Voenix Rising

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Before we get to the mozzarella-stick militia having a paroxysm of patriotic pearl-clutching because a two-term, scandal-free, infuriatingly handsome, effortlessly eloquent, smooth-as-fuck former president had the temerity to make a joke about their gilded, grievance-engorged fellatiarch’s taste in décor, a little palate cleanser.

Last night, democracy went two-for-two on the road. In Serbia, a student-led movement defeated Aleksandar Vučić’s political camp in parliamentary elections. The strongman actually acknowledged losing.

Imagine that. A fascist who can count.

In Brazil, Lula, soon to be eighty-one, came from behind and beat Flávio Bolsonaro, the junior varsity heir to the family fascism franchise, by more than four million votes. Naturally, Flávio, whom Trump’s kleptocratic regime has been trying to help into power, is refusing to concede and demanding the election be annulled.

Sound like a familiar pity-party tantrum to anybody else?

Let him howl. Every one of these defeats is a big fucking deal for democracy, for freedom worldwide, for everybody watching authoritarian assholes treat entire countries like something their sons should inherit along with billion-dollar defense contracts.

Apparently American exceptionalism means other countries get to watch their fascists lose while we get to watch ours build Versailles out of fucking gold contact paper. All I want is to wake up in a country where the good guys won, Junior’s crying into his coke pile, and his yam-dyed daddy is in a prison cell downwind of a goddamn McDonald’s, smelling fries he can’t have and listening to the steady, maddening whup… whup… WHUP of six hundred wind turbines keeping his fucking door locked.

Israel gets its chance tomorrow. Please, universe, let Netanyahu be the next genocidal goon to fall.

We get ours next Tuesday. Vote out the unctuous little congressional cock-polishers who’ve mistaken legislative oversight for keeping an eye on whether His Royal Thighness needs another pillow. Give him a House that issues subpoenas instead of compliments and a Senate that can locate its own testicles without asking his permission. I want these bastards watching election returns with their lawyers on one line and a charter pilot on the other.

But right now? I’m here to laugh at MAGA.

This one goes out to you, you tallow-brained, Trump-tumescent troglodytes, you suppositories of racial resentment, you sycophantic sphincter spelunkers who crawled up a con man’s ass and declared yourselves the master race.

I know you’re having a hard time lately, and I would like very much to make it worse. Because your guy is out there looking like a foreskin somebody inflated with a leaf blower, steeped in hot-dog water, and topped with the hair recovered from a motel Jacuzzi filter.

He’s short-circuiting, making strangulated, subverbal noises no speechwriter has ever had to punctuate, like a caveman on helium somebody slapped on the back while he was trying to whistle and drink chocolate milk at the same time. What the fuck do you even put in the transcript? A consonant? A wet footprint? Somebody get an anthropologist and a splash guard.

Meanwhile, we’ve got Barack Obama, that tall drink of Yes We Can, followed by Pete Buttigieg, Jon Ossoff, Abdul El-Sayed—a procession of gorgeous, literate men who don’t need both hands on the furniture to hold on to a thought.

Put Ossoff in a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and I’ll canvass a county I can’t pronounce. Pete and Jon? A dream ticket I could get behind. Or in front of. However they want me. I have questions about their positions, and very few concern the filibuster.

But I digress.

And there you are, MAGA, having spent ten years insisting Trump is the consummate alpha male, watching Obama remind you—with one joke—that you’ve pledged your life, your paycheck, and your last shred of dignity to a scrotal-reconstruction lawsuit in a red tie.

So, here goes…

Dear Ma and Pa MAGA,

You absolute fucking idiots.

You tariff-tenderized, Toby-Keith-tatted tailgate theologians of the Tuscan chicken flatbread. Have a seat. Loosen the elastic on them Sunday-best sweatpants.

Obama said Trump’s got the White House looking like “Saddam Hussein opened a Cheesecake Factory,” and you gripped your rosary so hard the beads came out the other end as hush puppies.

He was being generous.

That room looks like a Las Vegas funeral parlor offering a graveside lap dance with the purchase of a premium casket. Any second, a man in a crushed-velvet tux is gonna emerge from behind a gold column to explain that the Platinum Bereavement Experience includes bottle service and a grieving hostess named Sinnamon.

With an S.

Quick sidebar, because I may actually know her. In college, I found out I was working as a stripper. News to me: my only experience with a pole was waiting at the bus stop. My seventeen-year-old stepsister had stolen my identity and was dancing under my name. Her stage name? Sinnamon. With an S. An entire career in adult entertainment without seeing a dollar, which makes me the most MAGA thing in this essay.

Anyhoo.

The Trumpian Oval Office looks like a Fabergé egg that caught gonorrhea in the back room of a strip mall nail salon, with an antique coin purse made out of eyelid skin in the middle conducting a decorating consultation entirely through the phrase “MORE FUCKING GOLD.”

This man would gold-leaf his own colon if the gastroenterologist agreed to call it the Hall of Mirrors.

Obama mocked THAT, and you, the affronted aristocracy of the appetizer sampler, decided he’d insulted the place where Real Americans™ eat.

And look, I LOVE the Cheesecake Factory. I’ll commit a succession of butter-baptized dietary atrocities beneath those inexplicably Egyptian columns until the booth requires a coroner, then leave cradling a doggy bag whose translucent grease stains provide a complete medical history.

I also love Disney World. Doesn’t mean I want a fucking churro cart beside the nuclear football.

Nobody came for your booth, Cletus. Your step-grandson’s prison-release party was never under attack.

Donald Trump has joked to supporters that $5,000 would get them one hamburger and a small dessert at Mar-a-Lago, but yes, please, PLEASE go on about how Barack Obama is losing the everyman over a fucking restaurant joke.

Trump posts a video depicting Barack and Michelle Obama as apes. MAGA laughs its ass off.

Trump mocks Rob Reiner after he and his wife are murdered. MAGA laughs its ass off.

Trump says of Robert Mueller, “Good, I’m glad he’s dead.” MAGA laughs its ass off.

Obama compares all that gold to a Cheesecake Factory run by Saddam Hussein?

HOW DARE YOU. YOU HATE ORDINARY AMERICANS. YOU’RE EVIL INCARNATE. LEAVE OUR FUCKING CHEESECAKE ALONE.

But insult the gold leaf and you lachrymose little lickspittles react like he wiped his dick on your birthday slice of Ultimate Red Velvet Cake Cheesecake.

You’ll defend the honor of a dessert menu with your last wheezing breath while the preening, parasitic prick you elected celebrates oil profits and you’re wondering whether you can afford the gas to get there.

Even your marmalade-smeared, money-grubbing, morally bankrupt messiah knew how obscene that would sound. He anticipated the criticism before announcing: “I don’t give a damn, I’m going to say it — we’re making a freaking fortune.”

We.

Oh, he’s in the “we,” all right. His personal oil and gas holdings are now estimated at $22.5 million to $81.6 million, up from $12.6 million to $46 million at the end of 2025. Those values include additional purchases, not just gains. Your petroleum-plumped peckerpotentate is practically rubbing his nipples with the quarterly statement while you price denture adhesive by the ounce and wonder whether the Second Amendment entitles you to shoot a pork chop small enough to gum.

Sweetheart, you heard “we” and thought somebody added you to the joint checking account. He meant himself and the people whose boats have smaller boats. You’re helping finance a second staircase on something that fucking floats.

But you deferential, dickriding dipshits would hold the flashlight while he siphoned your gasoline into his yacht through a monogrammed garden hose, then coast home on fumes explaining that Obama thinks he’s too good for you.

Perhaps the class enemy was the gentleman with your gasoline in his mouth, Earl.

The tariffs were supposed to make you rich. Your peace candidate dragged us into a war with Iran. Now you’re wearing a shirt with two bald eagles having bannerific intercourse over the Constitution, pleading with a blinking card reader to recognize that you voted for prosperity while the machine requests something your entire political philosophy was supposed to render unnecessary: sufficient fucking funds.

But admitting you got played would require an exhumation of every sanctimonious sermon you delivered across a Thanksgiving table, every time you called a relative brainwashed, every gun-toting Jesus meme you dispatched from the University of Your Own Ass.

Your niece’s pronouns did not raise your grocery bill. The blue-haired barista never had jurisdiction over the Strait of Hormuz. And you’d rather excavate your own prostate with a shrimp fork than give your liberal daughter the satisfaction of hearing she was right.

The well-paid MAGA mouthpieces know it. The second these oleaginous little oligarch groupies spot the first flicker of quasi-comprehension crossing your face, they smother it with a fresh star-spangled panic.

Look over here, sugar tits. The uppity Black man has impugned the architectural integrity of your sacred feeding grounds.

Back on the outrage teat you go. Somebody darker to resent, an immigrant to blame, anyone you can shove beneath you before you have to look at who’s standing on your fucking neck.

Lyndon Johnson understood the arrangement: 

“If you can convince the lowest white man he’s better than the best colored man, he won’t notice you’re picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he’ll empty his pockets for you.”

So sure, investigate the cheesecake remark. Impound the dessert trolley. Haul a frightened busboy before Jim Jordan and demand to know when the tiramisu became radicalized. Your fossil-fueled Marie Antoinette in a spray tan and a pontoon boat tarp is purring “let them eat cheesecake,” and you’re demanding an apology from the man who insulted his gilding.

I don’t give a single deep-fried, flag-bedazzled fuck about your manufactured outrage. You’re praying to the patron saint of declined debit cards, and the only emergency you’ve identified is a Black man who called the gold tacky.

Your million-dollar-an-hour, malignantly moronic mountebank knows you’re getting screwed. He could wipe caviar off his chin with your fucking foreclosure notice and you’d still swear he was just a regular guy trying to keep a roof over your head.

He’s hosting dinners for his billionaire buddies where you’d have to sell both kidneys just to afford the free bread.

But sure. Obama is the one treating you like you’re fucking stupid.

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