Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I remember when politics at least pretended to be about persuasion—arguments, facts, maybe even a shared reality. Then somewhere along the line, the GOP looked at the old propaganda playbook and said, “You know what aged surprisingly well? Chaos.” Not subtle messaging. Not coherent policy. Just flood the zone with so much noise, nonsense, contradiction, and outright fabrication that the average person throws up their hands and says, “I don’t even know what’s true anymore.” Mission accomplished.

It’s not a new tactic. It’s just been modernized, digitized, and weaponized. The idea is simple: if everything is confusing, nothing is accountable. If every story contradicts the last one, then no one can pin you down on anything. And if you say enough outrageous things in rapid succession, people stop reacting to any of them. It’s not governing—it’s psychological saturation.

Take the current moment. We’re told there’s a justified war brewing with Iran—except the framing keeps shifting like a shell game. One day it’s defensive, the next it’s preemptive, then it’s something else entirely depending on which spokesperson is standing at which podium. It’s like the conflict itself is being rebranded in real time, as if changing the label somehow resets the consequences. Cease-fire? What cease-fire? That was two narratives ago.

Meanwhile, we already have a federal budget the size of a global superpower’s operating manual—and somehow that’s not enough. Now we need a reconciliation bill layered on top of it, bloated beyond recognition, because apparently fiscal responsibility is only a campaign slogan, not a governing principle. The same people who used to clutch pearls over deficits now treat trillion-dollar add-ons like loose change in the couch cushions.

And buried in that legislative monstrosity? A cool billion dollars for a ballroom. A ballroom. Not infrastructure, not healthcare, not anything remotely resembling public need—just a gilded vanity project that screams quiet part out loud: this isn’t about serving the country, it’s about decorating the throne room. Because if you’re planning your legacy in chandeliers and polished marble, you’re not exactly signaling a short stay.

Donald Trump has never been subtle about branding everything in gold leaf, but this goes beyond aesthetics. It’s symbolic. It says permanence. It says entitlement. It says, “I’m not just passing through—I’m installing upgrades.”

And the most remarkable part? None of it exists in isolation. The war messaging, the budget bloat, the vanity spending—it all blends together into that same fog of excess where nothing can be examined too closely because there’s always something louder, shinier, or more outrageous happening five minutes later.

That’s the strategy. Not clarity—overload. Not truth—volume. Not governance—spectacle.

And the rest of us are left standing in the middle of it, trying to figure out which way is up while the people in charge keep shaking the snow globe.