Epstein's Ground Game

You know, when I first began drawing this comic I never dreamed I'd someday wonder if the sitting president and his pedophile pal may have been burying troublesome teens on their respective golf courses because the young ladies had the temerity to fight back against being raped, or worse. But here we are!

We often use the word "hate" when we mean dislike or disgust. Hate should be reserved for the sort of person or circumstance where only harsh, physical reaction, even war, could provide any useful surcease.

I fucking HATE Trump.

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This particular cartoon would probably have benefited from a more realistic portrayal of the Orange Anus as this caricature adds a smidgen of humor, albeit small, that this grim subject matter did not need. But here we are.

Now, Finland, where's my Nobel for Mixed Message?

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Do I think Trump is capable of being part of a bizarre ritual or was engaged in the roughest kind of sex that could leave a young girl dead afterwards? Oh, certainly. He clearly has no sympathy for anything but his wallet and his stubby little putz so what's some stray bit of underage strange to him? Just another Ivanka clone to function as a feisty little fleshlight to be used and tossed in the garbage.... or so I'm I'm guessing.

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But do I think Trump actually committed murder? Well, some people say so. I'll leave it at that.

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On a lighter note:

Just prior to Valentine's Day I decided it was time to cut back on the amount of sugar in my diet, because Blorbo, the Destroyer of Otherwise Good Pants, from the planet Triglyceride had laid siege upon my dessert kingdom and was laying waste to my, uh, waist.

Anyway, the day after romancing the buhjeezus outta Ms. Magoomba I'm at Kroger, minding my own business, when I wandered into the seasonal aisle just as a clerk was erecting a big sign which read:

"All Valentine's Day candy 90% off!"

There is no acceptable end to this story.

If I reported that I'd held to my principles and passed quickly into the frozen meatball aisle, with my nose held high, I would be accused of virtue signaling. And who needs that?

If instead I had caved, and even Jimmy the Greek Snyder would have crawled out from the grave to take those odds, and purchased the entire bin of Dove chocolates and a metric shit-ton of conversation hearts there are those who might begin arriving at my gates to hangrily demand their share of the booty, drawn helplessly by its overpowering ambrosial bouquet. They would have found me lying upon my precious pile like a great serpent upon its tranche of gold, hissing and spitting fire, daring the luckless and the desperate to make their first and final move.

All that sweet, delicious chocolate would be mine, mine, MINE I tell you!

(Note from Ms. Magoomba: Lefty couldn't take it any longer. He's in the bathroom snorting Hershey's cocoa off the toilet seat. Thank you for your attention to this matter.)

- Lefty