The Stench of Shit Empire: When Fishermen Die and Files Disappear

You know what really grinds my gears: The fact that we’re watching war crimes get dressed up as patriotism while dead fishermen float in international waters and everyone’s too busy jerking off to recycled Epstein documents to give a shit.

The Reek of Complicity

“Man is the measure of all things: of things which are, that they are, and of things which are not, that they are not.” - Protagoras

The political theater has devolved into something that makes a back-alley cockfight look dignified. Mike “BibleFucker” Johnson stood there, sweating like a whore in church, trying to sell us the most ass-backward fairy tale since someone claimed trickle-down economics would work. His claim that Donny TurdChomper had been secretly working with the FBI against Epstein for two decades wasn’t just bullshit—it was the kind of desperate, pants-shitting lie you tell when the walls are closing in and you can taste the prison food already.

The stench of panic filled every corner of that press room, thick as fog rolling off a sewage treatment plant. You could practically see the fear-sweat dripping from Johnson’s forehead, each drop carrying the weight of complicity, the knowledge that he was trying to polish a turd so massive it could be seen from fucking space. And when that lie collapsed faster than Trumpty MouthAnus’s marriage vows, Johnson’s backpedal was so pathetic it made Judas look loyal.

“In politics, stupidity is not a handicap.” - Napoleon Bonaparte

What really fucks with my head is how these motherfuckers think we’re all brain-dead. James Comer, that professional ass-kisser whose knees must be permanently bruised from all that genuflecting, tried to pull the oldest con in the book—reshuffling the same goddamn documents like a rigged carnival game. Three gigabytes of “new” files that were 97% recycled horseshit, representing maybe 1% of what’s actually locked away in some government vault. It’s like serving someone their own vomit and calling it nouvelle cuisine.

The LGBTQIA+ community watches this circus with a particular brand of nausea, knowing that while these fascist fucks play hide-and-seek with pedophile documents, they’re simultaneously stripping away trans rights, banning drag shows, and calling us groomers. The hypocrisy burns like acid on exposed nerve endings—they’ll protect actual predators while persecuting consensual adults living their truth.

The Weight of Blood

“Hell is other people.” - Jean-Paul Sartre

But here’s where the shit gets really dark, where the smell turns from metaphorical to literal—the copper tang of blood mixing with seawater. Eleven Yemeni fishermen, probably thinking about their families, their next meal, the repairs their boats needed, turned into pink mist by a Hellfire missile. No warning. No chance. Just fishing one second, atoms the next.

The psychological fuckery of retroactive justification is what really twists the knife. These men became “drug smugglers” only after their bodies had already begun decomposing in the Arabian Sea. It’s the kind of post-mortem character assassination that would make Stalin blush. Dead men tell no tales, but apparently, they can be convicted of crimes they never committed, sentenced by judges who never saw them, in courts that never convened.

“The unconscious is structured like a language.” - Jacques Lacan

The pattern reveals itself like bloodstains under ultraviolet light—North Korean waters, three more fishermen, shot, stabbed, disappeared. Each death a punctuation mark in Donald ShriveledEmptyNutsack’s manifesto of cruelty. The psychological profile that emerges is one of a man who kills not out of necessity but convenience, who sees human life as collateral damage in his personal game of Risk.

For queer folks, especially trans people of color and LGBTQIA+ refugees, this hits different. We know what it’s like to be retroactively criminalized, to have our very existence reframed as a threat after the fact. We understand the terror of being in the wrong place at the wrong time in a world where “wrong” is whatever the powerful need it to be. These fishermen died the way many of us live—guilty until proven innocent, and sometimes not even then.

The Philosophy of Filth

“One’s real life is often the life that one does not lead.” - Oscar Wilde

The philosophical implications stretch like shadows at sunset, long and distorted. What we’re witnessing isn’t just corruption—it’s the complete fucking inversion of reality itself. Documents become un-documents, fishermen become terrorists, war crimes become counter-terrorism, and a serial sexual predator’s best friend becomes an undercover hero.

Simone de Beauvoir wrote about bad faith, about the lies we tell ourselves to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths. But this goes beyond bad faith into something more putrid—it’s anti-faith, the active destruction of truth itself. When Donaldo Shitsburger’s enablers release the same files over and over, they’re not just lying; they’re trying to exhaust our capacity to give a fuck, to make us so tired of the bullshit that we stop looking for the truth buried beneath it.

“The unexamined life is not worth living.” - Socrates

The smell that permeates everything—from Mar-a-Lago’s golden toilets to the depths of the Arabian Sea—is the stench of empire in decay. It’s the reek of bodies decomposing in international waters while lawyers draft memos to justify their murders. It’s the acrid smoke of documents being shredded faster than they can be subpoenaed. It’s the bitter taste of bile rising in the throats of everyone who still has a functioning conscience.

For the LGBTQIA+ community, this isn’t abstract. We’ve watched our history be erased, our struggles minimized, our deaths uncounted. We know what it’s like when the powerful rewrite reality to exclude us, to make us disappear. These Yemeni fishermen, these North Korean casualties—they’re our siblings in erasure, fellow victims of a system that kills first and invents justifications later.

“The personal is political.” - Carol Hanisch

The Aftermath of Atrocity

The most fucked up part? This shit works. The shell game continues, the misdirection succeeds, and bodies keep piling up in places most Americans can’t find on a map. Each news cycle brings fresh horrors that bury yesterday’s atrocities under today’s outrages. It’s a perpetual motion machine of moral bankruptcy, powered by the blood of people whose names we’ll never know.

Donald BukakkeVictim has created a template for future fascists: kill indiscriminately, classify immediately, deny perpetually. Release enough paperwork to create the illusion of transparency while keeping the real evidence locked away tighter than Mike “Tiny” Johnson’s asshole at a Pride parade. Transform your crimes into someone else’s conspiracy theory, your victims into perpetrators, your guilt into their paranoia.

The trans community sees this clearly—we who are accused of corrupting children while actual child predators walk free, we who are called dangerous while innocent people are vaporized by missiles. We understand that in Trumpington De ShittyGobhole’s America, reality is negotiable, but death is permanent.

What keeps me up at night isn’t just the killing—it’s the systematic erasure that follows. These fishermen didn’t just die; they were unmade, their lives retroactively edited to justify their deaths. Their families will never get justice because officially, they were criminals who deserved what they got. It’s gaslighting on a genocidal scale.

The stench lingers long after the bodies have dissolved into the sea, long after the documents have been recycled for the hundredth time, long after Mike JesusFluffer has finished his pathetic genuflections. It clings to everything—to our clothes, our consciousness, our collective soul. We’re all contaminated by proximity to this evil, all complicit in our inability to stop it.

And somewhere, right now, another fishing boat is heading out to sea, its crew unaware they’re already dead in some future press release, already guilty of crimes that will be invented after the Hellfire missile turns them into memory and mist. The empire’s appetite for blood is matched only by its capacity for bullshit, and both seem infinite.

In the end, we’re left with the taste of ashes in our mouths and the sound of drones overhead, wondering if we’re next to be retroactively transformed from citizens to threats, from humans to acceptable losses in someone else’s war that was never declared but never seems to end.