Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Once upon a more innocent political age—roughly ten tantrums ago—the Republic was brought to its knees by a tan suit.

Not a drone strike. Not a bank collapse. Not even Dijon mustard, though that too was treated as a gateway condiment. No, the Right collectively lost its grip on reality because Barack Obama had the audacity to wear beige while Black. Cable news panels trembled. Radio hosts clutched their pearls. Somewhere, an eagle wept. The Constitution, it was implied, had been dry-cleaned improperly.

This, we were told, was the beginning of the end.

Fast-forward a few years and the national outrage bar has been moved so far down the road it now requires a GPS, a Sherpa, and a waiver of basic moral standards to locate. The arc of insanity, we are assured, bends toward whatever Dear Leader is doing at the moment.

Joe Biden, meanwhile, was declared unfit because he occasionally misplaced a noun. He was “old,” “senile,” “confused.” Never mind that he could ride a bike, finish a sentence, and did not suggest injecting household cleaners into the bloodstream. Age, apparently, was disqualifying—until it wasn’t.

Because then came Donald.

And with him, the great recalibration.

Under the new system, forgetting names is proof of dementia—unless you forget entire decades, people, wars, or which office you’re currently running for, in which case it’s “genius-level improvisation.” Slurred, looping speeches are alarming—unless they last two hours and include sharks, batteries, Hannibal Lecter, and windmills, in which case they are “weaving.” Confusion is dangerous—unless it’s constant, public, and livestreamed, in which case it’s “authentic.”

The East Wing of the White House? Sure, why not. Tear it down. Build a ballroom. Nothing says “house of the people” like gold fixtures and a vibe best described as “regional casino wedding venue.” If another president had proposed this, it would have triggered emergency hearings and at least three segments titled Is This the End of America? But now? Now it’s just “thinking big.”

And when Donald blurts out things—boasts, jokes, insinuations—that would have ended any other political career instantly, the response is a collective shrug. “He’s just being Donald.” As though that is not precisely the problem. Any behavior that would once have been disqualifying is now rebranded as proof of strength. Accountability is for other people. Standards are socialism.

The same crowd that saw tyranny in a tan suit now sees patriotism in chaos. The same voices that screamed about decorum now chant “let him cook” as the kitchen catches fire. The same people who warned that norms mattered have discovered that norms are optional when power feels good.

And if you point out the contradictions—if you note that the man hailed as a demigod shows every visible sign of cognitive decline, impulse control issues, and an alarming comfort with authoritarian theatrics—you are told to relax. This is all part of the plan. He is saving the country. Trust the process. Ignore the smoke.

Never mind that the “saving” looks a lot like hurting: institutions weakened, allies alienated, cruelty normalized, corruption shrugged off as background noise. Never mind that the country is more divided, more cynical, and more exhausted than before. Pain, we are told, is patriotism.

The arc of the moral universe may bend toward justice, but the arc of political insanity bends wherever it damn well pleases—especially when dragged there by people who once lost their minds over beige fabric.

A tan suit was unforgivable.

Old age was disqualifying.

Tearing down norms, walls, and wings of the White House? Perfectly fine.

And that, apparently, is just what it is.