doing in this race?

Darline, Darline, Darline, Darliiiiiiine,

You can’t find Taiwan on a map and now you can’t save face

You stand there with a clueless stare

Banana clip and Talbot’s wear

Telling us national security is a snore

When they gave you Lindsey’s Senate seat

You shoulda said: “This’ll end in defeat!”

But ego got the best of you and then …

Darline, Darline, Darline, Darliiiiiiiine

Girl, what are you doing in this race?

Darline, Darline, Darline, Darliiiiine

“You’re making ME look smart,” said Nancy Mace

“Can you repeat the question?” I need to buy some time

Let’s talk about transgender stuff and how it’s all a crime

Let’s round up all the brown people and throw ‘em into jail

They’re illegal if ICE says so, let’s send ‘em straight to hail

I’ve got a new catch phrase; it’s easy on the ears

“I don’t speak politician!” is funny and calms fears

I’m plenty fluent when PAC money pours into my campaign

I can’t be bought! You see this cross? is my Trumpian refrain

Darline, Darline, Darline, Darliiiiiiiine

Girl, what are you doing in this race?

Darline, Darline, Darline, Darliiiiiiiine

Your thinking’s old and you can’t keep apace

If my brother was a neurosurgeon and he dropped dead; so sad!

Would I be asked to scrub in for him,

because we’re kin?

Or would that sound quite mad?

Darline, I think you’ve got a shot

It pains me to admit

S.C. votes against their self-interests

I know. It’s weird as shit

Darline, Darline, Darline, Darliiiiiiiiiine

Girl, what are you doing in this race?

Darline, Darline, Darline, Darliiiiiiiiiine

You’ll hate D.C., there’s no Buc-ee. I think I rest my case.

I keep coming back to the phrase that might finally, mercifully end Donald Jickenhawk Trump’s reign by delivering a Democrat-controlled Congress this November. And here it is: When asked by a reporter if the USS Abraham Lincoln had been deployed too long, Trump responded: “No, not nearly long enough.”

Stick a fork in him. (Somebody? Anybody?) … He is done.

Sure, there will always be the diehard MAGAs who believe he’s the Messiah. But the military families, the ones who finally realize not a single member of Trump’s family—living or dead—has ever served? They’re out. It won’t be a noisy exit, most likely, but it will be thorough.

“No, not nearly long enough.”

Like most of what Trump says, it was delivered hastily, devoid of thought and in a combative tone.

Later, in a completely unsuccessful attempt at damage control, Trump offered a defensive (duh) follow-up in the form of a made-up conversation with an imaginary retired Admiral, he supposedly bumped into over the weekend at “a big meeting.”

Trump said this unnamed admiral personally assured him the Abraham Lincoln is “beautifully maintained and beautifully taken care of.”

Which kinda means the same thing, but it doesn’t matter because this is a conversation that, of course, never happened. A redundant lie is still a lie.

Surprisingly, the imaginary admiral wasn’t described as having tears in his eyes, a go-to that makes a decent drinking game during State of the Unions and televised rallies but I guess even liars like Trump get tired of their own bullshit every now and then.

“No, not nearly long enough,” he said.

Yep. That’s going to be the takeaway for military families who voted for Trump at least once and, in many cases all three times.

The backlash will splatter onto Hegseth who has personally assured us the conditions on the Abraham Lincoln rival those found aboard a luxury cruise ship. To hear Hegseth and Trump tell it, the sailors’ biggest complaint might be a lack of warmed syrup at the waffle station or insufficient illumination at the midnight buffet.

“To be sure the low lighting does complement the polished silver and white linen cloths in the dining room, but I have more than once accidentally ladeled beurre blanc onto my steak instead of the au poivre sauce I love so dearly. My God, man. We’re not the ARMY!!”

Hegseth, who looks like the villain toy in a Happy Meal, is rumored to be weighing a presidential run in 2028. Such is the hubris of the Trump cabinet. Every one of them believes they’re presidential material. I can’t fault them in a way.

They see “Sleeping Cootie” nodding off in the cabinet meetings and figure how hard could it be?

Even the fair(ly scary) Natalie, Trump’s weirdly constant companion, might ponder a run!

But in the meantime, just for shiggles, let’s ask some questions we’d ask Trump that would earn the answer: “No, not nearly long enough” every single time.

Mr. President, what did Stormy Daniels say when asked if your penis was sufficient for her pleasure?

Mr. President, what did absolutely no one say as they exited the theater after seeing the documentary “Melania”?

Mr. President, were you pleased with the amount of time you spent watching 15-year-old girls in their underwear at the Miss Teen USA Pageant?

Mr. President, if you’re being honest – a big ask, I know – do you think you deserve a prison term of, say, 10 years for your various schemes and felonies?

And finally, Mr. President, what do you think when you look at other men wearing neckties?

Sometimes this shit really does write itself.

The revelation that Donald Trump stowed away in a catering truck to escape an Iranian death plot (while leaving the plane full of clueless staff and journalists behind to be blown up) should cement his reputation as not only a coward but also The World’s Worst Person.

It’s not the Nobel Peace Prize he covets so noisily but it will have to do.

A quick bit of background in case you haven’t read this yet: On July 8, a credible Iranian assassination threat against Trump was detected while he was preparing to leave a NATO meeting in Turkey. In short order, a plan was devised that would dupe staff and reporters into thinking he was on the plane – business as usual - while, in fact, he was smuggled into a catering truck and transferred to another plane to escape danger.

Did they lure him with a trail of Big Macs? (“Just follow the pickle chips, sir…”)

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The first episode pairs Kennedy with a California chef named Andrew Gruel, which, right away gives me pause. This is like a pilot coming on the intercom and saying “Ladies and gentlemen, from the cockpit, welcome aboard! I’m Captain Fierycrash…”

But, yeah, irony aside, Chef Gruel (snicker) seems like an affable enough fellow. He’s extremely sincere unlike RFK Jr., who, like President Donald Jyclospora Trump, routinely tosses out shit that isn’t remotely true.

“During the Biden administration,” Bobby throat-growled, “Froot Loops were at the top of the food pyramid.”

Nope. Although the top is the skinny part so maybe that was a compliment? Doubtful.

Midway through the show, I realize it’s possible Chef Gruel is maybe a tad subversive after all.

Looking directly at RFK Jr., he confessed an “addiction to seed oils” with a sorrow that seemed outsized. I mean it’s not a HEROIN addiction. It’s Wesson. Let’s downsize the drama, shall we?

RFK Jr., who has the cranky demeanor of someone who hasn’t had a decent BM since the Carter administration, is a tough read. He doesn’t even smile when he tells Chef Gruel he locked a bunch of food scientists in a room for 11 months and didn’t let them out until they had revised the food pyramid to his satisfaction.

Totally believable.

“Mommie, where is Daddy? It’s Christmas Day!”

“I know, honey. But Daddy’s weird meat-faced boss has locked him in a room until he agrees that we should all eat more owl.”

After making salmon cakes with an arugula salad with a homemade vinaigrette, Chef Gruel (sorry, still laughing) said making your own dressing is smart for the budget because store brands can cost $9-$11 a bottle.

Somebody please take this fool to an Aldi. Sure, you gotta bring a quarter to get a shopping cart but it’s worth the aggravation. Do any of these people live in the REAL WORLD????

He also made a completely out-of-place reference to being a salmon “junkie.”

At this point, I’m thinking RFK Jr. is catching on. That’s three references to being addicted and one to being a “junkie.” Honestly, I was starting to almost feel sorry for Bobby because it seemed like he was getting punked by his own hand-picked guest star but then I realized RFK Jr.’s antivaxx mission is responsible for 2,318 cases of once-eradicated and potentially deadly measles so far in 2026. So, yeah. Fuck him.

“The Real Food Show” (blech) will pair Kennedy with a different chef every episode, with the goal of producing a meal for four that costs less than $5 per serving. I got no beef (ha!) with that mission but crowing about saving money in tough times may piss off the boss who insists the economy is peachy.

Along about the same time that first episode “dropped” we learned Vice President J.D. (“Just a dick”) Vance has installed a chicken coop in the backyard of the vice president’s residence. How nice. But …

Show of hands. Does anyone remember the Republican outcry back in 2009 when Michelle Obama had the audacity to plant a vegetable garden at the White House?

The Republicans went out of their tiny lil minds lobbing allegations of “Big Brother” telling people what to eat. Conservative assholes argued that her promotion of healthy eating and active lifestyles was a way for big guvmint to replace parents.

I mean it’s not like it is now, where during the Trump administration you can drop off your daughter at elementary school in the morning and she gets gender reassignment surgery during recess and you have a son by the end of the day.

You see how crazy they are???

How I would love for one of these guest chefs to say: “Ya know, Secretary Ricky Bobby, Michelle Obama tried to get us moving and eating healthy food years ago and y’all lost your damn minds. What’s up with that?”

At several points during the show, RFK Jr. mentioned the importance of a healthy “micro biome.” You know what else is important? Vaccinations, you malevolent dumbass.

Chef Gruel’s salmon patty recipe was very similar to my own, but he adds nutritional yeast which seemed to please RFK Jr. So, yeah, we won’t be doing any of that shit.

Here’s my recipe complete with seed oils. Of course you can use real salmon, but I prefer canned for patties. The only brand that’s consistently good is Royal Red. It’s not the cheapest but it’s free of excess skin and those creepy lil vertebrae found in the other brands.

SALMON PATTIES WITH CAPER SAUCE

14.7-ounce can Royal Red salmon

½ cup panko crumbs plus extra for breading

1 large egg, beaten

1-2 chopped green onions (green and white parts)

Salt and Pepper to taste

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

Mix all ingredients well and form into four patties. Pour about a cup of Panko crumbs on a large piece of foil and press the patties on bottom and sides until fully coated with crumbs.

Fry in enough of the seed-oiliest cooking oil you can find. Just use enough to keep them from sticking. I like to get the patties brown and crispy in a cast iron skillet then let them finish cooking in a 325-degree oven. Total cook time is about 20 minutes. Serve with a spoonful or two of Caper Sauce made by combining 4 tablespoons mayonnaise, 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard and 1 tablespoon drained capers. Dollop onto the top of your crispy salmon cakes for a flavor boost. Delish!

Paul, who was beaten up by his own neighbor a while back for basically being an asshole, is giddy about the acquisition of Dr. Fauci’s near daily accounts of the Covid years and his often rocky relationship with one Donald Jimothy Trump.

RFK Jr. bragged on Fox News “It took us about eight months to dig these out of 11 separate servers.” At least I think that’s what he said. Fucker talks like he’s got a mouth full of rusty heroin needles so there’s that.

Now we can all sleep better tonight knowing the Secretary of Health and Human Services for the United States of America has his priorities in order!

Who gives a watery lettuce shit about closed rural hospitals, measles outbreaks and hungry schoolchildren! We got Anthony Fauci’s DIARY!!!!! Eight months of manpower combing 11 servers not for anything that would benefit the public health and welfare of Americans in any meaningful way but rather to try to find a way to embarrass an 85-year old retired epidemiologist who spent his entire career trying to keep us safe.

Fauci has been a favorite target of conspiracy dumbasses everywhere so I suppose we should’ve expected this day would come. Until you’ve encountered a MAGA with an eighth-grade education who claims to know a lot more about Covid’s origins than actual scientists because “I’ve done my research” you can’t fathom this kind of weirdly righteous stupidity.

The diary, about 1,000 pages documenting Fauci’s initial optimism and eventual frustration with Trump’s handling of the Covid 19 pandemic, also covers his bemusement at becoming a celebrity, something he never imagined or particularly desired.

Fauci did become a favorite talk-show “get” during the pandemic and shortly after, but I never had the feeling he was fame-seeking. It was more about using this huge platform to promote the Covid vaccine. You know. So, you could, like, live. And so could your Mamaw.

It was a crazy time. People eating horse paste and washing their mail and a president who seemed to be seriously suggesting we ingest bleach or “a very bright light” to kill Covid. Because lunatic.

In one diary entry, Fauci did admit to being gobsmacked when his efforts were praised by one of his favorite actresses, Julia Roberts.

To Rand Paul, this will be fodder for all sorts of allegations Fauci was part of the Hollywood cabal that eats children in the back of pizza restaurants but that’s just ‘cause he’s a jerk. Remember! Beaten up by his neighbor. I’m not saying he deserved it, but I am saying it happened. If “REDNECK BEHAVIOR” was a Jeopardy! category, there would definitely be an answer about getting your ass kicked by someone who lives on your own street.

I’m guessing RFK Jr., all jacked up on possum peptides or similar ABSOLUTE BULLSHIT, is eager to expose the diary because he needs to score some points with Trump. Just this week, Orange You Dead Yet yelled at Bobby for not eliminating enough children’s vaccinations. Because lunatic AND pure evil.

The Washington Post provided a few diary excerpts including this one: March 27, 2020: “Very laborious press conference where the POTUS rambled on…”

Oopsie. He’s not gonna like that. Rambled on? Is Fauci implying Trump doesn’t speak in a forceful, focused way? Say it ain’t so. Here’s an excerpt from a Michigan rally just a few days ago. Careening from the topic at hand, Trump informed the autoworkers: “I’ve done more for you than your parents. OK, your parents are good. I’m not going to knock your parents, but I have been better to you than your parents. That I can tell you.”

Oh, English. Gone but not forgotten.

Fauci’s diary covers about two years and seems like an honest daily accounting of what it was like to be catapulted into fame while dealing with a challenging boss. Or, as he put it succinctly in his entry on March 29, 2021: “Trump is truly an obnoxious adolescent.”