'Fuck You, Susan Collins, Fuck You, Cowardly Press' - jojofromjerz
"I’d say I’m disappointed in you, but disappointment implies suspense, and you forfeited that luxury years ago when you turned moral courage into a cheap party trick you perform for cameras and immediately abandon the second it asks you to grow a spine. What you’ve perfected instead is a kind of performative beige cowardice, a career-long commitment to pearl-clutching paralysis, a ritualized routine of tut-tutting concern followed by immediate retreat, like a frightened prairie dog popping up just long enough to announce she’s deeply troubled before scurrying back into the burrow of inaction. This shit doesn’t shock or surprise anyone anymore. You barely register. You’re just there—hovering uselessly near the action like a bad smell everyone’s learned to tolerate, forever fogging the room with sanctimony, submission, and that signature Susan Collins musk of moral mayonnaise. There’s nothing left to be disappointed by—only the familiar spectacle of you arriving right on cue to exhale a statement, evacuate responsibility, and leave behind the faint, oily residue of someone who stands perfectly still, wringing her hands while waiting for someone else to do the right thing."
"And there you were, up to your troubled eyeballs in Trump’s Temu Versailles, standing in the Oval Office as it now exists—a shrine to indulgence smeared wall-to-wall in fake gold and ego discharge, every surface glistening as if lacquered with gold-plated piss, a room marinated in insecurity and rot, the décor screaming LOOK AT ME in the visual language of a man addicted to glitter, mirrors, and the sound of his own name—smiling for all the world to see, clutching a red MAGA hat like a sad polyester security blanket, like a grievance-glazed talisman, like a cheaply stitched comfort charm for someone pathologically allergic to backbone. I’d say shame on you, Susan, but shame requires a functioning internal compass, and your capacity for it appears to be about as deep as your convictions, which is to say it doesn’t exist at all."
"Behind the Resolute Desk slouched Donald Trump, folded inward like an over-cooked shrimp, skin the color of a dropped mango left to rot on asphalt, posture broadcasting the defensive agitation of someone who knows exactly what’s in those files and despises the fact that the world refuses to stop asking."
"His Oval Office probably smells like literal farts and soiled pants, the unmistakable funk of a body and a soul decaying at the same speed, hot air and human rot fermenting under fake gold like the world’s saddest chemical weapon."
"Then Kaitlan Collins asked a question."
Continued at link:
https://open.substack.com/pub/jojofromjerz/p/fuck-you-susan-collins-fuck-you-cowardly?r=r38w4&utm_medium=ios
= new reply since forum marked as read
