Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

At some point in every national meltdown, a person has to ask themselves a very simple, very American question: Is there at least one silver lining in this flaming dumpster being pushed downhill by clowns? Because if there isn’t, we’re all just doom-scrolling ourselves into an early grave.

Let’s recap the highlights of the current shit show. U.S. citizens getting murdered. Others being abducted like we’re auditioning for a low-budget geopolitical thriller. The Orange Menace in the White House casually announcing—between rage posts and capitalization errors—that he is now, apparently, the de facto president of Venezuela. Because sure, why not. That’s how sovereignty works now: you just call dibs. And if that weren’t enough, there’s the ongoing, obsessive, toddler-at-Target fixation on acquiring Greenland. Not for science. Not for diplomacy. Just vibes. Big “I saw it on a map and want it” energy.

It’s exhausting. It’s absurd. It’s dangerous. And it’s all happening at a volume so loud and constant that it’s become background noise—like a smoke alarm we’ve collectively decided to ignore because, technically, the house hasn’t fully collapsed yet.

But here’s where I cling—white-knuckled—to the idea that something good might come out of this mess.

Maybe, just maybe, people are finally waking up.

Because it turns out that “bad government” isn’t some abstract civics-class concept you can shrug off with “well, politics doesn’t affect me.” Bad government doesn’t stay politely contained in C-SPAN hearings and talking-head panels. It shows up in real bodies, real borders, real lives disrupted or ended. It shows up when chaos becomes policy and cruelty becomes branding.

And suddenly, that smug little comfort phrase—it doesn’t affect me—starts aging like milk.

Good government, on the other hand, is boring in the best possible way. It fixes roads. It prevents wars instead of inventing them. It treats human lives like something more than expendable props in a strongman fantasy. It doesn’t make the entire planet wake up every morning wondering what unhinged announcement is coming next.

Bad government makes everyone’s life miserable. Not just “those people.” Not just someone else’s kid. Everyone. Markets jitter. Allies recoil. Laws bend until they snap. And the rest of us are left standing there, staring at the wreckage, being told this is actually strength.

So yes—through the murders, the abductions, the delusions of imperial grandeur, and the international hostage-taking masquerading as leadership—I am choosing to hope. Not because things are fine (they very much are not), but because the mask is finally off.

This isn’t theoretical anymore. This isn’t partisan sport. This is the cost of incompetence, ego, and authoritarian cosplay playing out in real time.

If there is any good news at all, I hope it’s this: that enough people finally understand that government matters. That competence matters. That decency matters. And that shrugging while everything burns is not neutrality—it’s surrender.

Let this be a wake-up call. Because the snooze button has already cost us enough.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Here we go again. I hate that I even have to write this. I hate that it feels like I’m “harping,” as if repeatedly objecting to someone being shot to death is some tedious personality quirk, like always bringing up the check too early at dinner. But yes—let’s harp. Because Renée Nicole Good was shot in basically cold blood, and the reaction from the right has been a master class in moral gymnastics so advanced it deserves its own Olympic event.

Miss Good was a 37-year-old mother of three. Past tense. Three kids who will now grow up with an empty chair at birthdays, graduations, and holidays. That should be the beginning, middle, and end of the story. Full stop. Except somehow—somehow—it isn’t.

Because when the victim doesn’t fit the approved ideological mold, the script flips instantly.

When anyone so much as quoted Charlie Kirk’s own words back to him—Charlie Kirk, a noted professional agitator whose entire brand is poking bears with a microphone—people were immediately told to calm down. “Watch your tone.” “Don’t inflame tensions.” “Violence is never okay.” Suddenly everyone was a monk of nonviolence, clutching pearls so hard you’d think they were being paid by the rosary.

But now?

Now a woman is dead, and the same crowd has decided we’re no longer talking about a human being. We’re talking about a label. An “agitator.” A troublemaker. A person who, by some deeply warped logic, apparently opted into being shot the moment she failed the ideological purity test.

Funny how that works.

She is no longer Renée. No longer a mother. No longer a daughter, a friend, a coworker, a person who woke up that morning not planning to die. No, now she’s a convenient noun—agitator—which, in this moral universe, functions like a magic spell. Say it out loud and suddenly bullets become understandable. Regrettable, maybe, but understandable. Almost… inevitable. Tragic, sure—but in the same way a house fire is tragic when someone forgot to blow out a candle.

And let’s be very clear about what’s happening here:

This is retroactive justification of violence.

It’s the quiet, cowardly kind. The kind that doesn’t pull the trigger but shows up afterward with a thesaurus and a shrug. The kind that says, “Well, you know how things are these days,” as if “these days” naturally include people being executed for being on the wrong side of a political mood swing.

We are told, yet again, not to be emotional. Not to politicize it. Not to “rush to judgment.” But judgment seems to come awfully fast when the deceased isn’t useful as a martyr. Then suddenly everyone’s an armchair prosecutor, eager to explain why empathy should be withheld this one time.

And no—this is not about agreeing with everything Renée Nicole Good ever said, did, or believed. That’s the laziest dodge of all. Basic human worth is not a subscription service you cancel when someone annoys you.

A woman is dead.

Three children lost their mother.

And the response from a certain corner of the political universe is to argue—out loud—that she essentially earned a bullet.

If that doesn’t horrify you, then spare me the lectures about civility, law and order, or the sanctity of life. You don’t get to cosplay as defenders of morality while tripping over yourselves to explain why someone’s death is acceptable.

So yes, I’ll keep harping on it.

Because the moment we stop harping is the moment this kind of thinking becomes normal.

And once that happens, the question isn’t who deserved it.

It’s who’s next.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Once again, Grandpa Trump has wandered into the global affairs wing of the museum, tripped over a timeline, and declared himself the smartest man in the room. This time, the target is Denmark—specifically Greenland—and the justification is vintage Grandpa: Danish boats landed there 500 years ago, therefore Denmark doesn’t really get to keep it.

This is the geopolitical equivalent of yelling “finders keepers” while actively living inside a house founded on armed rebellion against that exact idea.

Let’s slow this down, because irony clearly does not register in Grandpa Trump’s adult, adult, irony-impaired brain.

Yes—the Danes landed on Greenland. That is correct. And here’s the part Grandpa seems to skip, possibly because it ruins the whole fantasy: Denmark is a Danish country. This wasn’t some unrelated Viking Uber drop-off. Greenland became part of the Danish realm and, inconveniently for cable-news imperialism, remains a territory of Denmark today, with broad self-governance and international recognition.

This is how modern sovereignty works. Not vibes. Not 15th-century parking receipts. Law.

Greenland’s relationship to Denmark is roughly equivalent to Puerto Rico’s relationship to the United States. And notice how no one—no matter how bored or belligerent—stands at a podium and says, “Well, Spain was there first, so Puerto Rico is up for grabs.” That would sound insane. Because it is insane.

But insanity, like irony, is apparently not a deal-breaker anymore.

Now comes the part where Grandpa’s argument detonates itself.

About 500 years ago, the British landed on the shores of North America. Later, British citizens living on that land took up arms against Britain, told the crown to pound sand, and founded what we now call the United States of America. This is not obscure history. This is the origin story. This is literally the brand.

By Grandpa Trump’s logic, Britain should be able to show up tomorrow, wave a musket, and say, “Sorry lads, we were here first.” Which means the American Revolution was just a paperwork error and the Fourth of July is basically a typo.

And that’s before we even acknowledge the massive, screaming historical reality that there were indigenous peoples here already—millions of them—long before any British boots, Danish sails, or European land grabs entered the chat.

So let’s summarize Grandpa Logic™:

When Europeans landed somewhere and we benefited → destiny When Europeans landed somewhere and others benefited → invalid When history contradicts this → fake When irony is pointed out → witch hunt

This isn’t foreign policy. This is a senile game of Risk played with selectively remembered flashcards and a permanent grievance hangover.

The real issue isn’t Greenland. It’s that Grandpa Trump treats history like a buffet where you pile your plate with whatever justifies power and shove everything else under the table. Sovereignty becomes optional. Law becomes negotiable. Reality becomes a hostile witness.

Greenland is Danish because Denmark exists, governs it, and is internationally recognized as doing so. The United States exists because people rejected colonial ownership at gunpoint. Both of these facts cannot coexist with Grandpa’s argument—and so, naturally, Grandpa pretends one of them never happened.

If irony were taxable, the national debt would be gone by breakfast. Instead, we’re left with a former president who believes that ancient landings invalidate modern nations—unless, of course, those nations are his.

Denmark remains Denmark. Greenland remains Greenland. The United States remains a contradiction wrapped in a revolution. And Grandpa Trump remains blissfully unaware that the argument he’s making doesn’t just fail.

It erases America itself.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ah yes, welcome to the bold new era of governance where numbers are optional, science is more of a vibe than a discipline, and “lives saved” are apparently an accounting nuisance best left off the spreadsheet. This administration, in a stunning act of intellectual minimalism, has decided that when it comes to EPA standards on particulate matter, counting the people who don’t die is just… extra. And really, who has time for extras?

Because let’s be honest: particulate matter is tiny. Microscopic, even. And if something is too small to see, it’s practically imaginary, right? Sure, scientists have spent decades documenting how PM2.5 worms its way into lungs, bloodstreams, and hearts, shaving years off lives with the quiet efficiency of a corporate downsizing. But unless those particles show up wearing name tags and carrying protest signs, how can we be expected to take them seriously?

The administration’s logic is refreshingly simple: if you can’t count it easily, don’t count it at all. Cancer cases that don’t happen. Asthma attacks that never occur. Heart attacks politely canceled due to cleaner air. These are what economists might call “externalities,” and what this administration calls “inconvenient.” After all, you can’t hold a press conference for a funeral that never happened. No grieving families, no dramatic visuals, no ratings. What’s the political upside?

This is governance by toddler math. If a life is saved quietly, in the privacy of someone continuing to exist, does it really count? According to the latest reasoning, no. Only deaths that occur loudly, expensively, and preferably on a tight news cycle deserve recognition. Prevention is boring. Prevention doesn’t poll well. Prevention doesn’t make donors feel powerful.

The EPA, of course, has the audacity to rely on decades of peer-reviewed research, epidemiological models, and—how dare they—actual data. Their estimates that air quality standards save tens of thousands of lives annually are based on measurable reductions in mortality and morbidity. But models involve math, and math leads to numbers, and numbers can contradict narratives. And narratives, as we know, are far more important than reality.

So the administration has heroically stepped in to say, “Enough.” Enough of this elitist obsession with evidence. Enough of assuming that public policy should be evaluated based on outcomes instead of vibes. If people don’t drop dead immediately after deregulation, clearly nothing bad is happening. Long-term health impacts are just long-term theories. Correlation is fake news. Causation is woke.

And really, where does it end? If we count lives saved by cleaner air, next thing you know we’ll be counting lives saved by seatbelts, food safety regulations, clean water standards, and—God forbid—vaccines. Before you know it, the entire premise of government acting to protect public health starts to look reasonable, and that simply won’t do.

What’s especially impressive is the philosophical commitment here. This isn’t just policy; it’s epistemology. A bold declaration that reality only exists if it aligns with quarterly goals. If science produces results that suggest regulation is good, then clearly science has become political and must be ignored. The numbers didn’t disappear—we just stopped believing in them. Very postmodern. Very chic.

In the end, the message is clear: lives saved don’t count unless they’re profitable, visible, and politically convenient. Clean air is nice, but deregulation feels freer. And freedom, apparently, means the freedom to pretend that fewer funerals are meaningless.

So breathe deep while you can. Just don’t expect anyone in charge to notice—or care—that you’re still alive because of it.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Oh, absolutely — let’s just compare a woman who was fatally shot by a federal agent during an immigration operation in Minneapolis to Ashley Babbitt, the Capitol Police shooting on January 6. Because that’s how moral clarity works these days! 🙄

In case you missed it: Renée Nicole Good — a 37-year-old mother of three, a poet, a human being — was shot and killed by an ICE agent in Minneapolis on January 7, 2026. Videos circulating show her in her SUV as federal agents approach; the Department of Homeland Security, in a highly contested claim, called it “self-defense.” Local leaders, loved ones, and neighbors strongly dispute that narrative. Many witnesses and footage raise alarms about how quickly lethal force was used and whether it was at all justified. Good was not known to be armed, was not the target of an arrest, and was reportedly returning home after dropping a child off at school when approached by agents. 

And Ashley Babbitt — a 35-year-old air force veteran — was shot and killed by a Capitol Police officer during the January 6, 2021 assault on the U.S. Capitol. That day — yes, the day rioters stormed the Capitol in an attempt to overturn a democratic election — saw Babbitt climb through a broken door toward a secured hallway when an officer fired. Multiple investigations concluded the shooting was lawful and within department policy, noting officers faced an immediate, violent breach and Babbitt was part of an unlawful mob. 

And now — cue the dramatic head-exploding emoji — some folks on the right want to spin these two incidents as if they’re morally equivalent. As if a federal agent shooting a woman during a controversial enforcement action in Minneapolis is the same as shooting someone in the chaos of a violent insurrection aimed at destroying our democratic institutions. Because clearly the very fabric of American moral reasoning depends on equating those two. 😒

So let’s get this straight:

Renée Good was a civilian whose death in broad daylight has sparked nationwide grief, protests, and scrutiny. Her neighbors, her partner, her mother, and city leaders have publicly questioned federal claims that she “weaponized” her car or posed a clear threat.  Ashley Babbitt was part of an attack attempting to breach secure chambers of Congress. She was participating in a mass effort to overturn a democratic election — an action most people on Earth would call extremist, violent, and unlawful. Her shooting came in the immediate context of an assault on a seat of government. 

But sure! Let’s all just chuck out nuance and context and claim they’re the same, because why not?! Isn’t it fun — truly so fun — to pretend this is just another day in a balanced moral landscape?

Meanwhile, the outrage machine cranks on:

Republicans insisting Good’s killing was “self-defense” while desperately trying to paint Babbitt as an innocent civilian who did nothing wrong. Conservatives bristling at any investigation into federal agents involved in Good’s death — as if scrutiny is inherently partisan. …and somehow, by some marvel of rhetorical gymnastics, both tragedies now fuel the exact same talking point? Which conveniently absolves one set of people of any responsibility and blames the other set for everything? Classic.

It’s almost admirable — in the way that watching a toddler learn physics by repeatedly slamming their head against a wall might be admirable.

But here’s the bottom line: treating these two deaths as if they occupy the same ethical terrain is not just intellectually bankrupt — it’s morally lazy and politically opportunistic. One was a woman caught in a controversial and contested use of force by a federal agency.  The other was a participant in an attack on the Capitol, indisputably part of a violent upheaval against the constitutional process. 

Comparing them to score political points is not just wrong — it’s shameless. And that, dear reader, is the part that’s truly outrageous.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Outrage Exhaustion: A Public Service Announcement for the Permanently Appalled

At some point—no one knows exactly when, science is still running the numbers—those of us who are paying attention are supposed to reach outrage exhaustion. That mythical state where the brain, overwhelmed by the daily firehose of constitutional arson, international lunacy, and state-sanctioned cruelty, simply shrugs, powers down, and says, “Huh. Guess that’s a thing now.”

We are not there yet. But we are so tired.

Take the grand plan du jour: abducting the president of Venezuela. Sure, he’s a bad guy. That’s not really in dispute. But since when did “bad guy” become the legal threshold for “extrajudicial kidnapping by a foreign power”? Did we miss the memo where the United States officially pivoted from “rule of law” to “international snatch-and-grab, vibes-based edition”? Are we workshopping regime change like it’s a startup pitch now?

And just as you’re trying to process that, the conversation casually pivots to: “Also, we might take Greenland. With military force. Possibly.” Greenland. An autonomous territory. Of an ally. Because nothing says “stable superpower” like eyeing a NATO-adjacent ice sheet and muttering, “Mine?” like a toddler in a sandbox with a tank.

Meanwhile, back home, ICE—who were solemnly tasked with targeting the “worst of the worst”—have apparently expanded their definition to include “people who exist in public.” Or maybe “people who looked at us wrong.” Or maybe just “people.” Period. They’re shooting and killing American citizens now, which is impressive in a grim sort of way, considering that citizenship was once thought to be a relevant detail. Silly us.

And yes, let’s talk about race, because everyone else seems determined to. According to the unofficial-but-very-obvious policy vibes, being “not white” is suspicious. Except, whoops, sometimes being white doesn’t save you either. Because if a nice white 37-year-old mother can be killed and waved away as collateral confusion, then the message is clear: the rules aren’t racist or consistent—they’re just reckless, violent, and unconcerned with accountability.

Which brings us back to the exhaustion.

How many times can you wake up, scroll the news, and say, “Sure. Of course that happened.” How many “this would have ended any other presidency” moments can fit into a single week? At what point does the outrage muscle simply cramp, seize up, and refuse to lift another moral weight?

Because outrage used to be reserved for emergencies. Now it’s a subscription service. Daily alerts. No opt-out. No cooldown period. Just a relentless parade of things that would have once sparked national reckoning, now reduced to background noise—another item in the growing pile of things we are apparently expected to live with.

And maybe that’s the real plan. Not Greenland. Not Venezuela. Not even ICE run amok. Maybe the goal is to exhaust us into compliance. To flood the system until outrage feels pointless, protest feels quaint, and accountability feels like a nostalgic concept we vaguely remember from a civics textbook.

So when does outrage exhaustion kick in?

I don’t know. But if it ever does, it won’t be because the outrage wasn’t justified. It’ll be because there was simply too damn much of it—by design.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Because forgetting her would be forgetting why this matters.

On January 7, 2026, in south Minneapolis, a 37-year-old U.S. citizen, mother of three, and neighbor named Renee Nicole Good was shot and killed by a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agent during a federal immigration enforcement operation. 

She wasn’t a criminal on a wanted list. She wasn’t “armed.” She was a citizen in her community. Local police said there was no indication she was the target of any enforcement action that day. 

Yet the story spun outward in a very different direction: federal officials insisted her vehicle posed a threat — claiming she tried to use it against officers — and the Department of Homeland Security, led by Secretary Kristi Noem, even described the incident in terms of security threats. 

But eyewitnesses, multiple bystander videos, and local leaders dispute that framing. The footage — including cellphone clips released publicly — shows Good calmly in her vehicle, at times saying things like, “That’s fine, dude — I’m not mad at you,” before being shot. 

Local officials have been blunt: Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey has called the idea that she posed a genuine threat “bull-—-.” 

Who Was Renee?

She wasn’t a statistic. According to family, friends, and her wife:

✨ A mother of three — her youngest just six years old. 

✨ Described as kind, loving, compassionate, someone who “literally sparkled.” 

✨ A poet, creative thinker, neighbor, and once a community volunteer who cared about the people around her. 

Good and her wife had simply been supporting neighbors during the federal operation — and like thousands watching the videos, many saw a citizen trying to get out of a frightening situation, not to attack law enforcement. 

Why There’s Outrage

This isn’t just another headline:

🛑 The federal narrative — that she posed a deadly threat — clashes with multiple video angles and witness accounts that show a woman who didn’t appear to be attacking officers. 

🛑 Local leaders rejected the self-defense claim and demanded federal agents leave the city. 

🛑 The investigation became a flashpoint: state prosecutors sought access to evidence that federal authorities controlled — raising questions about transparency and accountability. 

🛑 Across the U.S., tens of thousands protested under banners like “ICE Out For Good,” linking this moment to broader concerns about immigration enforcement and use of force. 

This Is Not Ancient History — It’s Now

Days after her death:

📍 Protests have spread to cities nationwide, from Minneapolis to Philadelphia to Portland, with people demanding justice and an end to lethal force and unchecked federal policing. 

📍 Vigils have been held in small towns and big cities, with chants like “Say her name” echoing at rallies. 

📍 Lawmakers in Congress are debating consequences for ICE actions and demanding full investigations. 

Even now, questions about what truly happened in those final moments are contested — and that dispute is part of the reason we cannot let her name fade. 

Remember Her Humanity

Renee Nicole Good wasn’t a threat.

She was a neighbor, a mother, a partner, a friend — someone whose life was cut short in a moment that continues to fracture trust between communities and the federal government. 

Her death has become a rallying cry for accountability and for demanding that government power not be wielded without transparency or regard for human life.

So let’s not just remember the incident.

Let’s remember the person:

✦ Her name: Renee Nicole Good

✦ Her story: one of compassion, community, and a life that mattered.

And let’s make sure it echoes, because forgetting her would mean forgetting why justice matters.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Here’s the thing about “understanding consequences”: it’s much easier when they apply to you.

Congress, particularly its Republican wing, has spent decades treating healthcare and wages like abstract thought experiments—chalkboard doodles sketched safely far away from their own lives. Healthcare is a “market problem.” Wages are a “personal responsibility issue.” And poverty, apparently, is a character flaw that only affects other people, preferably the kind who serve their lunch, clean their offices, or vote incorrectly.

So let’s try a modest thought experiment. Nothing radical. No guillotines, no barricades—just paperwork.

Imagine that tomorrow morning, every member of Congress wakes up to a polite HR email. Due to budgetary concerns and the importance of “shared sacrifice,” their government-funded healthcare plan has been cancelled. Effective immediately. No extensions. No carve-outs. No “but I’m very important” waivers. They are gently encouraged to visit the health insurance exchange, where freedom reigns and competition sparkles like a used-car lot at midnight.

Oh—and one more thing. Their salaries have been adjusted to better reflect “real America.” Welcome to $60,000 a year. Before taxes. Enjoy the authenticity.

Suddenly, healthcare becomes very real.

All those slogans about choice and competition take on a new flavor when the bronze plan has a $9,000 deductible and doesn’t cover the medication you’ve been on for ten years. “Just shop around,” they said. And you do. For hours. Days. You compare plans with names like “Liberty Plus Basic Value Silver Freedom,” all of which somehow cost more than your mortgage and cover less than a band-aid.

Then comes the first surprise bill. Then the second. Then the letter explaining that, technically, the hospital was “out of network,” despite being the only hospital within 90 miles. You learn new words—coinsurance, formulary exception, prior authorization—and discover they all mean the same thing: no.

At $60,000 a year, you now understand wages too.

Rent is no longer an abstract statistic. It’s a monthly threat. Groceries stop being a political talking point and become a math problem you fail every week. Saving for retirement is adorable, like believing in unicorns or bipartisan cooperation. And when someone tells you to “just work harder,” you briefly consider screaming into the void—or running for Congress, until you remember you already are Congress, and this was your idea.

This is the moment—the precise, blinding moment—when it finally clicks.

Healthcare tied to employment isn’t “freedom” when losing a job means losing insulin. Wages that don’t keep up with housing, healthcare, and inflation aren’t “incentives”; they’re traps. And a system that lawmakers exempt themselves from is not a system built on principle—it’s a system built on insulation.

The cruelty was never accidental. It was just conveniently theoretical.

If members of Congress had to live under the same conditions they legislate for—same pay, same plans, same risks—the healthcare debate would be over by lunchtime. Wage stagnation would be a five-alarm fire. Suddenly, universal coverage wouldn’t sound like socialism; it would sound like survival.

Empathy, it turns out, is much easier to find when your own insurance card stops working.

So when will they get it?

Probably the same day they’re standing in line on the exchange website at 2 a.m., watching the page refresh, whispering the same prayer millions of Americans already know by heart:

“Please don’t let me get sick.”

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald Trump, amid the smoke, the shouting, the threats, and the ever-present soundtrack of grievance, would very much like you to know that he is not insecure. He just happens to measure his self-worth the way toddlers measure height against a doorframe: by scratching a new mark and insisting it’s the tallest one ever. If reality disagrees, reality is clearly part of the conspiracy.

At heart, dear Donald is not a strongman. He is a sulking little prince pressed up against the palace window, nose smeared on the glass, staring at other men’s toys. He does not envy wisdom, competence, or restraint—those are boring virtues for people who don’t own gold-plated toilets. No, he envies something far more primal: unchecked power paired with obscene wealth, preferably acquired without consequences.

Take Vladimir Putin. Trump looks at Putin the way a petty thief looks at a master burglar. Here is a man who managed to extort an entire nation, hollow it out, siphon off its wealth, silence critics, and somehow emerge as one of the richest men on Earth while pretending to be a humble public servant. To Trump, this isn’t tyranny—it’s a business model. Putin didn’t just bend a country to his will; he monetized it. That’s the dream. That’s the vision board.

Then there’s Elon Musk, hovering in Trump’s mind like an especially irritating ghost. Musk may be erratic, reckless, and powered almost entirely by impulse, but one fact gnaws at Trump’s soul: Musk might actually become the world’s first trillionaire. A real number. A verifiable headline. Trump, who has spent decades inflating his net worth like a carnival balloon, cannot stand the idea that someone else might win the “richest man alive” title without creative accounting and Sharpie math.

This is where the tantrum metastasizes into policy.

Trump doesn’t just want power; he wants the record of power. He wants plaques, rankings, and superlatives, preferably with all inconvenient footnotes removed. If extorting oligarchs worked for Putin, why not extort the American public? What is democracy, after all, if not an annoying middleman standing between a man and his legend?

So we get shakedown politics. Loyalty demanded. Institutions leaned on. Norms treated like optional side quests. Every office becomes a branding opportunity. Every crisis becomes leverage. Every citizen becomes a mark. The country isn’t governed; it’s milked. Whether the numbers add up or the claims are true is beside the point—the goal is to see his name someday printed in bold next to words like richest and most influential. Truth is negotiable. Headlines are forever.

And now, because no tantrum is complete without knocking over something large and expensive, the petulant child has discovered maps.

Suddenly Venezuela is “taken.” Greenland is “on the table.” And everything—everything—is justified with the sacred, endlessly reusable phrase: national security. Blah blah blah. The phrase you mutter while jingling the keys to the vault. Trump could not possibly care less about actual security, strategy, or stability. National security is just the napkin he wipes his fingerprints on after grabbing for something shiny.

Venezuela isn’t about drugs, democracy, or peace. It’s about oil, dominance, and the childish thrill of saying he took something big. Greenland isn’t about Arctic defense or shipping lanes—it’s about acreage, about size, about the belief that history is a game of Monopoly and whoever owns the most land wins. He doesn’t see nations; he sees properties. He doesn’t see people; he sees assets. He doesn’t see consequences; he sees his name etched into a textbook in bold, tasteless font.

This isn’t empire-building in any serious sense. It’s cosplay. Trump isn’t interested in governance—he’s fantasizing about titles. He wants to be the next emperor of the Northern Hemisphere, or better yet, the first emperor of the Western world. Crowns without responsibility. Power without accountability. Glory without truth. The substance doesn’t matter as long as the story sounds grand when he tells it to himself.

That’s the throughline: ego dressed up as destiny. Every threat, every incursion, every absurd justification traces back to the same bruised little boy staring at the global leaderboard, furious that someone else is winning. Putin looted a nation and called it patriotism. Musk collects zeroes like Pokémon. Trump wants his turn—his chapter, his myth, his monument—no matter how many laws, facts, or people have to be trampled to make room for the engraving.

So don’t be fooled by the flags, the slogans, or the hollow invocations of security. This isn’t strategy. It’s envy with an army. It’s a tantrum with nuclear codes. And at its core, it’s still just that same petulant child, pointing at the map, stomping his foot, and declaring to the world, Mine.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

From Privateers to Presidents: A Brief History of State-Sponsored Theft, Now With Oil

If all of this feels strangely familiar, that’s because we’ve actually done this before. Not yesterday. Not last decade. Centuries ago. Back when empires at least had the decency to admit they were empires.

They were called privateers — state-sanctioned pirates. Governments handed out “letters of marque,” basically permission slips that said: Go ahead, board enemy ships, steal their gold, disrupt their trade — just don’t forget who signed the paperwork. England did it. Spain did it. France did it. Early America did it too. Theft, but with a flag and a flourish.

And, as history so helpfully teaches us, privateers had a habit of doing what pirates always do: they stopped pretending the loot belonged to the crown and started keeping it for themselves. Surprise! When you legalize theft, it eventually stops respecting your rules.

Which brings us neatly back to Donald Trump and his Defense Department cosplay generals, now apparently auditioning for the role of 21st-century privateers — only without the honesty or the paperwork.

Because let’s be clear: we are no longer talking about wartime interdictions or defensive naval actions. We are talking about seizing oil tankers from a sovereign nation and openly stating that this is being done for our benefit and to control their markets. That’s not sanctions enforcement. That’s not diplomacy. That’s not even clever euphemism.

That’s just theft with extra steps.

So what do we call a country — or more accurately, a government — that decides other nations’ resources should be taken because it can? That their oil is somehow less “theirs” and more “ours,” simply because we have the biggest navy and the loudest press conference?

Empire is the word they’re avoiding.

Piracy is the word they’re denying.

But history doesn’t care what spin doctors call it.

And now the obvious question presents itself: Is Donald Trump about to revive privateers — oil edition? Should we expect the creation of a shiny new agency, perhaps the Department of Strategic Hydrocarbon Acquisition? Or maybe something more on-brand, like the Patriot Oil Recovery Force? Will billionaire donors get letters of marque granting them permission to “liberate” tankers in exchange for a campaign donation and a photo op?

Because once you normalize the idea that oil belonging to another country is fair game, you’ve crossed a line that international law was specifically designed to stop us from crossing again. The entire reason piracy was outlawed — universally, without ambiguity — is because once everyone decides theft is justified by power, there is no rule left but force.

And let’s not kid ourselves: Venezuela being “in the Americas” does not magically make it “America.” Geography is not ownership. Proximity is not sovereignty. The Monroe Doctrine is not a deed. And Donald Trump is not Poseidon, no matter how much he seems to enjoy throwing tridents at international norms.

So yes — if you’re sitting there thinking, “I thought piracy was illegal,” congratulations. You understand international law better than the current administration. Because what we are watching is not strength, not leadership, not strategy.

It’s the resurrection of an old, ugly idea:

If we want it and can take it, it must be ours.

That idea didn’t end well for the privateers.

It didn’t end well for the empires.

And it won’t end well now — no matter how many tankers they manage to haul off before the world stops pretending this is normal.