Which long sentence I employ because of all the people who have spoken up to defend the couple, misrepresenting the nature of their neighborhood, the actions of the crowd and the sanity of running out to play Rambo when the peasants are restless.
It’s an excellent example of an incident best captured in memes, and lord have they, while Kal had to do some stretching to turn it into a political comment.
But he managed to meld the self-righteous hysteria of a Karen with the lunacy of Dear Leader clinging to the “Russian hoax” hoax, and blend in Putin’s quiet background support.
My suspicion is that, without his terrific-as-usual art, this might be too much tugging to get the incident to fit the argument, but that is one of the perks of having established a trademark. Most of Jack Benny’s best jokes would fall flat if he hadn’t established such a well-defined personna, and Kal has a style that gives him some latitude as well.
I’d also suggest that the long holiday weekend has killed this particular incident as a good source for additional cartoons anyway.
If you haven’t drawn it by now, you missed the window.
Steve Sack picks up on Trump’s growing panic, tying in his falling poll numbers with his preposterous theory that, if we stopped testing, we wouldn’t have so many Covid-19 cases.
Like George Bush’s “Brownie, you’re doing a heckuva job!” Trump’s declaration that the spread of the disease is due to testing will live forever, not simply because it’s ridiculous but because it’s emblematic of his invincible ignorance.
There’s something wrong in how Trump processes information. We know he doesn’t pay attention to briefings, even wandering off to watch television, and that he gets odd, half-understood notions that he then clings to, like his bassackwards idea that China pays the tariffs laid upon their exports.
In his mind, somehow, there is no distinction between people tested for the virus, people diagnosed with the virus and people hospitalized because of the virus.
And, granted, it’s a little tricky, but hospitals are under enough pressure that they’re not admitting people to cough for a day or two in private and then go home. Nobody has enough beds to devote space to precautionary admissions.
I don’t think he’s lying. I kind of wish he were.
But, as Barbie said, “Math is hard!” and I believe that Dear Leader genuinely doesn’t get it.
Sack then capitalizes on this odd twist — whether it’s a learning disability, an emotional disability or a combination of the two really doesn’t matter — to comment on Trump’s response to cratering poll numbers, which is not to address the causes behind them but to simply wish they would go away.
There is speculation that Trump will walk away from his second term rather than face the humiliation of defeat, but it’s not being entertained among the higher ranks of analysts.
This piece from the Bulwark is both entertaining and insightful. It sums up what you need to know:
Trump is not interested in the actual job of the presidency. He’s interested in the attention the presidency affords him. … He wasn’t campaigning for anything. He just liked hearing crowds screaming his name. Unlike most politicians, who campaign in order to govern, Trump campaigns as a way to avoid governing.
And on the topic of publicity-hounds
Michael Egan comments on Kanye West’s declaration of intent to run for the presidency, and he’d have done well to reverse the POV so the word balloons would appear in the right order, but the point is still made: This is a distraction, not serious politics.
But that’s how things work in the Idiocracy, and it’s the one arrow left in Trump’s depleted quiver: When the clown drops his pants, the crowd roars.
With laughter, with approval, whatever. Doesn’t matter.
And whether it’s Kanye West declaring his candidacy or Donald Trump promising white supremacy at a national landmark doesn’t really matter either.
What matters is what it is not, and in 2016, it was not Hillary Clinton explaining her policies and in 2020 it’s not Joe Biden doing the same.
What it is is the class clown, loudly farting in the middle of the teacher’s lecture.
And it works.
At least, it does here.
I watched the BBC World News last night, and it was a half hour show in which the first 15 minutes were devoted to coverage of Covid-19 around the world. Only then did they go to the news about who dropped his pants.
Which I meant as a metaphor, but which, speaking literally, leads us to this
Juxtaposition of the Day
Britain has reopened its pubs while, on this side of the Atlantic, the FBI has reopened the matter of Jeffrey Epstein’s underage sex ring.
Our social media is full of speculation as to whether the man with the umbrella on the grassy knoll will kill Ghislaine Maxwell the way he absolutely positively murdered Epstein, along with pictures establishing that Donald Trump liked to party with the pair.
Meanwhile, the British are watching to see how Prince Andrew comes out of the mess, and I don’t think it much matters if they are monarchists or anti-monarchists.
If Ghislaine opens up her little black book rather than her wrists, Randy Andy’s royal ass is grass.
But he’s hardly going down alone, nor will Donald Trump, if it turns out his partying with Epstein and Maxwell was not entirely vertical.
We’re already seeing a long list of names, some of which are people we don’t like and some of which are people we like — liked — a great deal.
And, by the way, I strongly suspect that the Feds are seeking confirmation more than information.
Fasten your seat belts. Unless that would impinge upon your freedom.