We Checked The Rules On Celebrating Deaths. Turns Out Trump Wrote Them In March.

Lindsey Graham's Heart Did What His Spine Never Could: It Stopped Putting Up With Him.

That's not affection, folks. That's a tradesman marking out his next job. ~ Gman

Righto, settle in, you mob. The comments are chockers with MAGA hall monitors telling us we’ve been “a bit harsh” about Lindsey Graham carking it. That we should show compassion. Decency. Respect for the fucking dead and such.

Sure thing, sunshine. Pull up a milk crate. Let’s talk about respect for the dead.

Attached is a post from the President of the United States, the bloke whose literal fucking job is representing ALL Americans, celebrating the death of Robert Mueller. “Good, I’m glad he’s dead.” Then signed it in all caps like a hostage note written in crayon by a bloke who eats them. This isn’t some anonymous egg account or a shitposter typing one-handed in his mum’s basement between Mountain Dews. It’s the President of the United Fucking States. The most powerful man on Earth took time out of his taxpayer-funded golf schedule to piss on a war hero’s grave, and you lot gave it 37,100 likes and a chef’s kiss.

Robert Mueller: decorated Marine, Purple Heart, Bronze Star, twelve years running the FBI under both parties, a man who did his bloody job when Congress asked him to.

Lindsey Graham: a man who called Trump a “race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot” in 2015, then spent the next decade wedged so far up the arse of a six-time-bankrupted steak salesman, fake-university fraudster, children’s-cancer-charity thieving, tradie-stiffing, porn-star-raw-dogging (while the missus was home with the newborn, no less), bone-spur draft-dodging, nuclear-secrets-in-the-shitter-stashing, property-valuation-fiddling, convicted felon, adjudicated rapist and insurrectionist that proctologists used him as a training video. The bloke backflipped so many times Cirque du Soleil sent him a fucking contract. His entire legacy is knowing EXACTLY what Trump was, saying it out loud, on camera, and then polishing the throne anyway because the alternative was copping a mean nickname. A quarter century in the Senate and the man folded faster than a Kmart deck chair.

One of those men served his country. The other one served himself, medium rare, on a silver platter, to a bloke who wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire in the Rose Garden.

And here’s the bit of Trump’s post that really cooks my fucking noggin. “He can no longer hurt innocent people.” HURT people. Mueller’s great crime was writing a report. A REPORT. You want to talk about hurting people? Righto, champ. Let’s crack open Lindsey’s ledger, because the man kept receipts and they’re all written in other people’s blood.

He voted for the Big Beautiful Bill, and as Budget Committee chairman he didn’t just vote for the thing, he midwifed the bastard, cooking the books with an accounting gimmick so brazen it would make an Enron executive spit out his cornflakes. That bill carved roughly a TRILLION dollars out of Medicaid. The CBO reckons about 12 million Americans lose their health cover. Twelve. Million. That’s half of Australia told to piss off and die quietly. Rural hospitals are already shutting their doors, including in South Carolina, the state that kept sending this drongo back to Washington for 25 years. His own voters. Dying in ambulances doing two-hour runs to the next town over. Compassion, eh? Fucking heartwarming stuff.

Before that, he slapped his actual name on Graham-Cassidy, a bill whose entire purpose was ripping healthcare off tens of millions of people. When your legacy legislation is a tombstone with your surname on it, that’s not bad luck, cobber, that’s a fucking choice.

He voted to torch the foreign aid budget, including programs like PEPFAR that he personally spent twenty years championing. Researchers estimate those cuts will kill millions, most of them kids. He KNEW. He’d given the bloody speeches. He voted for it anyway because Daddy asked nicely and there was a Fox News hit at six.

He rammed through the judges that torched Roe, then had a crack at a national abortion ban for good measure, because apparently one wasn’t enough of a shit sandwich. And when the ACA subsidies expired and premiums went through the roof, ol’ Lindsey sat on his hands and watched working families choose between insulin and rent like it was pay-per-view.

Mueller never took a single person’s healthcare. Lindsey took it wholesale, by the fucking millions, with a smile and a “bless your heart.”

So spare us the pearl-clutching, you absolute weapons of brain cell destruction. You don’t get to demand candlelight vigils and hushed fucking tones for Lindsey while Dear Leader tap-dances on Mueller’s coffin in golf spikes from the Oval Office. Your bloke wrote the rules. We’re just playing by them, and frankly we’re being nicer about it than he is, which is a bloody low bar to trip over.

Compassion is earned while you’re alive, not handed out at the door like a funeral program. Lindsey spent his last years feeding every principle he ever had into the woodchipper for a man who forgot his name mid-eulogy. We’re not obligated to pretend he was a statesman just because his heart finally read the room and clocked off early.

Harsh? Mate. We’re a satire page in the Blue Mountains run by one bloke, two sheilas and a Shih Tzu Terrier. He was a United States Senator for a quarter of a fucking century. The fact that my dog has shown more spine, more loyalty AND better judgement is not our fault. And unlike Lindsey, Mitzy’s never rolled over for anyone who didn’t have treats.

IFLA ~ Gman

P.S. We’ve managed to get our hands on the last known photo of Lindsey out on the course with the boss. Have a squiz at the tall quiet fella on the left. Turns out the Grim Jeffery doesn’t need a tee time at Bedminster. He’s a member. Handicap of zero, never misses. And Lindsey, bless him, spent so many years standing loyally beside Donald that when cholesterol finally decided to do the Good Lord’s work, it simply grabbed the nearest bloke in a polo shirt. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong arteries.

THE AUSSIE TO YANKIE WORD UNCLUSTER-FUCKERER

Righto, Yanks, gather round. We’ve had a few of you writing in confused, and fair enough. Australian and American are technically the same language in the way a dingo and a golden retriever are technically the same animal: common ancestor, wildly different survival instincts, and only one of them will sit when told.

So before you go sharing this post and getting cornered by a confused relative at a barbecue (that’s a “cookout,” and we’ll die on the hill that ours is better), here’s your official decoder ring. Entries 264 through 268 of a book absolutely nobody asked for, plus the greatest hits you’ll need for this particular piece.

Clip it, save it, laminate it. There will be a test.

Righto: “Alright,” but with a warning label. Whatever follows is about to be honest.

Chockers: Completely full. Your comment section, with hall monitors.

Carked it: Died. What Holdens, tariff policies, and Senate careers all eventually do.

Pull up a milk crate: Sit down, get comfy, there are no proper chairs and this will take a while.

Bloke: A man. Any man. Even that one.

Drongo: An idiot. Named after a 1920s racehorse that lost all 37 of its starts. The horse at least had the decency to retire.

Cobber: A mate, vintage grade. WWI digger slang. When we call you cobber, we’re reminding you of the receipts.

Squiz: A look. As in “have a squiz at the tall quiet fella on the left.”

Absolute weapons: Persons operating at full capacity in the field of being dickheads. You know who you are.

Sheila: A woman. Two of them run this page and both approved this post.

Tradie: A tradesman. The people Trump stiffed for forty years, and apparently the Reaper’s chosen profession.

Backflip: Your “flip-flop,” but scored like gymnastics. Lindsey was the Simone Biles of the discipline. Rest in whatever position polled best.

See you again tomorrow you fucking little legends! ~ Texas Mom, Maizy, Gman & Mitzy