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Loyalty Day
President Donald J. Trump who has proclaimed today as Loyalty Day, according to a statement from the White House. Coming from President Trump, it seems like a Hail Mary pass to get a foothold for the concept that criticism is practically treason in the face of his many detractors. But the observance of "allegiance to the principles" of the country is actually a longstanding tradition which dates back to Dwight Eisenhower, who officially enacted the day in 1955. Setting aside that 1955 was the middle of the Red Scare when the government was trying to convince us that anyone who disagreed with them was a dirty Communist, I actually like the idea of Loyalty Day and congratulate Mr. Trump for bringing it back. Because I consider myself so loyal to the United States that I refuse to see it diminished by an oligarchic asshole like Donald Trump who invites murderous strongmen like Philippines President Rodrigo Duterte to the White House and avoids the White House Correspondents Dinner like a frightened little bitch because he can't doesn't think the concept of Freedom of the Press should apply to him and inspires mass national protests on different topics every week. So I encourage you to join me in observing Loyalty Day by using this handy contact sheet to call your state Senator and letting him or her know that you're outraged that the greatest nation in the world is currently being run by an unqualified, self-serving jackass. If Mr. Trump want us to show where our loyalty lies, I think we owe it to him by giving him exactly what he asks for.
YouTube sensation Robin Greenspan, with whom I attended the People's Climate Change March on Saturday. This is the third Donald Trump protest I have attended with Ms. Greenspan (we also marched alongside each other at the United for America Rally at the Islamic Center and the Tax March to Get Trump to Show How Much of His Sorry Ass Russia Actually Owns) and I have discovered one indisputable fast about her: she is a badass who is not to be fucked with. As an example, when the Climate Change March came to its conclusion and the marchers began to disburse to hike back to our various means of conveyance, a self-appointed wrangler for the event ordered us to stop and wait for the other marchers to join us so we could all go back together. But since the organizers appeared to underscore the theme of the rally by staging it in 115° temperatures, Ms. Greenspan had no intention of suffering heat exhaustion to accommodate this fool's ADD and told him that if he wanted to wait in the blistering sun for the slowpokes to arrive so they could all march back hand-in-hand, he could do it while she was trudging back to the comfort of her air-conditioned Rolls-Royce Phantom Serenity. That shut him up and for that matter, it shut me up too since I was afraid to utter a sound on the walk back that might bring down the sledge hammer of Mr. Greenspan's rage on me. When we finally parted, I concluded that the best way to get this presidency to pull its head out of its ass was to lock Mr. Trump in a room for 15 minutes with an unchained Robin Greenspan. If he doesn't listen at first, we'll just need to turn off the air conditioning to up the ante. By the time we finally let him out of there, he'll be begging to show us his tax returns and insist that any money he might still be owe the IRS should be earmarked for fighting climate change and paying the legal fees for undocumented immigrants to stay in this country; provided that Ms. Greenspan just stop yelling at him. When that woman gets hot, she is on fire.
MSNBC pundit Rachel Maddow, with whose television show I have become addicted to. I dined last night with my arch-nemesis Hall of Fame yenta Misty LaRue, and in my desperation to come up with anything that we could talk about without killing each other, I went to one of my favorite topics: celebrities to whose mental image I have recently masturbated. Ms. LaRue was aghast that the current list was topped by Ms. Maddow, a lesbian who is married to a woman. I don't know what the issue was with that; I accept that in the so-called "real" world I have no more chance of hooking up with Ms. Maddow than I do with heterosexual celebs like Scarlett Johansson or Jennifer Lawrence. But in the vast kingdom of my imagination there is no such thing as heterosexuality or homosexuality. There is only Jonnysexuality where all woman are blissfully obsessed with erotically satisfying my hot bod and my hot bod alone. I grudgingly admit that if Ms. Maddow were to hear about my recent disgusting amorous fantasy that cast her in the lead, she would be horrified. But that's the price she pays for being on TV. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an imaginary date with the brunette from the Amica Insurance commercials. This is the kind of thing they really should be taught in Drama School.
Former Fox News pundit Bill O'Reilly. I became obsessed last week with making faux magazine covers, one of which was an edition of The National Enquirer which included an article about Mr. O'Reilly being the victim of sexual harassment, and to make the situation even more degrading for him I cast as his oppressor feminist champion and annoying yenta Lisa Glass. I discussed Mr. O'Reilly's situation in my last Enemies List and while I'm sympathetic to the victims of any type of harassment, I'm going to go ahead and admit that sexual harassment is far and away my favorite kind. But even I had to admit the horrors of picturing Ms. Glass ordering Mr. O'Reilly to get a file out of the lowest drawer in the cabinet so he would be forced to display his sagging, pock-marked ass to the hoots and hollers from all the women in the office as he bent over, or the ladies mimicking his degrading habit of calling an African American underling "Hot Chocolate" by having them assign him a similar moniker like "Vanilla Sanka." Perhaps putting Mr. O'Reilly on the receiving end of his own abusive practices is exactly what he needs to understand how awful his behavior is to keep him from ever doing it again, and that goes for all men who make light of the plight of sexual harassment. And to prove that I am not above receiving my own brand of tough but fair justice, I am going to challenge Ms. Glass and her fellow feminist crusaders to subject me to the most degrading examples of sexual harassment that they can think of for one week, just to teach me some sensitivity. All that I require is that they call me "Vanilla Sanka" while they're doing it. That's what Rachel Maddow called me in a recent fantasy and I thought it was pretty hot.
Actor David Pinion. A constant feature of the magazine covers I posted last week were teaser headlines for articles about Mr. Pinion's gigantic penis. I concluded the series by making an illustration of several associates of mine standing in a line making beefcake poses, while Mr. Pinion stood at the end showing off the massive bulge advertised in all those magazine articles. I'm not sure why Mr. Pinion suddenly came to possess a mammoth horse cock in my imagination because I have no idea what the length and girth of his turgid member is in real life, nor has he ever provided me with an indication of what he might be packing south of the equator. But he is such a sorry individual that I suppose I'd like to think that he's hoisting around a massive hog to make up for his shortcomings in other areas. I hope that spreading the rumor that he is blessed with a beefy package did Mr. Pinion some good and that it helps him to start a new week in the face of the horrific truths that make up his unfortunate existence. If at any time during the week he finds reality too burdensome and he needs a lift, I invite him to take a look at this mock cover of High Times magazine that includes an article on a series of bongs in the shape of his giant man-meat. If that's not enough, he can take another cue from the magazine and take a few puffs of ghanja to take the edge off. From what I've read online, it really enhances the size of your junk.
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