David Fitzsimmons: Arizona's Progressive Voice

Taking a break I needed a day or two off and so I hauled my idle self on a long walk around my favorite downtown on earth filled with the greatest murals painted by the coolest artists, murals that arrest, inspire, resonate and fill me with the same awe I feel at MOMA or the Louvre. Come with me if you life while I try not to think about you-know-who for a day.

In my youth, centuries ago, before I was working as a political cartoonist I survived by working as a graphic designer. Seeing a number of troubling campaign signs crowding our street corners I felt moved to react by tapping into my old designer skill set and designing some signs of my own, in a manner that does not interfere with the opposition’s First Amendment right to lie. Feel free to share my handiwork. No credit necessary. That was therapeutic. Back to column writing.

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‘Parasol’ is just another fancy word for umbrella. I once saw Fitz holding his wife’s purse like it was a golf bag while she tried on something newfangled from Kansas City and our boy, ‘Butch’ Fitzsimmons, appeared to survive the ordeal with sufficient testosterone intact to please Secretary Hegseth. What are the odds an insecure muscle head like Pete squirms whenever he’s called ‘Mister Secretary’?

Today I will examine how our Secretary of War’s edict regarding libido and limp edicts will be enforced The language in the following satire is appropriately inappropriate. Before sunrise Drill Instructor Smith marched into our barracks, flicked on the lights and barked. We sprang from our bunks and stood at attention in front of our footlockers. We replied in unison. You know the ‘Hegseth Drill’. Let’s see your stuff!! We dropped our shorts to our ankles. We snapped back to attention.

Tony: I heard you’re tearing down the Kennedy Center because they won’t let you put your name on it. That is some twisted shit, Donny. My advice? Don’t do it! What’s next? You gonna threaten to redo the Lincoln Memorial to include Jeff Davis if they don’t let you replace Abe’s head with your fat head? Donny: What are you going to do about it? I can do whatever I want. I own this town. Hell, I own this country. And Venezuela! Tony: What in Hell is wrong with you?

When we last saw Tony and his neighbor, Donald, the Don, ‘Donny’ Trump, they were in the middle of a mob summit at the base of Tony’s driveway. Donald ‘Donny’ Trump had just explained to Tony where the capital funding for his criminal enterprises all comes from. ‘The taxpayers. The suckers. They’re all pigeons. Saps. They’re funding my whole enterprise.’ Tony: Let me tell you something, wise guy. You are losing control of your mob. Donny: I’m good. I’m good! I got a grip on things like..zzz…hnh?

Walking down his driveway to fetch his morning newspaper in his bathrobe Tony Soprano noticed his next door neighbor, ‘Donny’ Trump, staring off into space. Tony: Donnie! America’s Capo de Tutti! You okay? You look like a peeled orange. I’m talking to you! Hey, Donnie-Long-Gone, do I gotta call in a Silver Alert on your ass? Tony: I’m just busting your balls. You look awful. How are you? I heard that rat Tucker Carlson turned on you. Says you ordered the Epstein coverup. Donny: They got nothing on me.

Drop your Tiki Torch, rope and pitchfork and raise your right hand and repeat after me: I pledge I will vote whether I’m registered or not and I swear I’m gonna cheat like hell to win this election for all the hardworking families of billionaires. I swear I will work for all the Republican candidates who are loyal to the greatest president in the history of the United States, me, the man that loves working for you so much he doesn’t stop working even to change his poopy diapers.

Twenty-five years ago an act of monstrous fanatical audacity shook our nation. The attack on our soil spurred our nation into making six choices that reflected our democratic republic’s intellectual, moral and global decline.