Same old s[tuff]

You know, it’s been another of Those Weeks, primarily thanks to the Kleptocrat and his cabal. They’re all in it, but at the time of writing I’m thinking primarily of the latest revelations about the extent of EPA Slimebeast Pruitt’s venal attempts to get a Chick-fil-A franchise for his wife, sending his staff out to buy a used mattress from the local Hotel Klepto (ewww) and spending nearly $1600 for 2 pens (that's $1600 of our money); and the general mouth-flapping of Rudy Giuliani assuring us that the Kleptocrat is above the law.

(This would be risible if both houses of Congress weren’t under the control of GOPig sycophants, who do not possess a spine between them. But as it is indeed a Repugnant Congress, it’s fucking terrifying.)

And it’s capped off by Li’l Donnie Two-Scoops himself whining about having to go to Canada for the G-7 Summit today; he knows it’s not going to be any fun because—having pissed off every single one of our historic allies—it’s just possible that no one there’s going to give him the adulation he requires. Moreover, he’s got ants in his pants in anticipation of the big meeting with Kim Jong-Un next week, which he’s convinced will earn him the Nobel Prize. (Also, the Québec trip cuts into his golf time.) Although he doesn't think he has to prepare for the Two-Scoops/Rocket Man meet. Because: attitude.

Gawd.

And—as if that’s not whackadoodle enough—at what was meant to be a meeting between Commander Bone Spurs and his Stepford-wife VP Pence and FEMA to discuss planning for hurricane season, he unsurprisingly was unable to stay on topic for longer than 23 seconds, and blathered quasi-incoherently about his favorite-most subject, himself.

That almost wasn’t the weirdest thing about that meeting. And I’m not referring to Melania being there in a kind of proof-of-life presence. No—it’s this water bottle schtick:

By Grabthar’s Hammer, you cannot make this shit up.

(I'm not even going to talk about the buffoon the administration sent as ambassador to Germany. Gawd.)

But, speaking of shit, I have now arrived at the point of today’s post: the mysterious person known as the #poojogger, who has been crapping for more than a year in a Brisbane, Australia, neighborhood has been caught in the act. On camera.

(How long before New Balance distances itself from this customer in the manner of Sanofi decrying Roseanne’s Ambien-blaming?)

Turns out he was a q-qu-quality assurance manager for a company that runs retirement homes. Quality assurance—bwahahahaha! Exec by day, sociopath by night.

Well, actually—sociopath 24x7.

As you might imagine, as with #BBQBecky, the iconic photo of Andrew Macintosh is now featured in all manner of memes, and Twitter is having a laff riot with it. (The one about the second pooper on the grassy knoll is cherce, although the account @poojogger is starting out strong on his own.) He’s been sacked from his job, which is at least somewhat satisfying.

As we wait for the same to happen to the Kleptocrat and his Klan, we’ll have to make do with this story.