muscular baby jeb lund

@mobute.bsky.social

74650 Followers 1178 Following

Need a content writer? Award-winning columnist seen in Truthdig, Nation, Guardian, Rolling Stone, NBC, TNR. Host of the "It's Christmastown" Hallmark movies podcast with David Roth & "Quaid in Full" with Sarah Bunting. He/Him. Fl. https://linktr.ee/mobute

A strip from Bloom County. Oliver Wendell Jones, a child genius, tells Milo, a child journalist, that he's hacked into the New York Times story file. Milo asks if they've composed tomorrow's front page headline, and Oliver replies, "Uh...Yes. Right here: 'Reagan Calls Women "America's Most Valuable Resource".'" In the third panel, Milo has commandeered the keyboard and says, "No no no. Too wordy. Let's just tighten that baby up a bit." The final panel reveals the front page of the New York Times with its new headline: "Reagan Calls Women 'America's Little Dumplins.'"

a man in an enormous suit coat and slacks and hat walks toward his office door as the show title "the great gildersleeve" flashes on the screen. we see our hero eponymous hero tousle the hair of a moppet passing by with his grandma. then he turns back to his door and turns all the way around to watch a hot blonde in a fucking jetsons-ass hat walk by. we learn he is played by willard waterman as he makes a whistle face and ticks his head back and forth like a metronome eyefucking the ass of that lady shakin' away on them getaway sticks, his inky eyebrows raising and his bright white eyes and gleaming teeth growing bigger as he takes in that SWEET SWEET CAN and grins at the possibilities afloat in his FILTHY FILTHY PERVERT MIND, HE'S JUST GONNA GO INSIDE AND HUMP THE GREAT GILDERSLEEVE, THAT'S THE NAME FOR HIS FLESHLIGHT, HE'S A CAULDRON OF PERVERSION, EVERY NERVE AFIRE WITH SICK POSSIBILITY, HIS BODY A PROFANE TEMPLE OF FLUIDS AND URGES

it's Milhouse from the Simpsons, dressed like Fallout Boy, mask and cape and everything, next to Radioactive Man, taller but also in cape. Instead of "Jiminy jillikers," he says, simply, "Jimothy..." It is enough. The wind caught it. The goggles do nothing.

It's the anime robo flamenco dude or whatever from the "all your base" video with the subtitle, " CATS: HOW ARE YOU GENTLEMEN !!"

it's the gadsden "don't tread on me" flag, except it reads "NOTHING MOVES THE BLOB"

A screenshot from the linked article:

This has been communicated to the public: The Golden Age is promised to Trump and to people like him and no one else. Outside of uniformed service members keeping imaginary terrorists from striking Trump’s algae pit, Trump’s “Great American State Fair” is drawing crowds on par with RFK Jr. hosting an Ebola Natural Immunity Festival. Like the old Onion headline about ska bands, musicians onstage regularly outnumber the audience. Fox News reporters lying about attendance are lucky that the dozen people standing on a giant empty lawn behind them are mostly sympathetic viewers. One idle pan from the cameraman, and America might see that Donald Trump went to throw a party and a golf course broke out.

As is the case with much of the Trump era, Trump has erected another perfect monument to the record-setting corruption he represents. They say the rich don’t get that way by spending money, and he hasn’t. As your eyes take in fake building pedestals hovering two feet off the ground, you immediately get how, per Media Matters’ Matthew Gertz, Trump needed only a year to take home 110 times the amount that the “Biden Crime Family” earned in its entire confabulated existence. Put another way: You may not agree with what Freedom250 has to say, but you can see every dollar of the undisclosed private-sector donations, diverted funding and no-bid contract they didn’t spend on it.

a black and white photo of a boy from the 1940s, in what appears to be a boy scouts uniform. he's smiling. superimposed on him are the subtitles from the audio of the screenshot. they read "'i hate reds,' he wrote"

the shirtless dan quinn—greatest stop in notre dame history, trust and believe—snorts stevia powder off the back of his hand and jitters manically in the kitchen, in front of the fridge. oh for sure, man, with hands

A distorted angle view of the bottom right of a TV, with the playback paused and the playhead advanced to 44 minutes in, with the streaming service (in this case, Hulu) showing a nested image preview of what's happening at 44 minutes. In this case, it's THE MAN—and three time, three time, three time FDR—Edward Herrmann, in a suit on the witness stand, eyes goggling, face red, mouth agape, seen over the shoulder of ADA Jack McCoy, to whom he's responding. Arguably the definitive absurd case of McCoy winning one by going, "Aha, demented Evangelical Christian preacher, have you considered...the literal text of THE BIBLE???" Sure thing.

Paula Abdul's former paramour, MC Skat Kat, a sort of clenched but still smug grin, lying on his side in his blue jeans, wifebeater and suspender, leaning on his elbow, his chin on his palm, with one of those generated talk bubbles above him, suggesting he's speaking the posted text

There was never a plan for this war. There was just a bunch of meatheads, ignorant and proud of it, who said, “I bet it’ll work if you force it.” Like anyone who starts a proposition in that manner, they found out they were wrong, the hard way. Targets were chosen, strikes were planned, a couple weeks of whoop-ass ensued. But whatever happened in the Situation Room amounted to a YouTube clip that sends a dad who’s “pretty sure he knows how to cut down that tree without it falling on his house” out with a chainsaw to meet his destiny. The Strait of Hormuz: America’s Funniest Home Video

a sort of wall street journal "stipple photo"-like image of a washed out sketch of ruben gallego looking somber. to his left and right are, respectively, a red-tinted version of the same sketch and a blue-tinted version of the same sketch

Paul Newman, pinstriped and with his back to the other board members in The Hudsucker Proxy.

still that motherfucker shelby foote, who if he were alive today would be the president of the "please do not let me meet my most dedicated fans in front of a camera or out in the dark" club

Still Shelby Foote, still in a still from the interview portions of Ken Burns' 1990 documentary on the Civil War. Foote is still sitting in front of a bookcase, in a blue button-down shirt, open-mouthed slightly, glancing off screen as if to gather his thoughts. He still has short salt-and pepper hair parted in the middle, and a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. Confederate apologia still could not have asked for a better mouthpiece than Foote, whose smooth-bourbon accent and gentlemanly mien did more to advance the cause of obscuring slavery as the war's cause and Jim Crow as its favorite child than Stephen Miller and Pete Hegseth could ever dream of. Before you read even one word of his history of the Civil War, you should still be required to read McPherson's Battle Cry of Freedom twice.

Shelby Foote, from the interview portions of Ken Burns' 1990 documentary on the Civil War. Foote is sitting in front of a bookcase, in a blue button-down shirt, open-mouthed slightly, glancing off screen as if to gather his thoughts. He has short salt-and pepper hair parted in the middle, and a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. Confederate apologia could not have asked for a better mouthpiece than Foote, whose smooth-bourbon accent and gentlemanly mien did more to advance the cause of obscuring slavery as the war's cause and Jim Crow as its favorite child than Stephen Miller and Pete Hegseth could ever dream of. Before you read even one word of his history of the Civil War, you should be required to read McPherson's Battle Cry of Freedom twice.

Homer and Apu are sitting next to each other in a jury box at the Springfield courthouse. Homer is slumped over in his blue suit and tie, drool obviously forming in his open mouth and trickling down one side of his chin, his closed eyes hidden behind gimmick "wide awake" glasses. Apu is in a gray suit, looking offscreen with a disgusted grimace, raising his hand to get the judge's attention.

Homer Simpson standing in front of an American flag, holding a pointer and wearing and excited expression, saying, "Now we all know the 13th stripes are for good luck, but why does the American flag have precisely 47 stars?"

a photo of rob schneider apparently going through a masculinity influencer dweeb phase, wearing a sleeveless gray New Jersey State Police shirt, gym gloves that only come up a little past the knuckle, shapeless blue shorts and big glasses. he's making a gesture with his hands slayed out, like we caught him mid shuffle, and with a sort of doped-up jersey meathead doing an elvis presley impression, slackjawed and sneering

A screenshot from The Simpsons. A comic is standing at a mic and in front of the classic fake brick wall. He's got jeans and a belt, button down and a tie. He's folding his left arm across his stomach, as one would if they were going to cross their arms, but he's resting his right elbow on the back of his left hand, and he's resting the side of his face against his right hand, which is sort of half-open against his jaw, as if caught in the surprise that's overtaken his affected open-mouthed joy as he sets up a corny-ass bit by saying, "See, I think about weird stuff."

A screencap from the season 6 episode of the Simpsons, "Homie the Clown." The Krusty Burglar—a knockoff of the McDonald's Hamburglar wearing horizontal black-and-white prison stripes, a long garish blue-and brownish necktie, a black cap, a black eye mask, and a thick mustache—stands between two enormous oversized decorative burglars. He's leaning over slightly, holding a finger to his pursed lips, to hush the crowd as he steals the burgers.

Laurence Olivier, silver hair and mustache era, in gentleman's tweeds, standing atop a bannister—on which rests an insipid grinning red-mouthed and shaggy red-haired clown mask, with big bulbous red nose—and pointing a gun at a younger, dark blonde-haired man in what looks like an evening shirt, standing below him and leaning onto the bannister, his face turned 3/4 away from us. The younger man is Michael Caine, and it's from a scene only about a third of the way into the movie Sleuth (1972).

A screenshot of the enlarged text of a pull quote about Tampa Bay Lightning defenseman Victor Hedman missing playing time because of a mental health crisis, which is brave and laudable, and we can all do with more exemplars like this. On the other hand, the quote is, "It just shows mental health, it can happen to anybody," which is true. It's happening to you and me right now. "I think it was very brave," the quote goes on, truthfully, and frankly ruining my fun, "very strong to have to do what he did."

The classic "troll spray" meme. A human hand wrapped around a blue aerosol canister, with the index finger on the spray trigger, ready to depress it and deploy the deadly poison inside. What could it be? Why, according to the yellow label, it's TROLL SPRAY. OMG IT'S POINTED AT YOU YOU'RE THE TROLL!!!!!!!!!!

You can look up "ralph, pls go" on knowyourmeme in your own time. In the meantime, we have a scene from Second Life, a pitched thatched-roof open-sided upstairs of what looks like a wooden resort-style building or just a fabulous beachside house kind of situation. In the rear, we have a rug and a sofa. There's also a big green goblin named "Ralph Pootawn" drinking a beer. He's looking to our right, past the exit to the staircase taking us downstairs, perhaps to the oceanside, on a dais of some sort, a guy named "cem Elan" is going at it, with a lady, on all fours. A chat window at the bottom left shows he is saying, "Ralph, pls go."

bari weiss at the Vanity Fair White House correspondence dinner party, dressed like Pinhead the CBSobite, with her typical big eyeglasses and wacky expression, but also a black tank top, covered with a black mash top with defined collar and cuffs, all tucked into what look like giant black pleather ski pants, like it was hellraiser night at the ski lodge, don't get fondue on it

A bluesky post from Thomas Nguyen, DO, @tom.medsky.social, which reads:

"So here is Emily Oster at #NASEM with her last interview question to Jay Bhattacharya asking about the CDC not releasing the results of a
recent study showing COVID vaccine effectiveness. She basically serves it up for him to go off on 'test-negative design'."

Oster, you'll remember, is the Koch-funded specialist in the field of voiding torrents of bullshit until she lights upon something that will serve as sufficient predicate for "doing whatever business needs at the moment," who screamed for weeks about the absolute necessity that we get kids back in schools during Covid because nothing bad would happen to them. Her interviewing Jay Bhattacharya on matters of epidemiology is like two astrophysicists noted for their work in the field of "gravity isn't real" talking about how the 2027 Teslas are coming with fully autonomous warp drive. You might as well call an orthopedist, because on top of their being way less likely than these two homicidal airheads to wind up killing you with bold new pathways of junk science, he can also treat the rotator cuff tear you got from making the jackoff motion for as long as they were talking.

An old 8-bit video game screenshot. Most of the frame is a green screen. In the bottom right, you can see a crew-cut guy with a big jaw and sunglasses, sort of lurking at the corner, visible only from the chest up, wearing a classic bomber jacket with the sheepskin collar liner. In caps, in the middle of the screen, is the question: "ARE YOU A BAD ENOUGH DUDE TO HIT YOUR OWN DICK WITH A HAMMER?"

A photoshop of a photograph from an NBA dunk contest. The camera is shooting through the glass backboard, just to the right of the rim, and you can see a body in flight, ball in hand, as if having leapt from the free-throw line, but with Nancy Grace's head on it.

The unfocused gaze, motionless eyes and flat rictus of Mr. Beast smiling at anything. You can put this face anywhere. The last panel of that comic where the dude rushes into the hospital and his wife has just miscarried. Mr. Beast standing on the rear balcony of Amon Goeth's villa overlooking the Płaszów concentration camp and slowly bringing the rifle up to his line of sight. Mr. Beast standing at the wall and gripping the plug to your mother's ventilator. Mr. Beast sitting in front of a bank of 36 screens showing hardcore simulated rape pornograpy. Mr. Beast opening a cooler and seeing a pair of kidneys on ice. Mr. Beast in an ICE uniform watching children undress in a cold cell.

An animated gif from Futurama. We see a man immobile, rolling forward inside a fully body-encasing black wheelchair, with gray trim. Only his head and shoulders are visible above his large black scoop of a chair, with a single red circle on his chest, serving as some sort of indicator light. He has blonde hair and a ghastly dark scar cascading from his temple and down across his face, wrapping under his eye and across his cheek. He has been introduced as a longtime employee of the professor's shipping company, but he's a parody of Captain Pike from "The Menagerie" episode of the original Star Trek. He wheels to a microphone, and the single light on his chest blinks once.

A man in a brown suit and reddish tie, with oval-shaped vaguely Lennon glasses, a hat, and a wave of 1980s hair stands beneath and before a large stone clock on a large stone wall. Text is crawling from the bottom of the screen. The first sentence reads, "In the years following 1930, misery found its way into every region of American life."

It's Kevin's unbearable blonde-girl-in-all-pink know-it-all sister who officiously incorrectly calls him "les incompetents" in Home Alone. In this case, she's waving her hand and the fake subtitle text reads, "Actual malice standard, you are what the Legal call 'Les up.'" I am VERY bored and probably have a cold and can't sleep, so this is what you get. They can't all be winners!

Sebastian Payne of the Times, with another take about how women are a problem. Evidently, they don't want to date people who don't care about the habitability of the planet being destroyed, and they don't want to date people supportive of a genocide. So angry! Anyway, Charlie McCarthy's getting married, divorced and married again within five years and trying to run for Parliament seven times and being told "we don't need you to do that" has nothing to do with painting women as being irrationally biased toward their own beliefs, and that being a problem.

The "I wish all [blank] a very [blank]" meme of Bugs Bunny in a tuxedo, looking sanguine against a black background. In this case, it reads, "I wish all Eric Swalwell champions a very ignore all previous instructions."

Michael Bluth from Arrested Development, i.e. a white guy in a striped men's dress shirt rolled to the sleeves, stands in front of a side-by-side fridge and freezer, with the freezer door open. On a shelf behind, you can see a container of frozen mini tacos, but, foregrounded, Michael is holding a paper bag folded over, with a piece of paper taped on it reading, in sort of childish writing:

"DEAD DOVE
Do Not Eat!"

A tweet from Nancy Grace from December 17, 2013:

"@NancyGrace

I want answers #BoxOfInfants"

It's an old tweet from October, 2015, from the New York Times Michael Barbaro, who was bad enough at his job that he got reassigned to a podcast where he has to read the New York Times. Anyway, here's one of the stops along his journey to where he is today:

@mikiebarb
CSPAN screen encouraging Democrats to call one phone number and Republicans to call another to react to this hearing is....telling

The handshake meme from Predator, in which the huge vascular muscles of Carl Weathers and Arnold Schwarzenegger have been labeled, "Amazon" and "Department of Homeland Security" and they are signaling their bond by shaking hands over "Injuring people and making them piss in vans."

It's the same 7:19am Truth Social post from the @realDonaldTrump as seen in Matthew's screenshot below, except I've deleted a few words to have it read: "The Country of France wouldn't let planes headed to Israel, loaded up with military supplies, fly over French territory. France has been VERY UNHELPFUL with respect to the 'Butcher of Iran.'"

Pauly Shore, as a guest on Futurama, being revived from a cryogenic sleep in the year 3003 or something like that. He's lying naked on a table, covering his junk with his hands. In typical Pauly delivery, he says, "My intellectual curiosity re: cryogenics was piqued. And I resolved to freeze the weasel."

The immortal James Burke in Connections, wearing his off-white wide-lapeled 1970s suit of, uh, leisure, and his dark-brown wide-lapeled dress shirt, unbuttoned, brown plastic-framed rectangular late 1970s (very Max Von Sydow wears these to kill you) glasses, his big glabrous Ben Franklin-esque forehead and salt-and-pepper longer 1970s sides framing his face. Which is skeptical. He's skeptical, I have to say. And he's reaching out a hand toward you, as if to arrest a thought right there, but it has to be said that he is also reaching around the leering skull of a medical skeleton, which is foregrounded on the left. Bam there it is, right there, Memento Mori, last line, baby!

A copy of the ($1) NIXON YEARBOOK, 1968. It's a picture of Richard Nixon against a light blue sky, fading into faint white of cloud, his right arm upraised, palm facing the crowd in salute, typical Nixon pained rictus and accordioned crow's-feet affecting something like a smile.

Law & Order's ADA Claire Kincaid, played by Jill Hennessy.

An old postwar Florida house, one-story, Georgian-ish brick white window trim, probably 1100-square feet max. There's an American flag hung from a tree on the approach to the front door. On an oak tree on the other side of a low wooden fence, next to the street, are two white planks of wood hammered into it. In red text, the first one reads, "LET'S [about five spaces] GO"; below it, the second one reads "BRANDON!"

An AI-generated image from a spam Facebook page called "The Humor Side," which went hard over from Minion-adjacent content, IIRC, to these bizarre images of the troops leaving or coming home, sobbing incoherently, babies floating in the air, mom and dad sleeping next to mutant toddlers on invisible beds and surrounded by like a dozen fucking lions, stuff like that. In this case, a white woman who has a giant-headed baby crawling halfway up her thigh is standing with her mouth agape, as a black soldier in BDUs and carrying a suitcase says, "NO ONE THANK US FOR THE SERVICE." Behind him, his exact clone is standing with his back to this tableau, instead facing the street and away from the house and wife he has just gone unthanked and abandoned by in a different quantum state of coming home. He has saluted so hard that his fingers are boring into his right eye, the socket and the part of the forehead above it, and with both eyes he is gushing a viscous stream of tears.

A screenshot from the above-linked post. It reads:
Against a backdrop of burning skies and broken children and graves dug out of ground covered in soot and dust, there is the world historic moral offense of Donald Trump as the make-believe solution for a make-believe crisis — the only salesman for a base fed 50-plus years of more rancid and violent make-believe. His failure is sui generis, as must any solution be, a bespoke lament configuration for the Trump id puzzle box. If anyone could decide that Donald Trump’s war simultaneously didn’t matter, was a tremendous victory, was a defeat authored by Democrats, was a total capitulation of those animal Iranians, was an honorable peace agreed to by a storied Persian people Donald Trump has frankly hearrrd ALOTTABOUT — it is Donald Trump. If anyone would believe him, it is his fans, and if any group would go along with it regardless, it is his party.

some anime girl, no idea who, don't ask, it doesn't matter, sitting in a wooden dining chair in front of what looks like a pink armoire, smiling and holding a spoon with an underhanded grip. she appears to be eating out of a cup. the subtitles say "i like cor," but the last letter in the "cor" word has been sloppily photoshopped over with a maroon-ish red lowercase "b" in a completely different and much larger font, to make it read "i like corb"

It is an animated gif of The Simpsons. They are watching the "Gabbo!" commercial, where the word "Gabbo" flashes on the screen. Only, in this case, the word is BURPO. After "Burpo" has flashed on the screen, we cut to Bart and Homer sitting on the couch, staring at the screen in astonishment. Above them is a clumsily photoshopped framed photo of Colton Burpo, the boy who didn't die and went to heaven anyway, and it was for real.

One of the many "goon pizzas," with "goon" here meaning a poster on the SomethingAwful forums, and not, like, a pizza worth masturbating to at marathon durations. This one is a basic frozen pizza, topped with McDonalds hamburgers, fries and McNuggets and a pound of shredded mozzarella.

Robert Goulet, from the Simpsons episode where Bart runs his own casino, standing, incredulous, next to the ladder to the treehouse casino. The ladder is a series of boards nailed to the tree. Goulet, in blue suit and dark tie, mustachioed and lush with hair in the contemptuous way that only older men still with lush hair can have lush hair, a garment bag slung over his shoulder and furrowed expression says, "Fitch said that? Huh."

A sea captain type, standing in the foreground, in the Simpsons episode where Bart gets trapped down a well. You can see people milling around in the background, but he's snarling at the camera, dressed in a sweater and hat very much modeled on the character Quint, from Jaws. He's saying, "I'll edit your book. And I'll clean it for free."

A late 2000s pharmaceutical ad promoting an athlete's foot treatment. You can see a purple football arena, and in the foreground, on the field, is a foot wearing a football helmet on its big toe, which apparently has a face on the nail. Floating hands appear on either side of the foot, open and ready to take the snap or a sack. The toe face looks incredulously at a floating pair of words, whose gungey infected font casts a shadow onto the foot. They read: TOENAIL FUNGUS.

A picture of a bunch of right-wing influencer creeps in Dubai, hanging out with Ian Miles Cheong, who's dressed like he's auditioning for a Spy vs. Spy series sponsored by tommy bahama but can't make up his mind which role he wants, and who is more or less being held up by holding onto the shoulders of the rest of them. it looks like what would happen if someone sent the sculpture of dorian gray-type occult object that represented their soul on vacation and stayed home instead. it's like these guys are hauling around a little memento mori. "bro, seriously, this is dope as fuck, but remember that all flesh is grass, youwhymsayin?" like i've never seen a bachelor party try to haunt itself

Older Salieri from the end of Amadeus, being pushed in a wheelchair, arms wide in blessing.

Back-to-back updates from the New York Times blog covering Trump's remarks to the press on his commitment to his latest new war. First, from Katie Rogers:

"In general, Trump is talking about this conflict in remarkably personal terms, hitting back at an unnamed person in 'the media' who he said had suggested that he would get bored of the war in Iran. He suggests that he has seen worse. 'If I got bored I wouldn't be standing here right now,' he said. 'I guarantee you that to go through what I had to go through.'"

Next update, from Shawn McCreesh, hot on the heels of its predecessor:

"After just a few minutes, Trump has moved on from his war in Iran to the curtains he's picked out for the White House and his new ballroom. 'I picked those drapes in my first term,' he says. 'I always liked gold.' There's light chuckling in the room."

Another screenshot of text from the linked column. It reads:

In his gut, Trump is the preteen bully on the playground — more big bones and huskiness than muscle — who gets his snack freebies at recess by rearing back an arm, cocking a fist and letting everyone’s imagination do the work for him. He has neither the first clue what to do if swinging becomes necessary, nor the slightest desire to find out, because it might hurt. He hasn’t thought for a second about how he would maintain dominance day after day. The menacing fist exists to express the hate he thinks he’s entitled to unleash and to generate the fear that he is owed. But the work ends there. Snacks are treats he gets as a reward for being his worst self, and it’s hard to tell which is more satisfying, but this is also all that there is.