The Presidential Medal of Fuckery: When Dead Grifters Get Their Golden Shower Participation Trophy

You know what really grinds my gears: When a bloated fascist fuckwad throws a medal ceremony for a dead propagandist and can't even pretend to give a shit about the corpse he's supposedly honoring.

The desert heat of Nevada shimmers off cracked asphalt as I watch this trainwreck of a ceremony, and I can taste the bitter dust of bullshit coating my tongue. The sun beats down like a relentless fist, and somewhere in that Rose Garden—freshly remodeled, naturally, because nothing says "honoring the dead" like bragging about your fucking landscaping—Donaldo Shitsburger stands at a podium, mouth moving like a dying fish gasping for relevance, supposedly celebrating Charlie Kirk's life. Except he's not. He's masturbating publicly with words, and we're all forced to watch this grotesque display of narcissistic verbal ejaculation.

Let me paint you a picture of this absolute shitshow. The air should smell of roses, right? Fresh blooms, dignity, solemnity? Instead, it reeks of spray tan, desperation, and the particular stench of a man who believes his own lies so thoroughly that truth has become a foreign language. As Simone de Beauvoir once observed, "One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman"—well, one is not born a shameless fuckstick, but Trumpington De ShittyGobhole has certainly become one with remarkable dedication.

Here's what this cockwaffle actually said at a ceremony supposedly honoring someone else: He bragged about his Rose Garden renovations. Let that penetrate your consciousness for a hot fucking second. A man is dead—whether you liked Kirk or thought he was a shit-eating propagandist doesn't matter for this particular exercise—and the sitting president's first substantial comment is about his goddamn landscaping budget. The grass beneath his feet probably cost more than most Americans make in a year, manicured and perfect, while he spews verbal diarrhea about investments and counties and all the self-aggrandizing bullshit that tumbles from his facehole like turds from an overfed dog.

The temperature must have been rising as he stood there, sweat probably pooling under that ill-fitting suit, as he declared—and I shit you not—that receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom is a "better milestone" than Kirk making it to his 32nd birthday. Let me translate that steaming pile of fucknuggetry for you: Being dead and getting a shiny medal from me is better than being alive. That's not just tasteless; that's the kind of tone-deaf douchebaggery that makes you wonder if this man has ever experienced a single genuine human emotion that wasn't related to his own reflected image.

As Michel de Montaigne wisely noted, "The most certain sign of wisdom is cheerfulness"—which means Donny Caligulump must be the dumbest motherfucker to ever shamble through the Oval Office, because there's no joy in his rancid soul, just an endless pit of need that screams "LOOK AT ME" even when he's supposed to be looking at someone else.

The whole fucking spectacle feels like sandpaper against your skin, rough and irritating, scraping away any remaining faith in decorum. He mentioned Kamala Harris twice and Biden once during a ceremony for Kirk. Not in passing, not contextually relevant—just compulsive name-dropping of his perceived enemies like a child who can't stop picking at a scab. And speaking of scabs, let's talk about how this douchecanoe can't even pronounce "posthumously." He says "post-humorously," like this dead man's legacy is a fucking joke. Which, to be fair, Kirk's legacy is a joke, but that's not the point when you're standing at a podium pretending to honor someone.

The audacity of this shitgoblin to claim that God personally intervened to make the weather nice for Kirk's ceremony—as if the Almighty gives a flying fuck about your photo op—demonstrates the particular brand of religious fuckery that makes my teeth ache. John Stuart Mill once wrote, "Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing," and here we are, watching this spectacular display of awfulness while half the country nods along like bobblehead dipshits in a propaganda factory.

The smooth marble of that podium probably felt cool under his tiny hands as he gripped it, knuckles white, spewing statistics that sound impressive until you realize they're complete horseshit. Eighteen trillion in investment? No illegal border crossings for four months? These lies slip off his tongue like oil on water, slick and spreading, contaminating everything they touch. You can almost see them hanging in the air, these visible distortions of reality, shimmering like heat waves over sun-baked concrete.

And then—then—this absolute ass-clown says that "beauty and brains very rarely go together," while talking about Kirk's widow. The gall. The unmitigated fuckface gall of this statement. It's not just misogyny; it's weaponized stupidity wrapped in a compliment, delivered with all the subtlety of a brick through a window. The sound of jaws hitting the floor must have echoed through that garden like thunder. As Martha Nussbaum has argued, human dignity requires recognizing the full humanity of others—but recognition requires having some fucking humanity yourself, which Donny TurdChomper manifestly lacks.

Here's where it gets especially rich, like spoiled cream curdling in your coffee: He suggests that if Kirk were alive, he'd organize a march on the Capitol with twentysomethings. Does this fuckwit have no memory? No shame? No functioning neurons firing in that deteriorating lump of gray matter he calls a brain? The cognitive dissonance burns like acid reflux, that sour taste rising in your throat as you realize he's this close to openly bragging about his insurrection while pretending he's talking about something else entirely.

Listen to the texture of this rhetoric, feel how it scrapes against logic: "Left wing terrorists are a real threat, but not really, because they are cowards and when you confront them they immediately fold." This is textbook fascism, the kind that makes your skin crawl like insects are burrowing underneath. As Umberto Eco—not on our philosopher list, but fuck it, the man knew fascism when he saw it—described, the enemy must be simultaneously too strong and too weak. Your opponent is an existential threat requiring absolute measures, but also pathetic and easily defeated. It's the cognitive pretzel that authoritarian dickheads have been twisting for centuries.

The Donald of Dumpster then proceeds to take credit for water policy in Los Angeles and bringing the Olympics to town, like he personally diverted rivers and negotiated with the IOC between rounds of golf and Twitter tantrums. The sheer scope of his bullshit is almost admirable in its audacity, if audacity weren't just another word for "shameless lying fuckery." You can practically feel the weight of these lies, heavy as wet sand, piling up until you're buried beneath them, suffocating under the sheer volume of fabricated achievement.

As Jean-Paul Sartre observed, "Man is condemned to be free"—except when you're living under a regime of non-stop propaganda where reality itself becomes negotiable, where a man can't even honor a dead sycophant without making it all about himself, where freedom dissolves into the sticky residue of authoritarian horseshit. (1)

The rough concrete of truth has been sanded down and polished until it's smooth as glass and twice as reflective, showing only Trumpty MouthAnus's own bloated face staring back at himself, endlessly, eternally, insufferably. He talks about counties and districts, mixing up basic electoral terminology like a dementia patient trying to remember what day it is, then claims 2024 was rigged—the election he won—because if there's one thing this shitstain can't tolerate, it's the possibility that someone, somewhere, might not worship him with sufficient fervor.

Kirk's wife stands there, probably numb, definitely exhausted, saying this Medal of Freedom ceremony is "the best birthday present he could have ever gotten." Better than, you know, being alive. As Albert Camus wrote, "The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion"—but there's no rebellion in this Rose Garden, just compliance and complicity, the bitter taste of acceptance coating everyone's tongues like ash.

Everything about this ceremony—from the perfectly trimmed hedges to the calculated spontaneity of acknowledging sirens ("they either got the bad guy or they're gonna stop him")—feels staged like a reality TV show, which makes sense because that's exactly what this douchebag thinks governance is. Reality television with nuclear codes. The smooth silk of American flags probably rippled in that divinely-ordained breeze, visual propaganda waving gently while Donny ShitChomper rambled about Chicago murder rates without specifying timeframes, about FBI field offices that have existed for over a century as if he just invented them, about "politically correct sirens" which might be the single dumbest phrase ever uttered by human lips.

What the fuck is a politically correct siren? Does it apologize before wailing? Does it use preferred pronouns? The stupidity is so dense it has its own gravitational field, pulling rational thought into its event horizon where logic goes to die screaming.

As Bertrand Russell noted, "The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people so full of doubts"—and here stands the most certain fool in American history, absolutely convinced of his own magnificence, utterly devoid of self-reflection, a walking embodiment of the Dunning-Kruger effect in an oversized red tie.

The ceremony concludes with Trump calling Kirk a "martyr" three separate times, as if repetition makes it true, as if labeling transforms reality, as if words mean anything anymore in this post-truth hellscape where a sitting president can't pronounce basic words, can't remember what event he's attending, can't manage to honor a dead man without making it a referendum on his own greatness. The marble columns of power stand cold and indifferent, holding up a republic that's crumbling from within, rotted by narcissism and grift and the particular poison of believing that shamelessness is strength.

Peter Singer has argued that we must consider the interests of all sentient beings—but what happens when the most powerful being in your political system has no interests beyond self-glorification? What happens when empathy dies and all that remains is the howling void of ego, demanding constant feeding, never satisfied, always hungry?

The sun sets on that Rose Garden eventually, shadows lengthening across manicured grass, and somewhere in that twilight space between day and night, between truth and lies, between honoring the dead and defiling their memory, we find ourselves as a nation. This isn't just about one shitty ceremony for one propagandist getting a medal he probably doesn't deserve. It's about what we've become, what we tolerate, what we've normalized.

The rough burlap of American exceptionalism has been worn down to threads, and through those threads, you can see the ugly truth: We elected a man who can't even fake human decency for twenty minutes at a memorial service. Who turns every moment into a mirror, who hears "honor someone else" and thinks "talk about me," who genuinely believes that his landscaping choices matter more than a young man's death.

As John Dewey understood, "Education is not preparation for life; education is life itself"—and we are being educated right now, every single day, in the mechanics of authoritarian degradation. (2) We're learning that words don't matter, that reality is negotiable, that shame is for suckers, that the only morality is loyalty to the leader, that everything—even death, even grief, even ceremony—exists only to glorify the strongman's fragile ego.

The ceremony ends. The crowd disperses. The flags still wave. And somewhere, in whatever passes for Trump The Turd's consciousness, he probably thinks he did a great job. He probably replays his own performance, savoring each self-aggrandizing moment, completely oblivious to the grotesque spectacle he's created. The marble steps leading from that podium probably felt solid under his bone-spur feet, permanent and immovable, like his grip on power, like his supporters' devotion, like the slow suffocation of American democracy beneath the wet blanket of fascist nostalgia.

This is where we are. This is what we've accepted. This is the shitshow we're living in, where the dead are props, where medals mean nothing, where language itself has been weaponized and lobotomized and beaten into submission until it barely resembles communication anymore—just noises from a facehole, signifying everything and nothing, sound and fury performed by an idiot, full of self-importance, signifying the end of any shared reality we might have once inhabited together.

The bitter truth tastes like burnt coffee and regret: We get the leaders we deserve, and apparently, we deserve this walking piece of shit, this monument to American decline, this cautionary tale that nobody's heeding because we're all too busy drowning in the flood of his verbal diarrhea to notice we're drowning at all.

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