Dwain Northey (Gen X)

In this administration’s ongoing deep dive into the shallowest kiddie pool of political discourse, we once again find ourselves splashing around in the warm, stagnant waters of He-Said-She-Said Projection. You’d think with all the time they spend accusing everyone else of the things they themselves are caught doing, they’d invest in a pair of floaties. But no—self-awareness remains the one federal program they will never fund.

Now, enter the latest plot twist in America’s longest-running political soap opera: Marjorie Taylor Greene—usually found somewhere between conspiracy cosplay and legislative performance art—has somehow stumbled onto the correct side of something for once. The Epstein files dropped a truth bomb big enough that even she couldn’t ignore it, and suddenly she’s publicly acknowledging the obvious.

And that, of course, is when things went sideways.

Because in Trumpworld, loyalty is a one-way street paved with grievances, Sharpie ink, and whatever’s left of the Republican spine. The moment Greene dared to acknowledge a fact that didn’t cradle Dear Leader’s ego, Trump decided she was a turncoat, an apostate, a traitor to the orange throne. And in classic Trump fashion—never one to miss an opportunity for a playground-level insult—he began rebranding her as “Marjorie Taylor Brown,” a nickname meant to imply she’s “shitty,” “finished,” or “dead politically,” depending on which rally crowd he’s slobbering it out to.

It’s the same tired cycle: project, deflect, attack. If they’re doing it, someone else must be blamed for it. If someone else points it out, that person must be destroyed. And if that person used to be a loyalist? Well, then the punishment must be doubled, public, and peppered with whatever playground-level vulgarity the Commander-in-Chief of Chaos can toss together between tantrums.

So here we are: a movement built on projection now eating its own, throwing tantrums in all caps, and inventing new nicknames that sound like rejected ideas from a middle school burn book—all orchestrated by Donnie, Dumbass Commander and Queef, the maestro of melodrama himself.

In a country drowning in real issues, they’re still splashing in that same shallow pool—only now, even the lifeguards have given up and walked away.