A fantasy... Donnie Is Gonna Learn Today!

The following is a purely fictional account that is not about any real person, living or dead, I promise. 

It resulted from a ChatGPT prompt that David Gerrold had used just to pass the time. I took the idea, ran it through Copilot, refining it as we went through several iterations and laughing my ass off and shaking my head all the way through.

Since it was David's idea, I got his permission before bastardizing it.

Really, this is fiction, and bears NO resemblance to real people, seriously!

Spammers should have to shampoo my crotch

Fee fie foe fammer, boy I hate a spammer!

The other day I put a contact form on the blog. Thought it might be a good idea, ya know?

Tonight, I got about a dozen emails that were clearly from spambots.

Fucking hell. Assholes wreck everything.

The Cravings Never Really End

Nicotine Is Insidious.

I just spent five stupid minutes going full tornado, ripping through my desk like I was searching for state secrets. Lifting papers, opening drawers, rifling like a woman possessed.

Looking for my fucking cigarettes.

My cigarettes.

I quit smoking two years and five weeks ago.  

There is no nicotine in this house.  

There has not been for a long damn time.

And yet my brain still tried to run the old script:  

"Quick! Check under that pile of junk mail! Maybe Past You stashed a pack for Future You, like some deranged nicotine Easter Bunny!"

D'OH.

Nicotine is a sneaky little bastard. It shows up at the weirdest moments, taps you on the shoulder, and whispers, "Hey... remember how good we were together?" 

And I swear, for about ten seconds, or ten minutes depending on how stressed I am, I would absolutely throw hands for a smoke.

But here is the thing:  

I am not losing this fight.  

Not today, not ever.
Never fucking EVER!

Cigarettes are banned from this house like cursed artifacts. My brother, who still smokes, has to keep his pack in the car and trek a hundred feet to the designated exile chair. That is the rule. That is the boundary. That is how I keep myself safe.

I am stealing a line from my friend and webqueen, Maggie:  

I am not an ex smoker.  

I am a smoker in recovery.

And recovery is a permanent condition, but so is my stubbornness.

Nicotine can try me, but it is not getting back in. Fuck that.

Impeach and CONVICT Trump NOW!

 

There is a point where a country either wakes up or sleepwalks straight off a cliff. People keep acting like this is just another news cycle, another round of political noise,or another thing to scroll past on the way to cat videos and dinner plans. But this isn't background static. This is the fire alarm blaring at full volume while half the country pretends it's a ringtone. We're living inside an emergency, and the refusal to name it is part of the emergency.

Because this is not about one moment, one headline, or one outrageous quote. It's an accumulation, a pattern, the relentless grinding erosion of guardrails and basic expectations of leadership. Every time something crosses a line, the line gets redrawn a little further out, and people shrug a little harder, and the whole thing becomes a little more normal and accepted...

The Board of "Peace" and The Threat of War

I read an article in The Guardian about how Trump sits at the head of something he is calling the “Board of Peace” and somehow manages to threaten Iran with “bad things” if they do not fall in line within ten days. Ten days. Like he is handing out a goddam eviction notice instead of talking about potential military action. He says the talks have been “good,” as if that word magically cancels out the threat hanging off the end of his sentence like a loaded weapon.

So there he is, perched on his shiny new “Board of Peace,” casually dangling the possibility of war like it's a fucking party favor. Peace, apparently, now means “do what I fucking say or I will blow your shit up.” Peace means smiling for the cameras while you rattle sabers under the table. Peace means pretending diplomacy is happening while you count down to violence like it is a goddam game show.

The fucking absurdity is so thick you could spread it on toast...

Not Bob: The Orange Cat Who Thinks He’s a Dog

 

Not Bob isn’t just a cat. He’s a phenomenon in orange fur, a walking burst of confidence and questionable decisions who somehow manages to charm every creature in the house. He talks constantly, a running commentary of meow, meOW, MEOW that sounds less like a request and more like a declaration of his own importance. And the dogs believe him. Romeo drags him across the room by the scruff like a beloved plush toy, and Not Bob just goes limp with the blissful trust of someone who has never once considered the possibility of danger. He lets the dogs groom him, shove him, nudge him, and he returns the favor by inserting himself into every canine moment like he was born into the pack. He isn’t a guest in the dog world. He’s a citizen. Maybe even a diplomat.

The little beast has one, POSSIBLY two, brain cells...

His hobbies include locking himself in the bathroom by pushing the door shut, then immediately complaining at full volume until someone rescues him. He also has a long‑running feud with the floor vents. Not Bob has pulled them up, chewed through tape, defeated glue, and ignored every deterrent except bricks, which he is not yet strong enough to move. He would absolutely appreciate a set of weights for his birthday so he can train for the day he reclaims access to the heat‑duct underworld.

There’s no dignity in him, no hesitation, no fear. Just pure, unfiltered orange cat energy wrapped around a heart that believes every creature is a friend. In a house full of dogs and stories and history, Not Bob has somehow carved out his own legend simply by being exactly who he is: loud, fearless, affectionate, and absolutely convinced he belongs everywhere.

How the FUCK Are MAGA Followers Still Worshipping This Guy?

 

At this point, trying to understand MAGA loyalty feels like trying to explain why a goddam raccoon keeps coming back to the same dumpster fire. You’d think eventually the smell of burning garbage and shit would register. But no, they’re still there, still digging, still convinced they’ve found treasure while the rest of us are fucking gagging.

Because honestly, how in fuck do you keep supporting someone after everything that’s come out? We’re talking about a man with multiple criminal convictions, a man who’s been at the center of more lawsuits than a defective chainsaw company, a man who is all over the Epstein files (and probably guilty of pedophilia), a man whose public behavior would get any normal person fired, shunned, or at least politely escorted out of the building. But not him. No, he’s their golden calf with a spray tan and a microphone...

We’re Not Imagining This - It’s the Same Motherfucking Playbook

Let’s stop pretending this shit is subtle. The current administration is running the same early‑stage authoritarian bullshit the Nazis pulled, and everyone acting shocked can go ahead and sit down. This isn’t hysteria. This isn’t exaggeration. This is the part of the history book where the margins should be screaming “PAY ATTENTION, YOU DUMBASS MOTHERFUCKERS!”

People love to imagine fascism arrives with jackboots and bonfires on day one. No. It shows up with a smirk, a flag, and a bunch of assholes insisting that cruelty is “policy.” It shows up with leaders who talk like bullies, act like bullies, and then pretend they’re victims when anyone calls them out. It shows up with crowds chanting garbage that sounds like it was ripped straight out of a 1930s hate rally, except now it’s amplified by social media and weaponized stupidity...

The United States Has Become A Crime Scene and the Government Is Holding the Blood Dripping Blade

The United States feels like it is being peeled apart layer by layer, and the last few weeks have been a nonstop avalanche of cruelty, incompetence, and raw authoritarian hunger. It is like watching a house burn down while the people holding the hoses argue about whether fire is even real. Every day brings another headline that makes you want to scream until your throat tears. Every day brings another reminder that the people in charge are not just failing at their jobs. They are actively choosing violence, chaos, and suffering because it benefits them.

The last three weeks have been a grotesque parade of power flexing and moral decay. It feels like the country is being held hostage by people who get off on watching others suffer. Every press conference is a performance of arrogance. Every policy announcement feels like a threat. Every smug grin from the people responsible for this mess feels like a slap in the face to anyone who still believes in basic human decency. It is infuriating. It is nauseating. It is enough to make you want to tear the whole system down to the studs and start over...

Ukraine Is Still Standing and Russia Is Still Throwing a Tantrum

Russia’s full scale invasion keeps dragging on like the world’s most deranged midlife crisis, and somehow the Kremlin still has not figured out that Ukraine is not going to fucking die just because Moscow thinks it should. Ukraine is fighting for its existence while Russia stomps around like a pissed off toddler who found out the universe does not revolve around its crusty Soviet nostalgia fantasies. Every missile Russia fires is another pathetic attempt to bully a country that has already proven it would rather crawl through hell than surrender a single inch of its land.

Ukraine keeps doing the impossible. Cities get blown to shit and people sweep up the debris and rebuild like it is just another Tuesday. Soldiers rotate out of trenches that look like the inside of a nightmare and go right back because they refuse to let their country be turned into Putin’s personal fucking theme park. Families scatter across continents and still manage to support each other with a level of resilience that makes Russia’s entire propaganda machine look like a clown show. The whole nation is held together by grit, grief, and a collective fuck you aimed directly at Moscow...

Forcing some facts down MAGA throats

 

Look, here's the thing.

There are gay men. They love other men, and they sometimes marry.
There are gay women. They love other women, and THEY sometimes marry.
And there are straight people of both "main" genders, they love the opposite sex, and yep, sometimes they marry.

Some of the aforementioned gay folks are celebrities of one sort or another. Music, acting, writing, etc.

Narrowing down on the writers, many writers today not only publish books, but maintain blogs, Facebook and Xitter accounts, Substacks, and more. When a person begins following that writers page, they have volunteered to be exposed to what that writer puts on that social media account.

So signing up to read posts from "Don'tCrossAGayMan" and then complaining because Misha regularly mentions his husband, and saying he is shoving his lifestyle down the complainant's throat. Because as soon as somebody signs up, Misha hacks their network so that they can ONLY see his homosexual, rainbow tinted, Twinkie posts, most of which are not gay specific, they're about being KIND.

FFS. Nobody dragged these people in. Nobody is sitting on them to keep them in the group. They did this shit THEMSELVES. And the writer isn't describing the blow job he gave his husband the night before. He simply mentioned that he HAS a husband.

I wish I was gay. I would totally shove it down people's throats. I would be the world's butchest Lesbian, wearing the teeshirt with the double female sign and sneering in disgust at every straight person or male person that I see, provided they are also a closed minded asshat MAGA jerk.

That would be loads of fun!

Reblogging Stacie Rose - It's about power

Yesterday, the Supreme Court heard arguments about trans girls in girls’ sports.

Let’s stop pretending this is a good-faith debate.

The political right is openly demanding that two opposite things be true at the same time, and they don’t even care anymore if anyone notices.

Reblogging Occupy Democrats: And This Bird You Cannot Chain...

Occupy Democrats ·

BREAKING: Trump MELTS DOWN on factory floor, shouts “F*CK YOU!” and flips off worker who yelled “PEDOPHILE PROTECTOR!”

Donald Trump’s carefully choreographed “working man” photo-op at a Detroit Ford plant went completely off the rails — and straight into the gutter — when the president responded to a factory worker’s shout with a profanity and a raised middle finger.

While touring the Ford River Rouge complex in Dearborn, Michigan ahead of a speech on the economy, the sitting president was heckled by a worker who shouted “pedophile protector” as Trump walked above the assembly line. Instead of ignoring it, addressing it, or acting remotely presidential, Trump did what he does best: he lost his temper.

Video from the scene shows Trump yelling back “F--- you!”, pointing angrily — and then escalating by flipping the worker the middle finger. Yes, the president of the United States gave a blue-collar autoworker the bird on camera during a public appearance.

So much for “respecting American workers.”

The shout referenced Trump’s long-documented past association with Jeffrey Epstein, the disgraced financier and convicted sex offender whose name still haunts Trump’s orbit as questions swirl over the slow release of Epstein-related records. Trump has denied wrongdoing and insists he cut ties with Epstein years ago after a falling-out at Mar-a-Lago. He has not been charged with any crime connected to Epstein.

But none of that explains why a president who claims to be “strong” and “in control” instantly unraveled over a single shouted phrase.

Instead of rising above it, Trump descended into a full-blown tantrum — cursing and gesturing obscenely at a worker whose taxes help pay his salary. This wasn’t a private moment. It wasn’t a hot mic slip. It was a filmed, public display of rage and contempt.

TMZ summed it up bluntly: Donald Trump turned into “Donald Grump,” unleashing an F-bomb and flipping the “bald eagle” in response to criticism. That’s not leadership. That’s insecurity on full display.

And let’s not miss the irony: this happened at a Ford plant — the very kind of workplace Trump loves to use as a political backdrop while attacking unions, undermining worker protections, and pushing policies that benefit billionaires over labor.

When challenged, Trump didn’t defend his record. He didn’t correct the accusation. He didn’t show empathy. He flipped off a worker and cursed him out. This is who he is when the cameras catch him off-script: thin-skinned, volatile, and openly hostile to dissent.

The irony couldn’t be richer. Trump claims to stand with workers, yet when one speaks out, he responds with contempt. He claims moral outrage against his critics, yet answers serious accusations with a middle finger.

Detroit didn’t get an economic message that day. It got a reminder of exactly who Donald Trump is when the cameras are rolling — and when they’re not.

Presidential? Not even close. The middle finger wasn’t just aimed at one man on the factory floor. It was aimed at anyone who dared to question him.

Please like and share to show the world the contempt that Trump displays toward anyone who dares to challenge him.

I Will NOT Go Quietly!

 

This is what they're LEGALLY permitted to do.

But do not be fooled. They do NOT follow the fucking law.

If you are confronted by them, be very aware that they do not give a FUCK about you, the law, being civil, being decent, or anything else.

They're gonna have to shoot me down, because I will not go quietly.

This idiocy again?

Machado wants to give Trump her Nobel Prize, or so the gossip rags say. Of course Donald is acting humble, saying, "Well, you know, whatever she wants to do is fine, it's just an honor to be considered." Sure, Donald, and for me, it's just an honor to rob a bank for ten million dollars, when I know the police will not arrest me, because I'm paying them all off

But, Senora Machado, sweetie, you have a lot to learn. I mean, basically it works like this:

Arachnophobia

I am a major arachnophobe. Show me a spider, I show you a woman having a panic attack, whimpering and staying in the center of the bed for safety from spider fangs. I am particularly terrified of tarantulas, the big hairy bastards.

Here in north Texas out in the boonies, we get one sneaking in the house occasionally. I generally freak out until my husband catches it and removes it from my house. But they're NOTHING compared to the opossum who somehow got in and spread our full trashcan all over the place. But the worst was that fucking giant white and yellow snake, about four feet long and rather girthy that it took two healthy teenage boys to lift from the top shelf of my pantry, and then carry out of the house.

I do not like living in a place where the wildlife just feels like it can come in and set up housekeeping. I fully expect to wake up one day and see a damn coyote curled up on the big dog bed. Or maybe a bobcat snoring on the couch.

Well, at least its not giant flying cockroaches, like in San Antonio.

'Member?

"'member Saddam Hussein?""

"Oh, I 'member!"

'member when SoDamn Insane was dangled from a gallows tree?"

"'member Noriega and his big fat prison sentence?"
"Oh! I 'member!"

"'member Osama bin Laden being taken out by Seal Team 6?
"I 'member that!"

"'What about Hitler? 'member him?"

"Yeah! I 'member!"
"'member how he ate a bullet in a bunker?"
"Oh yeah, I member!"

If it was good enough for those shithole countries, it's good enough for the US, right?

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

My Fucking Sister Is A Piece Of Shit

When you plan to give somebody a simple gift of a book that you know they would love, and they spit in your face and say "Keep it, I'm trying to get rid of stuff." Like a fucking BOOK takes up a ton of space. 

Guaranteed she's buying some damn ugly piece of 1950s furniture this week, or some tacky green opaque glassware to fill her cabinets with and feel like she's so fucking bougie.

Fuck her and her pretentious, phony, all about appearances, bullshit self.

(Note: A LOT of anger inside, proceed at your own risk.)

Bullies and Territory Marking - Also, FUCK Trump!

I am 61 years old. The last time I heard insults like Trump keeps throwing around I was in third grade and the classroom bully was picking on the kid who had cerebral palsy and had to use those arm crutches. Except that when the playground monitor lady told the bully about cerebral palsy, the bully apologized to the disabled kid.

That third grade bully had more maturity and integrity than this “President”.

I am so ashamed that Trump sits in the oval office and is marking EVERYTHING with his name, much like a male cat marks his territory by pissing on everything in sight.

Reblogging Michael Jochum - Sticking it to Ted Nugent

(Note from Jenn: Michael had me in absolute stitches with this one. Nugent is such an arrogant prick, and I love that Michael screwed with him some.)

I was thinking about the great guitar players we all love and admire—the Jeff Becks, the David Gilmours, the Mark Knopflers, the John McLaughlins, the Allan Holdsworths, the Eddie Van Halens. And then, while scrolling, I was tortured for five seconds by a clip of the Nuge playing live. I lingered just long enough to read one comment:

“Ted Nugent is one of rock’s most underrated guitar players.”

That comment unlocked a memory, one of my most vivid, and satisfying, professional remembrances.

These Boots Are Made for Walking

It was around 1986. I was one of those “in-demand session guys,” and I got called to play on a Ted Nugent song. At the time, I was deep into some illicit drugs that made me far more arrogant than I am now, and somehow even more opinionated, which seems almost impossible in retrospect. I was also, inexplicably, very into cowboy boots.

For the record, cowboy boots are not ideal footwear for someone with my foot size. But they were fashionable, and I was wearing them.

I arrived at Capitol Studio B. Naturally, Nugent wasn’t there yet, just his entourage: an engineer of note, a producer of some credibility, and assorted enablers waiting for me to start dialing in drum sounds at 9 a.m. I delivered sonic excellence, as was my habit. And then Ted Nugent finally strutted in.

He did his trademark pantomime of friendliness, pretending to like everyone in the room, before marching straight into the drum booth. He didn’t offer a handshake. He stared at my feet.

“Are you going to wear those cowboy boots when you play the drums?”

“Fuck yes,” I said. “I’m going to wear these cowboy boots while I play the drums. They’re what I have on my feet.”

He stared back at me with those milky, lifeless eyes and declared,

“Drummers don’t wear cowboy boots. You need to go home and change your shoes before we start the session.”

So I stood up, walked out of Capitol Studio B, crossed the parking lot, drove through the guard gate, and headed home to change my shoes, at his command.

Here’s the part Ted Nugent hadn’t thought through: he had no idea where I lived, or how long this little footwear pilgrimage might take.

On my way down Sepulveda Boulevard from my Gucci house in the now-gentrified Royal Oaks neighborhood of Sherman Oaks, I decided to enjoy myself. After all, this was his dime. I stopped for gas at my favorite 7-Eleven, where, fourteen years later, I would bump into O.J. Simpson, because America is nothing if not consistent.

I got hungry, so I swung by In-N-Out for a Double-Double with cheese, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. Then I realized I was out of my favorite illicit substance, so I made a quick stop at a dear friend’s house, known professionally as “the dealer”to stock up for my evening with Teddy.

By the time I returned to Capitol Studios, four and a half hours had passed.

Triple scale is a beautiful thing when you’re a sideman. Sidemen don’t get the glory, but occasionally we get the satisfaction, and the invoice reflects that.

I walked back into Studio B without acknowledging Nugent, the engineer, or the producer. I sat down at the drum kit and played one of his stupid songs.

And that, in a nutshell, is how one of rock’s “most underrated guitar players” taught me that power is often loud, insecure, and deeply concerned with footwear.

—Michael Jochum, Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition