When Your Biggest Bootlicker Finally Tastes the Shit She’s Been Eating: Marjorie Taylor Greene

You know what really grinds my gears: When a conspiracy-peddling, Trump-worshipping dumbass finally figures out her own party is a clown-filled shitshow, but somehow still can’t connect the dots that her orange god-emperor is the ringmaster of this goddamn circus.

Let me paint you a picture so visceral you can fucking taste it—imagine the stench of desperation mixed with the nauseating sweetness of political opportunism, like rotting fruit baking in a dumpster under the July sun. That’s Marjorie Taylor Greene, folks. A woman who has spent years with her nose so far up Donaldo Shitsburger’s ass that she could probably tell you what he had for breakfast by the smell alone.

This is the same woman—and I need you to really let this shit sink into your bones—who chased down a school shooting survivor, David Hogg, on the streets of Washington D.C., screaming at him like some deranged harpy while cameras rolled. The same fuckwit who suggested Jewish space lasers started California wildfires. Yeah, you read that right. Space. Lasers. Not even good science fiction, just weapons-grade batshit crazy wrapped in a bow of antisemitic conspiracy theories.

As Jean-Paul Sartre once observed, “Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.” But MTG? She’s chosen to be enslaved—enslaved to a brand of politics so ass-backwards, so fundamentally cockamamie, that it makes flat-earthers look like Rhodes Scholars.

Let’s catalog some of her greatest shitburger moments, shall we?

She called the Parkland shooting a “false flag.” She suggested Nancy Pelosi should face execution. She compared mask mandates to the goddamn Holocaust—and if you can’t smell the rancid moral rot in that comparison, you need to get your ethical nose checked. The woman filed articles of impeachment against Biden on his first full day in office, because apparently that’s what passes for governance in her diseased political brain.

And through it all—through every deranged press conference, every Facebook post that read like it was written by someone huffing paint thinner, every moment where she made America’s collective IQ drop just by opening her mouth—she remained Trumpington De ShittyGobhole’s most loyal soldier. His ride-or-die. His Harley Quinn to his budget-store Joker.

Martha Nussbaum wrote, “The idea of public reason has to do with how questions should be decided, but it doesn’t tell you what are the good reasons or correct decisions.” Greene’s “public reason” has been whatever the fuck The Donald of Dumpster tweets at 3 AM after his nightly Big Mac-induced fever dreams.

The taste of this betrayal—because that’s what her Friday appearance on Bill Maher represents, even if she’s too fucking dense to realize it—is like biting into what you think is chocolate only to discover it’s actually dog shit. It coats your tongue, seeps into your teeth, and no amount of mouthwash will wash away the knowledge that you voluntarily put that in your mouth.

Picture this: pristine studio lights beating down like an interrogation lamp, the smell of fresh coffee and backstage anxiety, the audience’s breath collectively held as Marjorie Taylor Greene—the Marjorie Taylor Greene—sits across from Bill Maher and does something almost unthinkable. She criticized Republicans. Not just a gentle nudge, but a full-throated, rage-filled excoriation of her own party’s incompetence.

“Congress should be solving a lot of these problems,” she declared, her voice carrying the edge of someone who just realized they’ve been eating shit sandwiches when steak was on the menu. “However, Congress is not solving these problems.”

Her chief target? Not Michael Jackson—sorry, Mike JesusFluffer—Speaker of the House and professional wet blanket. She lambasted his ass for offering “zero policy solutions” while ACA premiums threaten to double. Let that marinate in your brain for a second. Greene, who has voted against virtually every substantive piece of legislation that might actually help people, suddenly gives a fuck about healthcare costs?

She painted a picture so clear you could frame it: her family’s insurance costs exploding from $800 to over $2,400 monthly. The financial gut-punch of American healthcare, delivered with the passion of someone who just discovered that the system they’ve been defending is actually a bloated, festering corpse of corporate greed and political cowardice. You could almost taste her rage—bitter as burnt coffee, sharp as broken glass sliding down your throat.

But here’s where the mindfuck really kicks in, where the cognitive dissonance becomes so loud it’s like standing next to a jet engine: Despite this newfound clarity about Republican incompetence, she still—still—pledges her undying fealty to Donald ShriveledEmptyNutsack.

Doreen Valiente wisely noted, “For as one star differs from another star in glory, so also is the difference of one person from another in this life.” Greene’s difference? She can simultaneously see the problem and worship the architect of said problem with the blind devotion of a cult member.

She defended his pardon of George Santos—a man who admitted to wire fraud and identity theft, a scumbag so thoroughly corrupt he makes used car salesmen look trustworthy. She praised Farty Donaldo’s “expertise” in building a $300 million White House ballroom. (Because nothing says “man of the people” like a fucking ballroom that costs more than most Americans will earn in ten lifetimes.)

The sensory overload of watching this interview is like being force-fed contradictions until you vomit: the acidity of her criticism of Mike DonnySucker, the saccharine sweetness of her Trump worship, the bitter aftertaste of realizing this woman has actual power in our government.

David Hume observed, “Beauty in things exists in the mind which contemplates them.” There is no beauty here—only the grotesque spectacle of a politician so thoroughly mindfucked by her own ideology that she can’t see the forest for the trees, can’t taste the poison in the Kool-Aid she’s been guzzling by the gallon.

She urged Senate Republicans to deploy the “nuclear option”—kill the filibuster, end the shutdown. This from a woman whose entire political existence has been about obstruction, about throwing sand in the gears of governance, about being the most irritating dipshit in a chamber full of dipshits.

Here’s what keeps me up at night, what makes my blood fucking boil until I can feel it behind my eyeballs: How does someone become so thoroughly colonized by their own bullshit that they can’t see the most obvious truth staring them in the face?

Greene complains that Democrats passed the ACA but Republicans have spent over a decade doing nothing to fix it. Okay, cool. Valid criticism. But who was president for four of those years? Who had both houses of Congress for two years and couldn’t repeal it despite making it his signature campaign promise? Oh right, Donny Caligulump—the same bloated fuckstick she defends with every breath.

The texture of this hypocrisy is like sandpaper on an open wound, like breathing in smoke from a tire fire, like the greasy residue that won’t wash off your hands after handling dirty money. It coats everything, permeates everything, ruins everything it touches.

She’s broken ranks on some issues—questioning aid to Israel amid war crimes accusations, even expressing doubts about Trump’s connection to Jeffrey Epstein. These are glimpses of a functioning brain trying to break through the layers of partisan bullshit. But they’re just glimpses, brief flashes of lucidity before she plunges back into the comfortable warm bath of MAGA delusion.

Bertrand Russell wrote, “The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people so full of doubts.” Greene is certain. Titanically, catastrophically certain. She knows Mike Tiny Johnson is failing. She knows Congress is broken. She knows healthcare is fucked. But she cannot—will not—connect those failures to the rot at the core of her own movement.

According to reporting from Real Clear Politics, Greene has consistently voted against bipartisan legislation while complaining about partisan gridlock—a particularly dickwad-ish form of political theater.[1] Politico has documented her pattern of inflammatory statements followed by claims of persecution, a cycle as predictable as it is exhausting.[2]

The anticipation of what comes next is like waiting for a car crash in slow motion. You can see it coming—the inevitable moment when even Greene’s cognitive dissonance reaches critical mass, when the contradictions become so overwhelming that something has to give. Will she finally wake the fuck up? Will she realize that Turdalump Trump is the problem, not the solution? Or will she double down, quadruple down, until she’s so far gone there’s no coming back?

The sensory assault of American politics in 2025 is overwhelming: the visual garbage fire of government shutdowns, the soundtrack of endless Twitter/X beefs and press conference tantrums, the smell of corruption and incompetence wafting through the halls of power like a backed-up sewer, the taste of broken promises coating every congressional session, the feeling of democracy slipping through our fingers like sand.

Scott Cunningham taught us, “Magic is the art of changing consciousness at will.” But Greene’s consciousness remains stubbornly, catastrophically unchanged. She’s glimpsed the truth—that her party is a clown car full of incompetent assholes, that Mike LimpWeeWee can’t lead his way out of a wet paper bag, that the systems she’s supposed to be fixing are broken beyond recognition.

Yet she still trusts Dookie Trump “fully.” Still defends his every move. Still can’t connect the simple fucking dots that maybe—just maybe—the guy who built his entire career on grift and bullshit isn’t the savior she thinks he is.

Her closing statement to Maher encapsulates everything wrong with modern Republican politics: “I’ve got a great relationship with the president. I’ve always supported him and gave him my support for free.”

Free. She gave her support for free. Like that’s something to be proud of, like loyalty without critical thinking is a virtue rather than the mark of a doormat, like being someone’s unpaid cheerleader while they burn down everything you claim to care about is somehow noble.

The tragedy—and yes, it’s a fucking tragedy, even for someone as thoroughly unlikeable as Greene—is that she almost had a moment of clarity. She almost tasted the truth. She bit into the rotten apple of Republican governance and for one brief, shining moment, she understood it was poisonous.

But then she swallowed it anyway. Smiled. Asked for seconds. Because that’s what bootlickers do, even when the boot is stomping on their own goddamn face.

The Final Reckoning

We’re living through a political moment so absurd, so fundamentally fucked, that satire has become impossible. When your party’s most unhinged member starts making sense, even accidentally, even while still defending the indefensible—that’s not progress. That’s a symptom of how thoroughly the disease has spread.

Marjorie Taylor Greene on Bill Maher was like watching someone realize their house is on fire while insisting the arsonist is actually a firefighter. The smoke is in her lungs, the heat is on her skin, the flames are visible to everyone with functioning eyeballs. But she maintains—with the conviction of a true believer, with the certainty of someone who has invested too much to back out now—that everything is fine.

It’s not fine. Nothing is fine. And until politicians like Greene can look in the mirror and see what we all see—a movement built on lies, sustained by grift, and leading nowhere good—we’re all just passengers on this runaway shitshow express, watching the tracks ahead disappear into flames while the conductor insists we’re heading toward paradise.

The question isn’t whether MTG will eventually turn on Trump the Turd completely. The question is whether she’ll do it before or after the whole rotten edifice collapses under its own weight. My money’s on after. Way, way after. Probably while standing in the rubble, still insisting that the explosion was actually a controlled demolition, part of some grand plan only she and Donny ShitChompChute truly understand.

That’s the real grind, the thing that keeps rational people awake at night: Not that people like Greene exist—there have always been political opportunists, conspiracy theorists, and power-hungry dimwits. It’s that millions of Americans look at this walking contradiction, this monument to cognitive dissonance, this woman who can’t decide if she’s a revolutionary or a loyalist, and think, “Yes. That’s my representative. That’s who speaks for me.”

And that, my friends, is a taste more bitter than any curse word could capture.