colicky piss-baby shits the bed at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner

who thought this was a good idea?

on April 30, 2011, President Barack Obama used his White House Correspondents’ Dinner speech to mock the shit out of a certain racist game show host, directly to his face.

“but you, Mr. Trump, recognized that the real problem was a lack of leadership. and so ultimately, you didn’t blame Lil Jon or Meat Loaf — [laughter] — you fired Gary Busey. [laughter] and these are the kind of decisions that would keep me up at night. well handled, sir. [laughter] well handled.”

the experience of being used as a chew toy on live TV by a powerful black man broke the racist game show host, and he’s been hell-bent on revenge ever since.

two nights ago, the racist game show host — now Preznit Fuckwit — got to give his own speech at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. it was America’s most-colicky piss-baby’s chance to get back at all the poopy-heads who’d ever been mean to him.

spoiler alert: the colicky piss-baby didn’t just end up shitting the bed at the Correspondents’ Dinner, he rolled around in the mess for almost an hour.

“but I want to personally congratulate CNN’s— KAITLAN COLLINS on receiving her award. [gasps for breath] it was all about me, it’s a fake— she shouldn’t get the award. it was a fake. but I didn’t mind. I said, ‘Kaitlan, congratulations.’ but it was fake, there’s no question about it. but she’s a— young, attractive woman. she never smiles. I said ‘Kaitlan, do you ever smile?’ smile. you have a nice position. you’re at CNN fake news. you should be a happy person. so smile, Kaitlan, just smile. but— uh, we attack, and I thought Kaitlan had— really made it— big, with a major new— SPONSORSHIP, but then I informed her that it wasn’t her on the Bud Lite can, it was Dylan Mulvaney. and— Dylan Mulvaney cost Bud Lite 35— MILLION DOLLARS in market cap. that was the worst commercial ever made, by the way.”

shut the fuck up, Piggy.

here’s a free clue for you, Donny: women are not on this planet to be your personal smile-monkeys. smiles are earned. you want a woman to smile at you, you malignant toad, give her a reason to.

in fact, you should see how your own Slovenian rent-a-wife looks at you when your back is turned.

traditionally, presidents have used their Correspondents’ dinner speeches to poke gentle fun at themselves, at politics, and at the reporters who cover them.

nothing that Obama said about the racist game show host in 2011 was all that mean-spirited. he just quite accurately pointed out that Donny was an unserious buffoon.

And I know just the guy to do it; Donald Trump is here tonight! [Laughter] Now, I know that he’s taken some flak lately, but no one is happier, no one is prouder to put this birth certificate matter to rest than the Donald. [Laughter] And that’s because he can finally get back to focusing on the issues that matter, like, did we fake the Moon landing? What really happened in Roswell? [Laughter] And where are Biggie and Tupac? [Laughter]

in fact, his speech was pretty prescient.

Say what you will about Mr. Trump, he certainly would bring some change to the White House. Let’s see what we’ve got up there.

[Laughter]

[An image of the White House with a sign reading “Trump White House Resort and Casino” was shown.]

Obama wasn’t off by much, was he?

I don’t know if Donny thought he was being funny, telling Kaitlan Collins to smile, and then implying that she could be mistaken for a trans woman, but no one laughed.

no one laughed, either, when Sundowning Grandpa Befuddlepants launched into a long, rambling word-salad that was actually supposed to be a joke.

“the other day a senator I knew got a text — he’s a great guy — from his wife. and she said ‘when you get home I wanna— have you immediately come up the stairs and— make love to me’ and he said ‘I can’t do both.’ you know what HA HA— in other words AH HA HA [gestures] can’t go up the stairs AND make love. does anybody get that? I thought that was actually pretty good. that was actually the only thing I thought in this whole stupid frickin’ speech that they wrote. and that went down with not exactly great laughter. think, you know, in other words, you can’t go up the stairs AND make love. too [unintelligible]. does anybody understand this stuff?”

sure, because nothing sells a joke better than having to explain it twice, after no one laughs.

and, of course, because nothing is ever Dear Leader’ fault, Donny has to start whining, and blame the speechwriters. hey, I have an idea: maybe read your speeches ahead of time — and then, if you don’t like the jokes, you can ask for new ones.

look, it’s not the speechwriters’ fault that Donny puts zero effort into giving a speech. it’s not their fault that Donny’s an illiterate imbecile who can’t complete a sentence without getting lost and inserting random pauses. it’s not their fault that Donny has no idea how to tell a joke, unless it’s about punching down at someone he hates.

but that’s Donny. he can’t take a joke, he can’t tell a joke, and he’s too malignantly narcissistic to understand that he is a joke.

which brings us to the actual White House correspondents — because I would like to cordially invite them all to go fuck themselves.

correspondents, can we talk? I get that you people want to have yourselves a dinner, and give yourselves awards. sure, who doesn’t go for that shit?

but do you have to invite the piss-baby president to attend, and give a speech? I know it’s a tradition, but it’s not a law. you don’t have to do it.

who thought this was a good idea?

come on, you work with this toad every day. you knew what you were getting. you knew he wasn’t going to stand up there and make good-natured jokes like Obama, or Biden, or Bush, or any other normal fucking president would have.

you knew that Donny was going to shit the bed. you knew he was going to stand before you and insult you all to your faces — especially the women. for fuck’s sake, it’s what he does every day of your lives — in the Oval Bordello and aboard Fuckface Force One — should any one of you dare ask him a question he doesn’t like.

he hates you. he calls you ‘fake news.’ he calls you ‘the enemy of the people.’

so why invite him to your little self-congratulatory party? seriously, what do you get out of it?

besides a generous view of Donny’s voluptuous neckgina, that is.

and, if you do invite him again next year, and he once again shits the bed — which he will — don’t just sit there like the useless lumps you are. say something. boo. stand up and walk out. hey, here’s an idea: finally win my What The Fuck Is Wrong With You Challenge™, which is now in its 2,293rd day.

and whatever you do, for fuck’s sake, don’t shake his hand. what in the actual fuck?

democracy dies in obsequiousness.

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we need some Daily Claudia right about now, don’t we?

here’s a Ms Spouse triptych from our patio with Jeanny and Kathy, on June 18, 2023.

have a great Sunday, everyone. don’t shake the piss-baby’s hand. what the fuck is wrong with you?

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here’s your daily reminder that I can be found on Blue Sky at this link.

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this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:

practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.

to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.

we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.