What The Fuck Was That?
A White House “Address,” a Penis Price List, and the Endless Theater of the Absurd
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What the fuck was that.
No really.
What the actual, clinical, OSHA-reportable fuck did we watch the other night?
That was billed as a White House “address,” which is adorable — like calling a Times Square Elmo knife fight a wellness retreat. What we got instead was a prime-time address delivered with the unhinged cadence of a ventriloquist’s dummy whose puppeteer wandered off to smoke behind the building, leaving Satan — recently lobotomized, to freestyle.
It wasn’t calming. It wasn’t steadying. Hell, it wasn’t even English half the time. Watching him try to string together sentences was like watching someone in oven mitts try to defuse a bomb—sweaty, desperate, and liable to end with a fire drill and a visit from animal control.
Honestly, if you told me that was Candid Camera on crack, filmed during a power surge, and nobody bothered to tell him the joke was over, I’d believe you. It was like Captain Kangaroo got blackout drunk, snorted a line of Metamucil, and wandered onto the C-SPAN set with a head full of Ambien, just making up words and numbers for the fuck of it.
I haven’t seen someone divorce reality this hard since Paul Stanley’s face stopped negotiating with physics.
And somewhere in there — buried between the yelling, the sniffing, the chest-puffing, and the baby-bogus math — was that familiar, unsettling feeling that we were all being scream-lectured by the political equivalent of a man arguing with a self-checkout machine that keeps yelling “unexpected item in the bagging area.” Not as a metaphor. As a mood. As a governing philosophy. As if volume alone could bully the scanner into submission and shame the rest of us into believing it was our fault.
This was supposed to calm us down.
Lower our blood pressure.
Maybe even let America collectively unclench the sphincter it’s had in a death grip since November 2024.
Instead, we got primal scream therapy delivered by a pile of government-issue laundry draped over the podium like it was the last vibrating sex toy at a fire sale for bankrupt perverts. His shoulders collapsed inward, spine curled into that familiar boiled-shrimp-meets-authority pose. Less Commander-in-Chief, more SpongeBob plucked from the ocean and left to cure on a countertop, muttering about tariffs.
The delivery didn’t merely undermine the message — it made the entire spectacle impossible to take seriously. Not that anyone paying attention for the last decade expected competence, but this was a special vintage of chaos. Not louder. Not angrier. Just more nakedly unmoored. The energy of someone who absolutely heard, “You don’t need to do this,” and replied, “Roll the cameras, I’ve got thoughts,” before launching into a nationally televised free-association spiral.
The speech itself was a slurry of incoherent babble — verbal oatmeal, rhetorical mulch, sentences dissolving mid-thought and reforming as bravado. Language flailing around like it lost its glasses and refuses to admit it can’t see. Arithmetic wasn’t stretched or spun — it was mugged in an alley and left for dead.
At one point, he announced that drug prices were down “600 percent.” Six hundred percent cheaper. By that math, CVS should be paying you to take insulin home and apologizing with free tacos. That’s not economics. That’s numbers wandering into traffic. But he said it loudly, and in Trumpworld volume substitutes for evidence.
Even his own people were rattled.
Matt Walsh — a notorious misogynist, lifelong Trump apologist, and essentially a bearded version of the gimp from Pulp Fiction if it were dressed in Vineyard Vines — openly wondered what the hell the point of any of this even was. When you lose Matt Walsh, you haven’t just lost the base. You’ve confused the people who clap when the plane lands.
Threaded through this entire tantrum was a shiny object he clearly assumed we’d be too distracted to inspect: the “warrior dividend.” A $1,776 bonus waved around like a stained casino chip fished out of a clogged Mar-a-Lago toilet and passed off as gold. There was nothing fresh about it. No secret stash. Not a cent of Trump money. Just housing funds Congress had already approved — skimmed, ironed flat, spritzed with cologne, and shoved back out the door with his name Sharpied on the side like a pawn-shop mattress signing autographs at Comic-Con.
Senior officers in high-cost areas now subsidizing others with their own housing support. A shell game dressed up as gratitude.
Same move every time: break it, rename it, partially undo the damage, insist you’re the hero while inflicting more damage, rinse, repeat. He assumes people are genuinely fucking stupid — and performs accordingly.
If Wednesday night felt like a stress test for the nation’s collective sanity, Thursday afternoon answered the question we didn’t want to ask.
Because less than 24 hours after that Crazy-Eddie-selling-broken-TVs screamfest, there he was again — this time in the Oval Office — barely upright, barely coherent, barely awake. Consciousness flickering like a dying fluorescent bulb. His body arranged into the approximate silhouette of leadership the way a pile of laundry can look like your ex if you catch it out of the corner of your eye at 2 a.m.
Surrounding him: people in white lab coats.
Actual lab coats.
Not metaphor. Not symbolism. Literal medical cosplay.
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Like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest being performed by the world’s most confused improv troupe at a roadside Marriott. And while he drifted, slumped, startled awake, and drifted again, not one reporter asked about his health. Not one. The cameras rolled while the President of the United States visibly struggled to remain conscious less than a day after an unhinged prime-time rant.
That whiplash alone demanded explanation.
The question wasn’t policy.
It wasn’t optics.
It wasn’t strategy.
It was pharmacology.
What pharmaceuticals are currently doing the heavy lifting here? What cocktail of powders, patches, injections, lozenges, nasal blasts, tinctures, fixatives, or time-release mystery pellets turns a late-night screaming pitchman into a mid-afternoon narcoleptic prop? Because those two versions of the same man — less than a day apart — do not occur naturally.
Meanwhile — because this entire week unfolded like a dare — earlier that same day, reality-TV surgeon turned Trump toady Dr. Oz was on television earnestly explaining the cost of a penis. A “high-quality” penis. About $15,000. Balls cost extra. Add-ons sold separately. A Build-A-Bear workshop for genitals. Apparently there’s now a conservative black market: I got this high-quality penis for fifteen, but I can give it to you for ten.
You cannot make this shit up. The president is nodding off in a medical diorama while a former daytime TV doctor prices penises like aftermarket spoilers.
And as all of that unfolded — simultaneously, chaotically, like a blooming onion of bullshit — the announcement dropped that the Kennedy Center had been renamed in his “honor.” Unanimously. By a board he appointed. A board he chairs. Something he is constitutionally barred from doing. Constitution, shmonstitution.
This followed his earlier-in-the-week toddler-tantrum walk of fame: plaques installed inside the White House insulting former presidents the American people actually elected. Paid for with our money, naturally, because his insecurity is a bottomless pit that needs constant feeding like a Tamagotchi with daddy issues and a Costco-sized tub of Nutella.
This is the pathology. The compulsive renaming. The plaques. The self-awarded trophies. The grotesque ballroom mockups swallowing the White House like a flesh-eating fungus in a forgotten utility closet. He doesn’t build legacies — he leaves signage, hoping marble and branding can drown out the echo where substance should be.
And by the way — where the fuck is Congress? Seriously. Every week it’s the same broken record: he can’t do that without Congress, that’s unconstitutional, that violates norms, that requires oversight. And then he does it anyway. And nothing happens. No emergency hearing. No subpoenas. No consequences. We just refresh the feed and move on to the next abuse like we’re scrolling past a car crash because another one just happened three exits down.
Some days it feels like watching a punchline with a sledgehammer. Everyone’s laughing, but the clock is ticking to see how much damage he can inflict before someone finally cuts the power — politically, structurally, biologically, whatever’s left. He may never see another ballot, but the harm is real and it’s happening in real time.
All of it is designed to distract. To keep us chasing spectacle while the real damage grinds on — especially now, with the Epstein files due today and new reporting surfacing like bodies in a tide pool. Files. Photos. Details that don’t disappear just because you scream louder.
And that’s the real point of all of this: the spectacle never ends. It isn’t a glitch or a bad week. It’s the product. A permanent theater of the absurd, looping endlessly, prop after prop, outrage after outrage, so no one ever gets a clean line of sight on what’s actually being done. This is not chaos by accident. It’s chaos as choreography.
We have to do two things at once: laugh at the lunacy and hold on to each other through it. One burst of laughter. One fit of tears. One are-you-fucking-kidding-me moment at a time. Get to the midterms. And then turn the fuck out.
When I wished to live in interesting times, narcolepsy and penis pricing were not what I had in mind. Alas.
And for the record —
It’s still the Gulf of Mexico.
It’s still the Department of Defense.
And it’s still the Kennedy Center.
And they will remain as such long after that orange fucking idiot is gone.
And with that today’s song:
Oh and as I was writing this broke — Todd Blanche now says the administration won’t be releasing the Epstein files as required by law today, which is both illegal and entirely predictable.
Hello CONGRESS?!?!!
I love you guys!
Stay strong, stay sane(ish) and PLEASE stay safe out there!