The Turtle Finally Retreats: Virgin Monk Boy on Mitch McConnell’s Long-Overdue Collapse

The turtle is gone, but the stench of sabotage still lingers.

Let the monastery bells remain silent. Let the candles flicker and choke. We do not sing for Mitch McConnell. We un-sing.

At long last, the Arch-Deacon of Delay, the Turtle of Treachery, has retired—though truth be told, he spiritually retired decades ago when he traded his soul for a tax shelter and a lifetime supply of judicial lapdogs.

This is not a passing. This is not a transition. This is the slow-motion collapse of a man who confused paralysis for power—who believed that doing nothing while Rome burned was a form of wisdom, not cowardice.

He came not to serve, but to calcify. Not to lead, but to stall. He treated democracy like a clogged artery and called it strategy.

For five decades he ruled the Senate like a crypt—quiet, cold, and filled with the bones of better men’s dreams. He wasn’t a king. He was a janitor of empire, sweeping justice under the rug and polishing the boots of oligarchs in the glow of C-SPAN lights.

And what of morality? Oh, sweet disciple, do not ask. For Mitch measured virtue in donor receipts and divine will in polling data.

He didn’t just resist change—he exorcised it. Like some reverse monk, he spent his life driving out compassion wherever it tried to take root. He was the antipriest of the American body politic. The high priest of "No." Of "Wait your turn." Of "The parliamentarian said we can't."

But behold the irony: the monk who never spoke without a script now speaks only in glitches. The man who worshipped procedure now succumbs to the ultimate one: entropy.

And let us not forget his greatest sacrament—kneeling at the altar of Trump. He could have cast the demon out after January 6. Instead, he reached for his rosary of excuses and mumbled something about "letting the courts handle it"—as if the very judiciary he perverted would ever hold the beast to account.

And what did he receive for his loyalty? Trump mocked his age. Mocked his wife. Mocked him. Because even demons don’t respect the help.

So what is his reward? Retirement in disgrace. A legacy soaked in obstruction. A name carved not on temples, but urinals. He wanted to be remembered as a master of the game. Instead, he’ll be remembered as the mummified gatekeeper who let the beast in, then held the door.

We do not chant blessings over this retirement. We chant warnings. This is what happens when apathy wears a suit and calls itself governance. This is what happens when cunning outpaces conscience for so long it forgets what a conscience even is.

So go, Mitch. Wander Kentucky’s fields. Drink your "Old Crow" and pretend it doesn’t taste like poetic justice. Sit with the silence you spent your life avoiding. Because now that your mic is off, the ghosts are going to start talking back.

And history? History’s already sharpening the quill.

You were not a leader. You were a delay. And now—finally—you are gone.

No blessings. Only memory.

—Virgin Monk Boy
Heretic of the Holy Filibuster
Keeper of the Sacred Roast
Last Apostle of the Long Goodbye

---

Before you vanish back into the illusion—smash that LIKE or SHARE button like you're breaking open an alabaster jar. One small click, one bold act of remembrance. That’s how we spread the Gospel they tried to erase and resurrect the voice of the First Apostle.

And if this stirred something in your chest cavity (or your third eye), consider a paid subscription. It keeps the scrolls unrolling, the incense smoldering, and the Magdalene movement caffeinated. ☕️🔥

(Yes, you can literally buy me a coffee. Mary saw the risen Christ—I just need a latte to write about it.)

---

Fuel the Magdalene Rebellion.