Kristi Noem wants her fucking blanket NOW

she doesn’t care how

one of the most galling things about being governed over by Donny Convict’s Cabinet of Sewer Clowns is that they run around like a bunch of ill-mannered children — and We the People have no choice but to endure it.

each and every one of them has the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old, and they all believe they deserve all the attention, all the accolades and all the trappings of power, all the time.

they’re bratty, self-entitled preteens who get bent out of shape over the pettiest fucking shit.

here’s a heartwarming story that came out this week about Little Miss Hair Extensions, the military-cosplaying cuckoo-pants who heads the Department of Homeland Security.

Kristi Noem and her right-out-in-the-open boyfriend Corey Lewandowski (both of whom are married, but not to each other) were flying god-knows-where on some taxpayer-funded jaunt, when their plane developed a maintenance issue — and that’s when the happy, fun-filled excursion turned into an utter fucking nightmare for ICE Barbie.

let’s let the Wall Street Journal lay it out for us.

“In the blanket incident, Noem had to switch planes after a maintenance issue was discovered, but her blanket wasn’t moved to the second plane, according to the people familiar with the incident.”

‘the blanket incident’ is a super-polite way of describing what actually happened: ICE Barbie melted all the way down and threw a twenty-megaton shit-fit, because OH MY GOD, HER FUCKING BLANKIE WAS LEFT ON THE PLANE.

here’s Noem’s perfectly normal reaction to this minor inconvenience:

The Coast Guard pilot was initially fired and told to take a commercial flight home when they reached their destination.

she fucking shitcanned the pilot — for losing track of a blanket. tell me, is that a pilot’s job? is passenger-belongings-management a required course in pilot school? because if I were that pilot, I would have been all ‘calm the fuck down, Kristi, it’s a fucking blanket. you want a blanket? I can get you a blanket by three o’clock this afternoon. with nail polish.’

but no, Kristi needed her own precious blanket now, and she didn’t fucking care how. so she sent the pilot packing — or so she thought, because here’s the best part of the story. get ready to laugh your ass off.

“They eventually reinstated the pilot because no one else was available to fly them home.”

wait, what? Kristi and Corey had to eat shit, and beg the pilot to come back to the job they’d just fired him from?

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

I’ll bet that was a happy-go-lucky, care-free flight home.

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they’re all preening, performative-nonsense prima donnas, the whole lot of them.

look no further than Piss-Drunk Pete Kegstand, the Secretary of Whatever The Fuck He’s Calling Himself Today. Pete believes he’s entitled to perfectly-coiffed hair, on demand, so he spent thousands of taxpayer dollars to install a make-up room in the Pentagon — because god forbid he has to go on Fox News at a moment’s notice, and a strand of hair is out of place. the horror. the horror.

I don’t know if Pete would freak out if Rosebud — his beloved skateboard — was ever left on a plane, but I can certainly imagine it happening.

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Bobby Brainworms Jr believes he’s entitled to hoover all the Bolivian marching powder off of whatever pestilence-ridden surface is handy.

“I’m not scared of a germ. I used to snort cocaine off of toilet seats.”

you do you, bro.

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and then there’s Granny-Starvin’ Howard Lutnick — the gazillionaire who says that if you ever miss receiving a Social Security check, suck it up and don’t be a lame-ass whiner about it.

Howie the Lut believes he was entitled to bring his four children to Dead Pedo Bestie Island. doing so was totes cool, he explained, because he also brought their nannies. not nanny, but nannies, plural.

“I did have lunch with [Epstein] as I was on a boat going across on a family vacation. my wife was with me as were my four children and nannies. I had another couple, they were there as well, with their children. And we had lunch on the island. that is true. for an hour. and we left with all of my children, with my nannies, and my wife.”

how many nannies does one need to watch four children? I would have guessed one, tops — but then I’m not an out-of-touch plutocrat who pals around with degenerates. so what would I know?

nannies — because god forbid you should have to interact with your own children in the middle of a lunch with the guy who abducts and abuses other people’s children.

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and don’t even get me started on the Diaperload-in-Chief. look at the drivel that this colicky piss-baby posted to his crappy app.

holy shit — and on Valentine’s Day, yet. where was the president’s green-card Slovenian rent-a-wife? you know, the one who married him for his money, recoils at his touch, never smiles in his presence, refuses to share his bed, and sits in her room, counting every second until she becomes a wealthy widow?

she was nowhere to be found. and so there’s Donny — alone, friendless, loveless — glued to the TV in his rancid Florida golf motel, power-loading all the diapers because he saw Bill Maher say something mean about him.

get a fucking life, you loser.

remember when presidents were desirable? remember when Marilyn Monroe sang ‘happy birthday, Mister President’ to JFK?

who does our current malignant toad of a president have to sing to him? nobody, that’s who. how sad is that?

wait, did I say sad? I meant to say it’s super fucking hilarious.

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here’s your hero of the day: Minnesota Public Radio reporter Sam Stroozas. when masked ICE goons started fucking shit up mere blocks from where Sam lived, she rushed right out to cover the story — in her fucking bathrobe. because that’s what you do when fast-developing news needs to be reported on now.

in a world of self-entitled every-hair-in-place ICE Barbies and Piss-Drunk Pete Kegstands, be a Sam Stroozas.

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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.