Yes, the conniving, dimwitted, and perennially aloof redheaded stepchild of our Tweeter-in-Chief has his job as international peacemaker, opioid epidemic manager, Mexican/Chinese diplomat, veterans affairs reformer, criminal justice system solver, and federal government overhauler on the line. It seems Emmanuel Nd…, Emmanuel Ndif…, Emmanuel is padding his resume in lusting anticipation as Trump’s Right Hand Man:
I too would enjoy being Trump’s Right Hand Man, knowing that at all times, I’m merely our president’s wingspan away from some really raunchy puh. Perhaps I’m grasping at straws here, but at least it’s only straws.
God, the value of this blog is depreciating more rapidly than that of a piano falling from a high rise. Anyhoo, below are some bomb-ass drinks I came across in America’s yeast basket:
Stay thirsty, comrades.
hey Hey HEY! I may have used this before but it’s a good one – today’s song of the day is Tunnel of Love by the Dire Straits. Unlike the Dire Straits love tunnel, which has seen little action since it’s release, Lynn Tilton’s has been on full display for pub(l)ic consumption. The section of readership knowledgeable on finance will be familiar with her antics. Here’s a photo for the rest of you:
Contrary to your initial reactions, this chick is all woman. Although her Wikipedia page raises some concerns on the matter:
I’m not so sure I’m ready to accept “TransCare” from the likes of Lynn (Lance?) Tilton. She’s a shifty one. When the SEC brought her in for questioning, it took four guys to finger her in the lineup. Imagine Tilton falling back into a pile of produce:
To steal a term from a close amigo, I’m loath to be the one to find the Sacajawea in Tilton’s canoe. If you do end up hopping into that monoxylon, remember to
And finally. I give you the greatest gift of all…American Flag contact lenses.
BACK THE FUCK OFF. She’s spoken for. Problem is… she’s stuck in the 1940’s and making me use a diaphragm. I keep arguing for a different contraceptive but I feel like I’m just banging my head against the wall. Write that down. Well that’s it for tonight, I’m off to buy the worlds trashiest/most baller couch:
Throw him in the main stream.
Check it, frozen spicy rice from TJ’s, chicken, tomato soup, goat cheese, and some seasonings. Make it in bulk and it lasts days!
And for my finance friends boning up on their ampersands and abbreviations:
Nah, candidly, I opened this thing and it was painfully amateur. I’d rather pinch my nugget pouch in a DVD case than read another page.
Today’s song of the day is Baba O‘Riley by The Ghost of Paul Revere. (The alternative video by the same band is arguably a better sound). LOOK AT THAT VIEW COUNT! ADMIRE MY APPRECIATION FOR OBSCURE, UNDERGROUND ARTISTS?!?
If you haven’t seen it, Donald Trump took precious moments away from his 2020 campaign to shower Puerto Ricans with American generosity. Nothing says “White America is here to help you” like mushroom tipping a bunch of Puerto Rican Oompa Loompas in the face with the Brawny Man. Who cares about delivering internet and power, I won’t sleep until we’ve cut down the entire Amazon Rainforest to get these mother fuckin’ Puerto Ricans, on these mother fuckin’ paper towels. Those are going to be some chaffed assholes down there and they haven’t even digested their pension obligations yet. Oh it’s going to be a surprise, A RUDE, PAINFUL SURPRISE.
Now time for some self awareness:
Are you fucking kidding me? These guys couldn’t land a touchdown with their wives. Or side pieces. Speaking of having a main bitch, and a mistress, and a couple of girl friends, being so hood rich, today’s song of the day is Head of the State by Baracka Flacka Flames.
An image for my girls still at the office tonight:
And finally, the McLaren P1, because a girl can dream, right?
Roping off a $1.2 million car with a plastic barrier chain? Nice, McLaren. Maybe it’s time you Brexit from the auto industry and focus on pushing cheap hats and questionably sourced keychains like Ferrari. AHHH SKEET SKEET SKEET!
And finally, Chick-fil-A has been rubbing off on Jimmy Johns (assuming the Bible says that’s okay):
Nothing bespeaks “thank god we live in America” like a black guy desperately trying to strip himself of ownership-administered shackles. I don’t know, that meat and bread on the right looks a little gay, over under Chick-fil-A walks from the deal?
We begin with this:
I’m assuming this readership is aware of the term “honey pot.”
Next, a stellar quote from our Dealmaker in Chief: “The press is very powerful but it lasts for, both good and bad, lasts for a finite period of time. The one thing about the press is that it’s fleeting. It’s Fleet Street. You know, that’s why they called it Fleet Street. You know that, right? I just actually made that up.” That’s pure gold. Speaking of Trump,
I guess this means we won’t see Trump Torre any time soon.
And finally, Brazzers removing the logos on their bottles:
Turns out the San Fernando Valley cares more about intellectual property theft / economic espionage than the Chinee and Ruskies.
Already one posting in on the day and we already have too many updates for our dear Supreme Reader. And that is absolutely NOT an allusion to LRM (lil’ rocket man). But still, this is all the news that’s fit to print (read: publish and hope some lonely fool stumbles upon MAM).
First off, this is for my foodies. Who likes my dancing carrot?!?
Clever, right? I feel like all other carrot jokes are old, tired, and are often rooted in stupid plays on words. Speaking of bad jokes, Donald Trump is in the news again. This time, he’s ripping on gun violence on the third coast. Chicago can’t catch a break – just look at the images from the #1 police scanner app:
“Police shooting in Chicago.” Really? Attacking Chicago, again? Easy political points to be won, so I get it. And the police in Chicago need to stop targeting based on racial profiling. The blacks in Chicago have it nearly as bad as those in London:
I read “enhanced background checks” and I see visions of Rummy at Abu, cracking the whip at a mountain of male flesh, precariously balanced on top of a well lubed twister mat since replaced with an original copy of the constitution.
And a penultimate thought, shitty ass packaging:
“Enlarged to show texture.” A) hardly enlarged, see accompanying cookie and B) texture? What texture? The photos are yellow shapes with dots. Ya heard?
And finally, a thought from our very own Meditative Mandarin: there is some beautiful irony in a staunchly anti-marijuana attorney general whose last name is “Sessions.”
Salutations! It’s my fancy way of saying…hello! Today’s song of the day is a new one: it’s What Lovers Do by Maroon 5 and SZA.
So we all know of Martin Shkreli (aka Pharma Bro) and how much of an anus he is, but did you know that he has two unexpected doppelgängers? The first being American conservative commentator Ben Shapiro:
And the second being Steve Burns’ replacement on Nick Jr’s Blue’s Clues, Donovan Patton:
Eerie, isn’t it? Moving right along to this:
Are you a self-proclaimed coffee aficionado? Lover of chocolate chip cookies? Well! Then you’ll detest this shit. Admittedly, I’m one for the flavored creamers – some of them are too good not to enjoy. But this chocolate chip cookie shit is disgusting. Don’t buy, don’t try. Speaking of not trying, make sure you don’t try to go to key west in the next two weeks.
Unless you’re looking to go south, see some sparks fly, and get wet. Am I right, girls? And finally, some car stuffs for my autophiles. The first is a Ferrari with some epic decals (remember, racing stripes make a car go faster):
And a final thought for my AD thrill seakers: