ROYAL CHINWAG: WE GOTS A GEST

Here I am, Theeee Princess, Protector and Comandor.

Mommy still doesn't feel too good, but you must not be concerned because I am telling you not to be concerned. I am taking care of her. That is my job, and I always do my job.

I protect her, and I tell her what she needs to do. When I am tired, I say, Mommy, we must take a nap. 

And she puts her head down and goes sleepy-bye. She is very tired.

We do have a gest, though. I don't know this girl's name or where she came from. She doesn't talk about anything. 

She doesn't speak German or English. She doesn't speak in any language at all. I think she's too scared to talk.

We sniffed butts and touched noses. She's okay. Just doesn't talk.  

I'll show you a pitcher of her and me touching noses, but I won't show you very much of her because I don't like to invasion her privacy.

This girl spends almost all her time on the bed in Mommy's bedroom. She don't wanna read books with us or watch TV.

I love TV, especially when Mommy turns on BBC Select documentaries about World War II. I always shout, Haltet die verdammten Deutschen auf even though I already know who wins the war. I keep hoping if I yell loud enough I can make the war end sooner so not as many hoomans are killed.

But that girl don't want to watch BBC Select with us. She don't watch anything. She sniffs Mommy sometimes, but she don't want Mommy to touch her. 

Some day I think she will get bored and tired of being alone and she will want to play chase with me and if she don't know how to read she will let us read books to her and she will even watch a movie with us. 

This gest was the big news I wasn't ready to tell you about before. I might tell you more about her some day if she decides to stay with us and talk.

Now I am done with you and I am not going to answer questions about the gest. I don't know anything about her except her butt smells good.

Go home hoomans. I am tired. Go away.

GET OUT OF HERE!

FLOWER POWER & VISITORS

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I'm sorry I haven't been visiting your blogs. I'm fighting migraines, agoraphobia, and depression. I'd like to find depression's nose so I can punch it. 

Favorite Young Man and K were here the first weekend in May. They repaired my garage and cleaned it out ––more about that another time. K also brought me two beautiful blue flower pots and filled them and another pot I already had with flowers because, as she said, You can never have too many flowers.

K righted the lamp post (it had started to lean again) and added these beautiful flowers.

More flowers provided by K that fit perfectly in this little nook of the big tree in my front yard.

Remember the flowers on the front steps?

Princess decided it would look better if we had two pots with begonias so she galumphed into the pot on the middle step and killed it. I rescued the begonia and added it to one of the window boxes.

An area at the side of the house that used to be all weeds now has fewer weeds, some grass, a few flowers, and some bulbs that are coming up. 

Much of what I planted this year has died or failed to make an appearance, probably because of the drought. We got some rain Wednesday night and Thursday afternoon, and it's supposed to rain today. Sadly, Lake Junebug remains without any sparkling water. The fate of the 

Lake Junebug Resort

&

Rumpus Room

remains undecided. I'll ask Princess to take a meeting so we can resolve this extremely important issue. 

Nature doesn't limit itself to the great outdoors. When I took a package of toilet paper out of the bathroom prior to mopping the floor, I discovered a visitor. Perhaps it was good old Fred Frog, hoping he could be hired again as an entertainer at the resort.

This video is one of the first I made, or perhaps the first. I'm sorry, but it will make you long to visit the 

Lake Junebug Resort

&

Rumpus Room

as soon as possible, but do not call, text, or email me about making reservations until Princess and I tell you that we're opening.

We will have another visit from FYM and K during June (yay!), and we're hosting a guest now for an extended sleepover. Princess will tell you about the current boarder when she's in the mood to write a blog post. I don't know when that will happen. She has a rather mercurial temperament. 

I promised another selfie after I got my hair done. I saved my nickels and dimes and had my hair cut and styled, but this selfie shows off my beautiful body. tee hee.

Yes, I'm modeling for department stores in my spare time, and everybody wants a picture of my butt. 

And if you believe that, then I have a bridge I want to sell you, especially if you'll take a felon with it to stop the cage match at the White House. 

How come he can attend the big event outdoors without any bunker to save him? 

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

ROYAL CHINWAG: I AM THEE PRINCESS

Hello. So you have come to see me again. That is good because I have undergone a change I must tell you about. 

I am a very grown-up dog today, no longer the childish dog who said little other than i am princeeeesssss. i am princeeeesssss.

Now, I am thee Princess, 

Protector and 

Comandor. 

Mommy says I am spelling some of my words wrong, but I am quite sure Mommy is the one who is wrong. I spell my words colorectally.

Before best frend Penny went away, she told me I would have to take her place and be in charge of this household. I did not understand her at the time. I was too busy hoping she would play with me again. She told me she could not play and she was sorry to leave me.

I still do not know where she went. Maybe to apart meant, like Auntie Rebekah?

When Mommy so stupidillilly cut her hand with a broken plate, I suddenly realized what best frend Penny had been telling me, so I took over. I comforted Mommy. I stayed close to her. I looked at her with sadness and sympathy in my bootiful brown eyes. I made myself available for any and all petting.

If Mommy had needed more help, I was prepared to run run run outside to get my hooman frend Andrew from the yellow house next door. Andrew likes to sit on his porch to make smoke come from his mouth. If I ran to Andrew and barked HURRY ANDREW HURRY I'm sure he would come to help because he likes me. I wonder if Andrew would give me a cup of coffee. I miss sharing Auntie Rebekah's cup of coffee. 

My hooman brudder and the bootiful lady came to see me. They told me I am a good girl, a bootiful girl, and a sweet girl. I do not need them to compliment me because I know I am perfectly perfect.

They are coming to see me again soon. I allow them to speak to Mommy if they are very well behaveded and do not jump on her, pee on the floor, or steal treats from the kitchen.

Part of my job as Comandor is to be Enforcer Of Rulers. 

I AM CHIEF DOG IN CHARGE OF THIS HOUSE.

I might have more very important news for you soon. For now, I must roll onto my back and smile at Mommy while she rubs my tummy because she thinks I am cute that way. She does not have any good pitchers of me on my back because I am too smart to be caught in such an embarassing posishion. I wiggle around every time she holds up the phone camera so the pitchers are blurry.

Now you must go to your own houses and yards. Do not pee or poop in the yards of other hoomans on the way. It is not polite. Be good, hoomans. 

Go! Go now, hoomans! I am tired of you.

This is what I look like when I wiggle on my back.

YOU ARE NOT GONE. GO HOME NOW, HOOMANS.

INDICT ME ALREADY

 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

The felon who lives in the White House despises James Comey. Dissatisfied with action he took against Comey during his first administration (firing Comey less than four years into his 10 year-term as director of the FBI and seeing him indicted on federal charges that were subsequently dismissed), a feature of the felon's second administration retaliation tour is a second Comey indictment.

Comey's unforgivable crime was to take a photo of some shells on a beach in North Carolina in May, 2025, post the photo on Instagram and caption it "Cool shell formation on my beach walk."

The shells formed the numbers 86  47. Quelle horreur.

From Justice.Gov>Office of Public Affairs: The Indictment includes two counts, first in violation of 18 U.S.C. § 871, alleging that James Comey, 65, knowingly and willfully made a threat to take the life of, and to inflict bodily harm upon the President of the United States. This charge alleges that on May 15, 2025, by publicly posting an image over the internet via Instagram depicting “86 47”, which a reasonable recipient who is familiar with the circumstances would interpret as a serious expression of an intent to do harm to the President of the United States.

The Indictment also charges Comey in violation of 18 U.S.C. § 875(c), that James Comey consciously disregarded a substantial risk that his communication would be viewed as threatening violence, and that he knowingly transmitted a communication in interstate commerce that contained a threat to injure the person of another, which a reasonable recipient who is familiar with the circumstances would interpret as a serious expression of an intent to do harm to a person.

The felon justifies his weaponization of the Dept of Justice by stating Expert on organized crime, Don John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt wrote on social media: "86' is a mob term for 'kill him.' They say 86 him! '86 47' means 'kill President Trump." (The felon is the 47th president of the United States, was also the 45th, and thinks he was the 46th.)

Although "86" has never been part of my vernacular, I have long known "86 it" to mean "throw out something," or 86 alone means "a restaurant is out of something." Merriam-Webster agrees: Eighty-six is slang meaning "to throw out," "to get rid of," or "to refuse service to." It comes from 1930s soda-counter slang meaning that an item was sold out. There is varying anecdotal evidence about why the term eighty-six was used, but the most common theory is that it is rhyming slang for nix.

I've been posting 86 47 all over the place, so indict me already.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

I PULLED A MITCHELL SATURDAY NIGHT

 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

While some people engaged in dramatic attempted assassination games to help them get their ballrooms that every president for the last 150 years has never said they wanted, I took a few minutes out of the evening to injure myself. I call it pulling a Mitchell because if you have the pleasure of following Moving With Mitchell (Mitchell is one of my favorite people in the world), then you know Mitchell tends to be a bit accident prone.

I had a small, blue-and-white china plate from England that resided on my corner cabinet in the living room for years. I heard a noise one day recently when Princess and I were in the back of the house. The plate had fallen for no discernible reason and split in two. I figured it would be easy to glue it together again.

So Saturday evening I dribbled some super strong glue on one of the broken edges and held the two pieces together as tightly as I could. Then the right side slipped and gouged my left thumb. I don't remember what I said, but it was probably rather profane.

For some reason, I was surprised to see blood.

The white stuff is glue.

It bled quite a bit and for maybe two seconds I thought I should go to the ER or Urgent Care. Then I told myself, Don't be ridiculous. You were a medical assistant. You can take care of this little thing.

I always enjoyed wound care. I grabbed a sterile dressing pad, applied pressure, and held my hand up high above my heart. The bleeding stopped pretty quickly. 

The wound was clean. I rinsed off the blood with soapy water, blotted it dry, and bandaged it. 

It looked like this on Sunday. 

And like this on Monday.

The bruise is nasty, and the cut is still sore. I still bandage it when I leave the house.

But it's healing nicely.

I'm proud of my work.

So the next time you're injured, contact Junebug Wound Assistance. We have a 100% success rate.

If you need stitches, I'll pour some alcohol over a needle, use any color of embroidery thread you like, and get you sewn right up.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

TIPPY TUMBLER TUESDAY

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

When shots were fired just outside The White House Correspondents' Dinner Saturday night, Maybelline Vance's Secret Service detail removed him from the dais first. Then the felon's detail showed up and as they attempted to remove him, he plummeted like the Hindenburg.

Here's a different view of the fall. You don't need to listen to this guy talk. Go to 1:30.

Of course, Cankles McGee wouldn't admit he stumbled and fell in the rush. On Sunday night's 60 Minutes, he told Norah O’Donnell he was down because he wouldn't allow the Secret Service to take him out right away. He wanted to see what was going on and they told him he had to get down while he looked around.

What a load of crap. He wasn't chit chatting with the Secret Service agents.

The felon also used the 60 Minutes interview to trash O'Donnell for reading from the shooter's manifesto.  

O'Donnell didn't say that quotation was about the felon. 

At least one guest at Saturday night's dinner was very unhappy about guns and shooting, and that was sobbing Erika Kirk. "I just wanna go home," she cried.

I have news for you, Erika, staunch supporter of the NRA: The parents of the 436 children killed in school shootings during the past 10 years wish their kids could just come home.

Please make sure you're registered to vote, and

VOTE BLUE

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

 

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

SHOTS FIRED ANTICS ENSUE

 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I wasn't interested in watching the Sleeper-In-Chief at the White House Correspondents' Dinner Saturday evening, but I glanced at my phone that night and happened to see shots had been fired at the event so I turned on the TV. 

The shooter was FAST! He flew through the security check point but next thing you knew he was naked on the ground. Was it a true attempt on Cankles McGee's life? 

I'm inclined to believe it was real because the Secret Service treated it the way they should, as opposed to the pretend assassination attempt in Pennsylvania when they let their guy mess around and stick his head out while he pumped his fist in the air. 

I'm also inclined to believe it was not real because, as Carol said, everything he does is a sham. He's a flimflam man, who quickly made it about the ballroom.

Uh, excuse me, Mr. Felon, but the woman walking her dog is called the National Trust for Historic Preservation. The Trust doesn't walk a dog. The Trust doesn't even have a dog.

I'm amused by this guy who calmly continued eating after everyone else took cover or had been hustled out of the room by the Secret Service. The food must have been unusually good.

Now, let's take a look at something much nicer. Last week former President Biden visited his alma mater, Syracuse University Law School, for the unveiling of his portrait. He stood straight and tall. He smiled. He was humble and gracious. No one fell asleep. 

In case you didn't catch it, Joe Biden said, “I hope that long after I am gone your future classmates at Syracuse Law School will see the portrait and they’re reminded not of me, but the greatness and power of our democracy and their obligation to do their part to preserve, protect and defend our constitution."

Seeing him and hearing him brought tears to my eyes. Don't ever say anything bad about Joe Biden to me.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug