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The Friday Politics Thread Lives In Its Own Filth

Good morning everyone, and Happy Friday!

No matter how bad my life gets, I just remind myself that I could be Julian Assange.

There might be some universe with an inverted version of this guy, existing in a solitary cave of his own making in order to expose the horrible truths of, say, the GOP. In this alternate universe, he is a champion of human rights, instead of a dirtbag rapist, maybe.

Sadly, here in the dumbest timeline, Assange is merely an international embarrassment. An information shadow broker hidden in mystery, until you go into his hideout and find out it’s actually his mom’s basement and he’s just a creep in his underwear eating pizza and smelling like filled cat litterboxes.

And even in the world of Bizarro Assange…let’s call him Buttange, he is sort of irrelevent as a whistleblower, as the Trump administration can’t stop blowing it’s own whistles on it’s own activity all day. And instead of whistles, they’re foghorns.

And really instead of foghorns they’re loud farts. I don’t know where I’m going with all this, but the important part is it’s ending with a loud fart for some reason.