Dwain Northey(Gen X)

The Epstein files are the political equivalent of a horror movie sequel nobody asked for and nobody can escape. Every time we think the story is finally dead, it sits up in bed, gasps for air, and whispers, “You thought.” Donald, of course, insists it’s all fake news—every word fabricated, every page forged—unless, by some cosmic coincidence, it mentions literally anyone other than him. Then suddenly it’s very real, very important, and probably needs a special press conference, three Truth Social posts, and a sharpie diagram.

Meanwhile, the DOJ is legally required to release the files, but they’re doing it with the urgency and efficiency of a 50-year-old man with an enlarged prostate trying to pee at 3 a.m. Lots of straining, awkward pauses, and assurances that something is happening, even though the rest of us are just standing there wondering why this is taking so long and whether we should call a doctor. Drip. Stop. Drip. Redaction. Stop.

And here’s the real punchline: I will be so happy when we finally have a House and Senate that stop treating the Epstein saga like a spooky campfire story and start treating it like what it should be—actual trials, actual subpoenas, actual consequences. Less breathless talk about “the files,” fewer selectively leaked pages, and more people sworn in under oath. Because I’m exhausted by the endless teasing of truth, the bureaucratic urinary hesitation, and the clown show in the Oval Office. At this point, justice doesn’t need another press release—it needs a courtroom.