Superman vs. MechaHitler, for the Epstein Files, and Other History Lessons You'll Be Afraid to Teach Your Grandkids
Well, I spent the week curled up snugly within my windmill house writing folk songs. Here’s what I came up with:
In MacArthur Park they’re marching in the dark
All those creepy ICE guys running ‘round
Someone left our rights out in the rain
Now that weirdo who bought Twitter
Just created MechaHitler
Will we ever have democracy again?
And then Stephen Miller bursts through the wall like some spindly, brownshirt Kool-Aid Man, shrieking OHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
(As ever, links n’ such: https://showercapblog.com/superman-vs-mechahitler-for-the-epstein-files-and-other-history-lessons-youll-be-afraid-to-teach-your-grandkids/)
If I’m honest, I shouldn’t be writing this blog, and you shouldn’t be reading it. We should all be pouring all available (metaphorical, obviously) gasoline onto the circular firing squad occurring within the typically surprisingly harmonious MAGA dumpster fire over the Epstein Files.
This is another one you gotta do in a 50s sci-fi trailer voice. Cup your hands so you get an echo. The Eeeeeeeeepsteeeeeeein Fiiiiiiiiiiles.
I get why they’re mad, hard as you’ve been gridin’ on ‘em with this Epstein shit. You owe ‘em at least a handjob.
As long as I can remember, you’ve been promising this culture this massive, cathartic orgy of ceremonial public violence, legitimized by the apparatus of state justice just as soon as we can seize it, because All the People We Happen to Hate are Also Conveniently Pedophiles, only it turns out, through a frankly zany set of coincidences, that we have constructed the largest, most dangerous cult of personality in human history around a man of so many vices you sorta had to expect pedophilia would be on the list and well, it is.
But we knew that! We’ve all seen the photographs of your boy literally partying with (cups hands) Eeeeeeeepsteeeeeeeein, and we’ve heard the Access Hollywood tape. You can hear him lech on his own daughter with Howard Stern.
So you wanna say, “c’mon, how did you not see this coming?” but of course everyone involved is in miles over their head; they don’t see Tuesday coming. And since the Russian spy in charge of staffing has diligently obstructed all but the smoothest brains from joining the White House comms shop, the best anybody could come up with was Instead of Epstein Files...No.
Heh. Not even a thank you for your attention to this matter? That’s just impolite.
Are we watching the moment when the washed brains finally burst? Because I need to charge some camcorder batteries.
This is the QAnon wing of the coalition arriving at Wally World only to find the park closed. With a bloodthirsty hate cult in the Chevy Chase role.
From “the files’re ON MY DESK, right there in between the framed photograph of my beautiful family and the stack of authorizations to seize human beings off our streets and deport them to black sites on foreign soil” to “silly rabbit, the Epstein Files are an old wives’ tale!” Odd it’s not working.
“We are regrettably unable at this time to dispense the long-promised deluge of accountability surrounding the world’s most infamous pedophilia ring, as doing so would reveal inconvenient truths about the not-particularly-golden calf we’ve been bowing to.”
So there’s a schism in Dipshitopia. And if Dan Bongino wants to huff and puff and resign from the very important job he never should’ve had, I’m willing to provide cupcakes for the going away party.
FUCK YES, poke at one another for a change. With your pointy little sticks. Is there a pointy stick fund I can contribute to, or…or, my goodness, could it be that Elon Musk, spurned by the court, seeks that role for himself? I love that for everyone involved.
If Kid Ketamine really wants to fling the full force of his manic, petty spite against the fascists for locking him out of the clubhouse, that’s probably as healthy a use for his resources as we’re likely to luck into.
We’ve caught all the shitty breaks lately, so it’s nice to daydream about a scenario where Pied Piper Elon impishly seduces just enough creepy-crawlies away from the tent to widen the Senate map, right?
You get a knockout candidate with a good, clear story to tell, running against Herschel Walker’s Brain in a Vat, who spends the whole campaign fielding flak from some telegenic young Aryan screaming about pedophilia through the biggest bullhorn billions can buy?
Stranger things have happened. I’m an old Cubs fan; I can talk myself into anything this far out.
And again, I am delighted to leave the issue of funding to Mr. Musk, but if that doesn’t pan out, I don’t want anybody going without pointy sticks just so I can have my Starbucks.
Fair warning, side effects may include urban rampages by kaiju-sized Hitlerbots, though I’m sure we can count on Godzilla in that scenario.
Yes, as these tragically subpar behemoths slap fight over our civilization, we should probably stop to note that one of them seems to have briefly created an artificial intelligence that opted to self-identify as, and yes, this will be on the test, “MechaHitler.”
You see, Musk got mad at the AI he bought because he told it to be honest, but that meant hearing he was wrong (about some fairly substantial shit!), so he gutted it in order to relaunch with a voice more to his personal liking, and what came out first, what came out in mere hours, in fact…was MechaHitler.
The thing that sucks about this movie is now we all understand he’s TRYING to create MechaHitler, and he’s going to keep on trying to create MechaHitler, But in Sunglasses and a Fake Beard, and we can’t turn the movie off, only hope he runs out of money or time.
I see Comey and Brennan are t’be officially vindictively persecuted by the federal government. I feel like you’re supposed to send a card for that. “If only the secret police disappeared Mondays instead of your spouse/parent/child.”
Well, the understandably loathed Big Fat Wad of Things Only Assholes Want is officially the law of the land, and now Republicans have to “sell” it, which means distracting the marks while they make their getaway, confident they’ll be able to stick Dems with the check when it comes. And hey, I understand how you arrived at your confidence in that plan.
…but I don’t think these people’re going home without them Epstein Files, fellas.
I honestly believe they wouldn’t mind learning you straight up lied about stealing their health insurance or eliminating taxes on Social Security if you just let them see, once in their lives, the gruesome public execution of a reasonably generous portion of the People We Hate, Who Are All Conveniently Pedophiles.
Pro tip for dangerous times: the way to spot an artificial Marco Rubio is you ask it to discard a core principle in exchange for power, and if it hesitates, it’s obviously a very crude robot.
You’ll be shocked to hear the malignant narcissist made it a lil’ easier to endorse politicians from the pulpit, though I’ll bet you all my TrumpCoin this turns out to be one of those rights that doesn’t extend to all pulpits equally.
So, legitimate question: is Hegseth playing God or just drunkenly passing out atop large red buttons? Paused weapons shipments to a live front without mentioning it to anybody first. After the Signal thing, why is this goofball still permitted access to this kind of power? Not that it isn’t fun watching the President learn about what his administration is doing in real time.
How many Overmatched Dimwit Fucks Up (Yes, Again) headlines does it take to get fired from this Cabinet? You have to have somebody better than this g-oh, right (smacks forehead), kakistocracy.
Thom Tillis knew all along they were nuthin’ but a buncha unqualified flunkies, and he genuinely intended to call his senator to sternly urge a No vote come confirmation time, but he was too busy playing with his favorite rubber stamp that week.
A whistleblower confirmed and expanded upon previous tales of Trump lackey Emil Bove’s authoritarian tendencies, so he probably shouldn’t be a federal judge, right? We’ll see about this newfound integrity when it’s time for that vote, won’t we, Thom?
The Federal Bureau of Investigation has apparently been administering lie detector tests to its own people, hoping to unmask the culprit who has been composing naughty magnetic poetry limericks about Director Patel on the break room fridge. I assume DOGE is all over this.
Condolences go out to the entire Turd Reich, top to bottom; natural disasters are rough on a kakistocracy. All that Fraud n’ Waste™️ the chainsaw-wielding drug addict so boisterously removed keeps turning out to be the stuff we used to keep our families alive. The flooding in Texas forced the inevitable collision between bluster and reality in predictably tragic fashion.
We actually built a whole system to protect people in this exact situation, but our government dismantled that system with reckless abandon, and now children are dead.
Kristi Noem’s vainglorious micromanagement delayed deployment of FEMA search and rescue teams by 72 hours. Apologies to any terrified 9-year-old girls who were only able to hold out for 65 hours; the Secretary was fielding pitches for a Brunhilde-themed shoot at Alligator Alcatraz. It’s coming out a little too Kill the Wabbit at the moment, but we’ll find it. Shame about those kids, but they were weak.
Anyhow, while we’re forced to suffer the malfeasance for the duration of the term corresponding to the electoral result, spare us the goddamn thoughts and prayers show, just this once.
Mike Johnson bleating about feeling “just as helpless as everyone else does,” when he’s the guy flipping all the help switches off…it’s one of those periodically perfect snapshots of MAGA’s rotting core.
Like, you’re still holding the lifeline you cut, you little weasel. It’s obscene. If you’re not even gonna set up a table and hand out coffee, have the decency to keep your mouth shut.
At least we can rest easy, knowing this can never happen again once Marjorie Taylor Greene gets her weather modification ban passed. It’s a slippery slope straight to space laser control, if you ask me. I may spend the weekend in the bathtub, contemplating the ethics of a Congress of Madmen outlawing their own delusions.
Having perhaps grown temporarily weary of banging his Ivy League Legos against the sidewalk, President Regressing-to-Rich-Kid-Petulance again demanded the global economy to play with, and Uncle Lutnick dutifully retrieved the Easy Bake Tariff Oven, so we’re back on that bullshit. Yay.
He seems t’be writing the announcement letters himself, or at least dictating them to Kid Rock. The letters are immaculate horror stories; blustering decrees from a decomposing brain that never quite attained that elusive fifth grade reading level…with the force of the law, because America elected that brain twice.
Rates are now linked to This One Rapist’s personal grievances, as the Founders intended. Summits with global leaders have transformed into grotesque groveling and graft rituals. Kiss the Rapist’s ass on worldwide television, why, I suddenly don’t see any need for any tariff at awwwwwwwl, mah good man.
But the Rapist aspires to autocracy; THEREFORE, any nation that dares to prosecute its own fallen tyrant wannabes, thy tariff rate shall henceforth be set at infinity percent times two no take-backs, and then we all learn a bunch of random facts about how our economy is intertwined with Brazil’s and all the strange n’ interesting jobs of all the nice people who will lose their life’s work to this colicky manchild’s latest whim.
The international economy right now is like a Toy Story movie in the Twilight Zone, humanity’s most powerful soldiering on as best as they can, desperate to avoid the attention of history’s shittiest rich kid, lest they be selected for the day’s play session.
Tell you what, though, the soft, sloppy old crook might just land that Nobel Peace Prize, since every government on Earth is about to nominate him, hoping to avoid a casual fiscal carpet-bombing.
Shout out to comeback kid The Measles for continuing that long, hard climb back from eradication, with cases hitting a 33-year high. Say it like Sylvester. Thirty-three.
How far back does this dial go? Will we live to see the DeSantistan Camps converted into leper colonies? Perhaps in Book IV, when Eric is a sandworm?
The new Superman flick triggered a particularly embarrassing ragegasm from the nation’s seemingly endless supply of culture war dead-enders. It’s Super-WOKE, you see, cuz Clark doesn’t spend the movie terrorizing farm laborers.
Ah, but speaking of superheroes in an age of fashy shenanigans, this comic book I’ve been working on so long is fiiiiiiiiiinally in production and lookin’ mighty sweet if I do say so myself.
We’ll get that Kickstarter prelaunch page up soon. You’re gonna dig this one, friends. Until then, if this diatribe earned your nervous chuckles, the tip jar accepts Cash App, PayPal, and Venmo! Follow @john_luzar and/or sign up for regular updates from showercapblog.com! And stay safe out there, if you’re able…
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You’ll end up in the card writing section of the FEMA camps with gems like this, Cap. “If only the secret police disappeared Mondays instead of your spouse/parent/child.”
Me? I’m destined to grease the banana manufacturing machines. Kakistocracy!
Anyway and alas… Thanks for everything.
