Dave's Fiction Warehouse

T he other day I was briefly gladdened by the internet rumor that Donald J. Trump had finally shuffled off to Buffalo — or wherever a guy like that goes when his time is up. Probably not Buffalo. It was false, of course. Everything is false on the internet, without exception. But my reaction prompted a bit of soul-searching. First, I wondered: Have I ever in my lifetime been cheered by the idea of someone else’s demise? Nope. Well, Ted Bundy maybe, but I can’t think of anyone else offhand. Takes a special kind of person to convince me that their absence would make the world a better place.   Second: Would it though? Trump has already poisoned America to the extent that it seems unlikely to recover any time soon. He’s gutting every public good, destroying trust in elections and governance, putting troops on the street and enlisting tens of thousands more masked, steroidal thugs to enforce his personal whims. Whatever happens to Trump in the years to come — and I hope it’s somet...

L ike a few million others, we’ll be back on the street tomorrow. Singin’ songs and carryin’ signs. Still trying to come up with original slogans. Can’t use the ones from two weeks ago. We thought things were bad then but they’ve only gotten worse.  Now Trump and his minions are openly defying the Supreme Court and laughing about it. They’re still getting rid of people solely on the strength of the boss’s whim. Which, when you think about it, is pretty much the last stop on the train to Treblinka. I wonder if these nationwide protests are too little, too late. But this is no time to sit at home. Here in Missoula, the April 5 event didn’t feel like a protest so much as a party or a wake:  A gathering of a few thousand like-minded people aggrieved, bothered and bewildered by what appears to be the rapid disassembly of America.  It was kind of uplifting to see that our months-long sense of anger and dread was widely shared. But the protests didn’t generate enough headlines a...

I used to live near the Canadian border. The northern boundary of the folks’ ranch was a stone’s throw from the 49th parallel. There was a switchback road you could drive up to see the border itself – a 20-foot swath in the timber that stretched out to the horizon (that’s my son and brother-in-law in the photo). Even back in the ’70s I remember thinking it was pretty incredible to have such a long, totally undefended border between two sovereign nations. Not even a fence, then. Sometimes, hiking or hunting, we’d stroll across the border just to say we had. Other days we’d drive through the border station at Roosville to pick apples or buy Labatt’s. Each way, the guards would make small talk and wave us through. Then 9/11 happened. Then, 15 years later, so did Trump. Then Covid. And now, an older, meaner and more disordered Trump, who no longer seems to be kidding when he raves about annexing our more civilized neighbor to the north. Plus the tariffs. Don’t get me started about the stup...

K ind of feels like we should be boycotting everything these days. But it’s daunting when you look at the lengthening list of Stuff to Avoid: Anything controlled by Jeff Bezos : Amazon, the Washington Post, Blue Origin, Whole Foods, Audible, Zappos. Anything controlled by Mark Zuckerberg : Meta, Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, Threads. Anything controlled by Leon Musk : Tesla, Starlink, X, SpaceX, PayPal, OpenAI, the United States of America. That’s just the beginning. All three men control dozens of other companies I’m too lazy to list. Then you have all these other conglomerates that happily sucked up to Trump on the whole DEI question: Target, Google, Wal-Mart and McDonald’s – to name but a few.  You see the problem: Fighting back is no longer as easy as shunning Hobby Lobby or Mike Lindell’s shitty pillows. This might involve some hardship. It’s our own fault, really. We’ve been taking low-cost convenience for granted; now the oligarchs have grown so fat they can take us for gra...

Regrets, she has a few I t’s tempting to chortle when a Trump voter reaps the whirlwind. But Ryleigh Cooper, 24, was just a kid during Trump’s first time around, so I can sympathize. According to this Washington Post story, she lost her Forest Service job earlier this month, as part of the ongoing Musk/Trump vandalism of the federal government. There goes a $40,000 annual salary. There goes health insurance. There goes 12 weeks of paid maternity leave. Oops.  Ryleigh said she voted for Trump mostly because of his glib campaign pledge to make IVF treatment free. She didn’t realize Leon Musk was on the ticket. Oops again. Trump doesn't talk about IVF now. At all. He and Musk have bigger fish to fry: parasites to purge, hotels to build in Gaza.  It gets worse: Republicans just approved a budget plan that will raise her taxes, gut Medicaid and shrink all sorts of programs meant to help folks in the middle and lower tax brackets.  If there’s an upside, maybe the IVF thing see...

I applaud the Philadelphia Eagles for apparently declining to sit with Trump at the White House. Hey, it kind of stinks in there! Also, anything that gets Megyn Kelly’s panties in a wad should bring joy to all our hearts. Kelly, noted MAGA apologist and all-around mean girl, has big feelings about the rumored snub. Replying to a fan’s post expressing disgust with the team, she had this to say: “SAME. GO F YOURSELVES EAGLES… F THIS BS!” Harsh words! Which pretty much tells you that the Eagles are on the right side of history here. Like the Eagles, we should all work to erode the autocratic aspirations of the Orange One. Naturally he’ll claim he didn't want them there in the first place. But we know better, don’t we?   I really didn’t care who won the Super Bowl, and in fact didn’t watch one second of it. But if the Eagles have the stones to stick to their guns on this, I’m a fan for life. As they say in Philly: Go Birds!  (EDIT 3/11/25: To hell with the Birds. I see they...

W e all know by now that Donald Trump will do whatever Vladimir Putin tells him to do. And most of us have long suspected that his eagerness to bend over for the Russian president is not based on, say, mutual respect or the shared love of golf. So this claim from former KGB official Alnur Mussayev, reported in the Irish Star , kind of rings true. Mussayev says the KGB recruited Trump while he was visiting Moscow in 1987, on one of his many failed real estate ventures. At the time, Mussayev says, he was running a directorate charged with “recruiting businessmen from capitalist countries.” A man like Trump – clueless, vainglorious, infinitely susceptible to flattery – would have fit the bill nicely. The KGB even bestowed a code name: “Krasnov.” I’ve often pondered those pictures from Trump’s first meeting with Putin in Helsinki, in 2018. In each of them, Trump looks a little sore in the backside, while Putin wears the satisfied smirk of a man whose long game is paying off bigtime. I thou...

Trump's thumb thing is catching on A fter Mitch McConnell's remarkable series of freeze-ups and falls last year , I was kind of surprised to see him back in the headlines in 2025. But of course he was, first by falling down another flight of stairs (as I foresaw), and then, most recently, by actually voting against some of Trump's worst cabinet picks: Hegseth, Patel, Gabbard and noted brain-worm host RFK Jr.  No doubt he meant it as some kind of legacy move, kind of like when John McCain did the famous thumbs-down against the GOP effort to repeal the Affordable Care Act.  But McCain's vote actually mattered, didn't it? Whereas the feeble McConnell was left to close out his career with the emptiest of gestures and the contempt of both Democrats and the Confederacy of Cowards he enabled for so long. I guess that's fitting.  Mitch could have made an historic difference in 2020, when Trump twice faced impeachment. America would have been the better for it. Instead...

W e all knew that having a billion dollars grants you some say in government. But it’s surprising to learn that having almost a trillion dollars lets you BE the government. No elections required, no campaign ads or town halls or meeting stupid folks in shitty diners. You just buy your way in. Pay a couple hundred million to get a dunce elected president, and then patiently explain to said dunce how things should be. Occasionally let him think all the big changes are his idea. (For example, punishing South Africa for ending apartheid.) Leon Musk (W-South Africa) has us by the short ones now. He can do for Uncle Sam what he did for Twitter. He can reshape this country into a Cybertruck for the ages: vaguely sinister but inferior in every way that matters – and kind of prone to bursting into flames.  Hard to believe we’re here already. But no one can say we weren’t warned. 

Mean Mr. Mustard Y ou know, I keep telling myself to lay off thinking or writing about this firehose of Trump-world fecal matter.  Focus on the positive, I think; appreciate all the beauty and grace of this world. Smile at passers-by in a non-creepy way that makes them think I appreciate their day-to-day struggles. Maybe play more video games or learn origami.  But every day it’s some new outrage, some mindless new assault that makes nobody’s life better and everybody’s life (except for the uber-wealthy) at least a little bit worse. The only guiding principle here is magnifying power for a certain elderly golfer (thanks, Jeff Tiedrich), and shielding said golfer from any challenge to his pointless, Nero-esque presidency. Not sure how we got here. There are hundreds of theories, most of them probably partially right. I’m really not sure how we get out of here. Trump’s been in office for less than a week and it already seems like stately halls of government are tumbling down aro...

L ook: There are no undecided voters. Not this time. Let’s just be done with that nonsense right now. Those who claim indecision at this late date are disingenuous at best and self-serving liars at worst. They imagine that seeming to waver on the starkest political choice in American history makes them appear somehow thoughtful, somehow relevant.  It’s the Lady or the Tiger. You know that story, right? Except that there are no doors. You can see both right there in front of you. The tiger will eat you. The lady will not. Choices, choices. The MAGA crowd is full of rubes and opportunists who think they can ride that tiger. They imagine that they can enjoy and even guide its depredations from a safe perch above its claws and behind its jaws. Let’s go eat some immigrants! Let’s burn some books! Let’s teach those bitches who’s their daddy!  The tiger metaphor only goes so far. Trump’s only real strengths are complete self interest, total amorality and a certain measure of animal ...

  The Trump tribe abides I hate giving money to politicians. Mostly because I’m cheap, but also because I always thought the best way to support a candidate was simply to vote for them. The problem is that certain corporations and billionaires and super PACs don’t need to vote. All they have to do is unleash a tsunami of cash every couple of years and trust that the resulting tsunami of lies will convince about half of Americans to vote against their own best interests. So far that’s worked pretty well.  So, yeah, I just sent a few bucks to Kamala Harris’ campaign. That might be counterproductive; experience has taught me that any time I have money on the line, the outcome will be the exact opposite of what I dearly desire. It’s been that way with athletic events and  pop-culture betting pools  and – with few exceptions – elections at any level. Still, just showing up to vote doesn’t seem like enough. Not this year. Not with Trump and J.D. MiniTrump and all the MAGA ...

K risti Noem does look like somebody who would kill her dog – and, when the need arose, her troublesome goat. For that alone, she’s definitely running-mate material for Don Snoreleone. This won’t hurt her a bit. Today’s GOP loves a woman with the stones to kill for convenience.  Remember how much grief Mitt Romney got for hauling his dog 12 hours in a carrier strapped to the top of his car? Me too. I was kind of appalled at the time, but now Mitt seems like St. Francis of Assisi. At least he brought the dog. Kristi would have killed old Seamus the minute she realized the roof thing was going to be a hassle. Once again, folks: Today’s Republican party in microcosm.

  A pril Fool’s Day isn’t what it used to be. When every day in America is a carousel of freakish absurdity, the traditional pranks and fake news stories no longer seem amusing. Consider the above photo (in Monday’s New York Times): a venue full of rubes actually worshiping at the altar of noted theologian Donald Trump. The  story goes on to detail  how Trump is profitably mining the rich vein of ignorance among credulous Christians. He’s closing his rallies with self-serving prayers and sharing articles like “The Crucifixion of Donald Trump.” He’s hawking those $60 Bibles. Coming soon: a $99 MAGA-branded crown of thorns. Or, for you platinum-level disciples, two for $249!  I can’t say anything about Trump that has not been said. Nobody can. Nor can we wait for his DJT stock to tank, or his cheapo Bibles to dissolve in direct sunlight, or for the many guilty verdicts that will follow his many upcoming felony trials. None of it will matter to people who willingly don ...

Brother, can you spare 25 percent? I n a perfect world, Joe Biden’s plan to extract more taxes from billionaires would seem a slam dunk. Basically, it calls for a 25 percent tax on all wealth over $100 million. It would apply to the 0.01 percent of Americans who are literally the richest people on earth – people whose wealth is counted in the hundreds of billions, not millions. These folks could pay a 90 percent tax and still never feel a difference in quality of life, in the sheer numbers of yachts and residences and private jets they can afford. But here’s something else they can afford: Congress. The Republican Party. Legions of lobbyists and wealth managers and tax experts who labor tirelessly to make sure all that obscene wealth stays right where it’s at.  Biden’s plan will not be warmly received in the oligarch-controlled House. For all the GOP likes to talk about “hard-working” Americans in an election year, they seem pretty determined to make sure those who work for a livin...

I f you ran into Marge Green at a Walmart, you’d assume she was there to shoplift. If you saw her at a hair salon, you’d think she was filling in for Lauren. If she pushed into a Denny’s, you’d figure the boss told her she was out of sick days.  They say you can’t judge a book by its cover. But with Marge you really can. If you were to peek behind her mask of rudeness, crudeness and utter predictability, you’d find … yep, pretty much the same thing.   Marge is an American success story: a potato-faced ignoramus who scored a winning scratch-off ticket at the Gas N Go. In her case, the ticket took the form of running in a Georgia district where most of the voters are dumber than she is. She’s spent most of her time since galumphing around the halls of Congress in MAGA apparel. Also, hooting and hollering during State of the Union addresses.  But at least she’s delivering for her constituents, right? Wrong. The highlight of her three-year legislative record is renaming ...

N o point in watching the State of the Union address this year. I rarely do. Usually I skip it because it’s boring political theater, but tonight I’m skipping it because I can’t bear to witness (a) any potential Biden gaffes and (b) the jeering Greek chorus that is today’s GOP.  Biden may well make a slip or two. He does that from time to time. No big deal. He’s proven himself a capable president with the wisdom to surround himself with capable people. But the stakes seem unusually high tonight. The slightest stutter or mispronunciation will be cast as a nail in his campaign’s coffin, and will command more commentary than the speech itself.   His opponent, of course, mangles names and dates and syntax and basic reality every time he opens his puckered mouth. He does it so often that they aren’t considered gaffes at all, just more of the dark and demented worldview that features his bloated self at the center. Somehow, nobody minds. Far from it. I often think of the line f...

Or, you could kiss my ass. I n the process of copying all my Warehouse posts over to a more portable format, I occasionally stumble across things that I was totally wrong about. Hard to believe, I know. But here’s this one from 2011 , my first mention of Donald J. Trump on this blog. Yeah, I was right about him being a horse’s ass, but so was everyone else. No, it’s this line that bothers me: “It’s not Trump who’s dangerous. He’ll never be elected president and he knows it.” And here we are in 2024. Trump lost the popular vote bigtime but was elected anyway and now polls suggest it might happen again. After all the fraud and felonies and lies and insurrection, he’s somehow ahead. Or seems to be. Polls have been wrong before, and I pray they are this time too. But I’m beginning to see that there’s no underestimating the American public. And I’m more than a little worried.

Really, he’s fine. “One of life’s most unappreciated talents is to know when it’s time to move on to life’s next chapter.” – Sen. Mitch McConnell. T hat may be true. It may also be true that some people have more of this talent than others. Mitch McConnell isn’t one of them.  Last March, McConnell was hospitalized after falling down at a fundraiser where there were no stairs in the immediate vicinity.   In July, he froze up at the podium while concerned aides had to restrain themselves from slapping him back to sentience.  In August, Mitch again went blank at the lectern, staring into infinity like a Disney robot on the fritz. If McConnell had a talent for knowing when to shuffle off to Louisville, he’s kept it pretty well hidden. Only now is he ready to throw in the towel. And really, not even now: He’ll still be minority leader until the election, and he’ll still be a senator until his term ends in 2027. It’ll be interesting to see how many falls and fugue states ...

Not a tough choice, unless you're a Republican I hate writing anything about Trump. I hate even thinking about him. I hate his braying voice, the way he stands with that odd forward tilt. I hate his stupid hair hat and the long red tie and the drunk-uncle speeches that manage just enough coherence to incite civil-war fantasies among his dim-bulb fans. I hate that he thinks he’s funny. And so I dared dream that Nikki Haley might hurt him a little in South Carolina. Of course it wasn’t going to happen. That was like dreaming a high-school varsity squad might win the Super Bowl. Today’s Republicans will not be distracted from their own dream of one-party rule, and their childish conviction that this pie-faced loon from Mar-a-Lago is the one to get them there. I salute Haley for at least trying to coax a little sanity back to the GOP. Sanity is good. But, like most people who coddled Trump during his ramshackle presidency, she is way too little and way too late. Upset wins do not come ...