Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Why Vaccines Work: A Helpful Guide for People Who Somehow Missed Science Class

Okay, class, let’s use our listening ears and big kid brains. Vaccines are like superhero training for your body. When you get a vaccine, your immune system meets a tiny, harmless version of a germ — kind of like a “wanted” poster for the real bad guy. Your immune system studies it, takes notes, maybe doodles a little “never forget this face” sketch, and gets ready to fight the real thing if it ever shows up.

So, when the actual germ comes around yelling, “Hey, I’m here to ruin your week!” your body’s like, “Nice try, loser. I’ve seen your mugshot,” and stops it before it can throw a party in your lungs. That’s why people who are vaccinated don’t get as sick — their bodies are basically bouncers with VIP immune lists.

Now, here’s the really wild part — when lots of people are vaccinated, the germs can’t find anyone to infect. It’s like showing up to a party and realizing the door is locked, the lights are off, and everyone’s gone home to binge-watch Netflix. Scientists call this herd immunity — though it’s less about actual cows and more about protecting everyone, especially the babies, the sick, and the folks who can’t get vaccinated.

But if too many people skip their shots because they “did their own research” on a blog called “MomTruthFreedom.biz,” the germs start spreading again. Suddenly, the disease gets a sequel nobody asked for.

So, to review: vaccines work because your immune system learns to fight smarter, not harder. And the more people vaccinated, the less chance germs have to ruin everyone’s day. It’s science — not sorcery, not politics, not a plot by Big Needle. Just basic, boring biology doing its job.

Now go get your shots, wash your hands, and stop pretending viruses care about your opinions.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ladies and gentlemen, gather ‘round and behold the rarest creature in the political wilderness: the Marxist Communist Fascist. This beast is said to stalk college campuses, cable news panels, and the fevered imaginations of certain social media commentators. It’s a terrifying chimera — part Lenin, part Mussolini, and entirely nonsense.

Let’s unpack this ideological smoothie. A Marxist believes in the collective ownership of production and the eventual withering away of the state. A Communist takes that Marxist dream to the next level — no private property, no classes, no bosses, no billionaires, no Kardashians selling “luxury minimalism.” Meanwhile, a Fascist believes in total authoritarian control, ultranationalism, and usually worships a strongman leader who thinks democracy is something you use to wipe your boots.

So, calling someone a “Marxist Communist Fascist” is like calling them a vegan carnivore who only eats gluten-free steak. It’s an ideological paradox wrapped in a logical impossibility. Marxists want to abolish the state; fascists are the state. Communists want to dissolve hierarchy; fascists build altars to it. One dreams of equality, the other demands obedience — they’re not sharing a dorm room, let alone a movement.

And yet, in the modern political jungle, the “Marxist Communist Fascist” label gets tossed around like confetti at a conspiracy convention. Someone proposes free school lunches? Must be Marxist Communist Fascism. Someone suggests not jailing journalists? Definitely Marxist Communist Fascism. Someone says words longer than two syllables? Clearly indoctrinated by Karl Mussolini and Benito Marx.

In conclusion, the “Marxist Communist Fascist” exists only in the same place as Bigfoot and honest political discourse — the imagination. But rest assured, whenever you hear someone use the term, you can safely assume one thing: they’ve never read a single page of The Communist Manifesto, Mein Kampf, or, for that matter, a dictionary.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Let’s take a sarcastic peek under the hood, shall we? Because if Joe Biden left Donald “the Menace” Trump anything when the keys to the Oval Office were (somehow) handed back to him, it was a fully tuned hybrid democracy running smoother than it had any right to after four years of chaos. And what has Captain Destructo done with it? Well—let’s just say he took a well-oiled engine of goodwill, doused it in lighter fluid, and called it an “innovation in combustion patriotism.”

When Biden left office, the economy was—brace yourself—stable. Jobs were up, inflation had cooled, global alliances were patched together like a repaired quilt of sanity, and for the first time in years, the world collectively exhaled. Infrastructure projects were underway, climate initiatives were funded, and democracy had, miraculously, not fallen off a cliff. It wasn’t perfect—because this is Earth—but it was functional. It worked.

Then Donald strutted back in like a raccoon who found fireworks and a gas can, shouting “We’re making America BOOM again!” And oh, it’s booming, all right—just in the wrong direction. The goodwill Biden had built with allies? Torched faster than a stack of classified documents near a Mar-a-Lago bonfire. The economy that was humming along? He slammed the tariff pedal to the floor and called the grinding gears “the sound of winning.”

Remember when Biden worked to restore faith in democracy? Trump redefined that as “total loyalty to the guy in the red tie.” Remember how Biden emphasized unity? Trump’s new slogan might as well be “Divided We Stand, United We Lose Ratings.”

In short, Joe left him a car with all four tires inflated, a full tank of gas, and a working GPS pointing toward progress. Donald ripped out the GPS, replaced the steering wheel with a golf club, and declared himself the greatest mechanic of all time—while the vehicle swerves toward the nearest cliff to the roaring applause of his fan club.

America didn’t need a demolition derby. It needed a tune-up. But with Trump behind the wheel again, we’re not in “Build Back Better” anymore—we’re in “Break Everything Faster.”

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The global history of austerity is a story of governments tightening belts—usually around the waists of those least able to afford it. Born out of fiscal crises and often promoted as the path to stability, austerity refers to policies that cut public spending, reduce social programs, and shrink government deficits. From post-World War I Europe to the global financial crisis of 2008 and the pandemic aftermath, austerity has been the favored medicine of international lenders and conservative policymakers alike. Yet, like many potent drugs, it frequently harms more than it heals.

Historically, austerity emerged as a dominant economic strategy after the 1930s, when countries sought to control debt by cutting spending rather than stimulating growth. In the postwar period, the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and World Bank institutionalized austerity as part of their loan conditions to developing nations. Latin America in the 1980s—known as the “lost decade”—suffered waves of unemployment, reduced social welfare, and privatization, leaving millions in poverty. Europe repeated the cycle in the 2010s, with Greece, Spain, and the UK adopting severe austerity after the financial crash. Hospitals closed, pensions were slashed, and entire generations saw their futures dim to service debts largely incurred by financial elites. The idea of “living within our means” became a moralized weapon against the working class.

The social costs of austerity have been profound: rising inequality, eroded public services, and deepened distrust in democratic institutions. Austerity does not eliminate debt—it shifts it. Private citizens, especially women and the poor, absorb the unpaid labor and social fallout once managed by public systems. Economically, austerity often suppresses demand, slowing recovery rather than accelerating it. History has shown, time and again, that cutting spending during downturns only digs the hole deeper.

By contrast, tax increases on the wealthy and corporations have historically produced far more equitable and sustainable results. In the post–World War II decades—an era of unprecedented growth and prosperity—top marginal tax rates in the United States and much of Europe exceeded 70 percent. Those revenues funded infrastructure, education, and social programs that lifted millions into the middle class. Similarly, nations such as the Nordic countries have long maintained high corporate and wealth taxes, yet consistently rank among the world’s happiest and most stable societies, proving that economic success and fairness are not mutually exclusive.

When wealthier individuals and corporations contribute proportionately, the benefits ripple outward: improved public goods, reduced inequality, and stronger consumer demand. In contrast to austerity’s deflationary spiral, redistributive taxation circulates money back into the economy through the people most likely to spend it—ordinary citizens.

In the end, the debate between austerity and progressive taxation is not merely about economics but about values. Austerity reflects a politics of fear and punishment—an insistence that collective hardship builds moral character. Progressive taxation, on the other hand, reflects a politics of possibility: the belief that societies thrive when prosperity is shared, not hoarded. History has already offered its verdict. Austerity protects wealth; fair taxation protects people.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

In a twist of political irony so rich it should be taxed (though probably at a loss under Trump’s plan), Canada just pulled the ultimate historical mic drop: quoting Ronald Reagan — yes, that Ronald Reagan — to slam Donald Trump’s self-destructive tariff crusade. Somewhere in the great beyond, Reagan’s ghost probably nodded approvingly, whispering, “I told you so, Donnie,” before fading back into the celestial free market.

Donald J. Trump, self-proclaimed “Tariff King,” has always believed that economic warfare is a sign of strength. To him, diplomacy is for losers, and trade deficits are the boogeymen hiding under his golden bedspread. So, when Canada had the audacity to fight back with a little ghostly Reaganomics, Donnie went full demolition derby — smashing logic, economic stability, and his own international credibility in one furious, orange blur.

Here’s what set him off: Canada’s trade ministry released a statement opposing Trump’s new round of tariffs, and in a move both historically delicious and politically savage, they quoted Reagan’s 1988 speech on the dangers of protectionism. Reagan, the conservative saint himself, had warned, “We should beware of the demagogues who are ready to declare a trade war… all while cynically waving the American flag.” Canada just dropped that line like a glitter bomb at a MAGA rally.

And oh, Donnie did not take it well. His team rushed to social media with the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, declaring that Reagan “didn’t understand modern business” — as if the man who ended the Cold War and deregulated half the economy somehow wasn’t capitalist enough for Trump Tower’s top-floor tyrant. DJ T, in true demolition mode, blamed Canada for “taking advantage of the U.S.,” as if our maple-syrup-loving neighbors had personally stolen the crown jewels of Mar-a-Lago.

But here’s the funny part: Canada didn’t even need to insult him directly. By using Reagan’s words, they hit Trump where it hurts most — his fragile ego and his desperate need to cosplay as a Reagan-level conservative hero. The GOP base worships Reagan as the golden calf of capitalism, so when America’s polite upstairs neighbor resurrected his ghost to expose Trump’s economic idiocy, Donnie’s demolition instincts kicked in.

Within hours, the Trump administration was in full meltdown mode. Press briefings spiraled into incoherent rants about “Canadian steel conspiracies,” tariffs were hiked again, and someone probably got yelled at for not ordering enough McDonald’s to calm the beast. It was like watching a toddler throw Legos at the wall because the blocks wouldn’t form a wall tall enough to “keep out Canadian dairy.”

The irony is magnificent: Reagan’s ghost, invoked by America’s northern ally, dismantled Trump’s entire economic mythos with a single line from beyond the grave. The so-called “America First” agenda is starting to look a lot like “America Alone,” as allies grow tired of being props in Donnie’s trade-war tantrum.

In the end, Trump’s demolition may not just be metaphorical — the economic fallout from his tariffs is already crumbling the foundations of industries he claimed to protect. Farmers are losing markets, manufacturers are raising prices, and the average consumer is paying for Donnie’s ego trip every time they check out at the grocery store.

So yes, Reagan’s ghost came back — not to haunt the Democrats, but to remind Republicans that real conservatism doesn’t mean burning down the global economy for applause lines. Canada didn’t just clap back; they performed an exorcism. And as Donnie’s demolition derby of diplomacy continues, the rest of the world can only stand back and admire the irony: the ghost of the GOP’s greatest communicator just delivered the most devastating critique of its loudest one.

In other words, Reagan spoke softly and carried a big stick. Trump screams loudly and swings a wrecking ball — right at himself.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Joyful Noise: The Trump-Miller 2025 Edict for the Destruction of a Nation

There’s a John Lennon quote—somewhere between a whisper and a scream—that goes something like this: “When you talk about destruction, you can count me out… in.” It’s the sly wink of someone who understood that authoritarianism feeds on fear and fury, that regimes built on chaos want nothing more than to provoke the rest of us into rage so they can claim the mantle of “law and order.” Lennon also said, more directly, that power doesn’t know what to do with joy—tyrants understand guns, not guitars; anger, not laughter; submission, not song.

And that’s where the Trump–Miller 2025 project is failing before it even gets fully underway. Their so-called “Edict for American Restoration” (which sounds more like a dystopian Netflix series than actual governance) is nothing less than an attempt to dismantle the institutions, freedoms, and communities that make this country worth saving. But the one thing they didn’t anticipate? That Americans are very, very good at turning despair into joyful noise.

They want us furious. They want us breaking windows so they can declare martial law. They want Portland every night of 2020—but with the twist that they get to be the heroes this time. But instead, what they got were No Kings rallies: millions of people, peaceful, dancing, laughing, holding signs with biting satire, and cleaning up after themselves. No torches. No Molotovs. Just music, art, and the stubborn audacity of joy. It was a direct affront to their entire political strategy. They were waiting for an excuse to invoke the Insurrection Act—waiting for a spark of violence to justify a hammer. But when faced with costumes, ukuleles, and absurdist protest signs that read “Dictators Are Just Guys Who Never Learned to Share,” they were left speechless.

Think of Portland’s example. When federal agents in unmarked vans snatched protesters off the streets, the people responded not with fire, but with glitter. There were the “Wall of Moms,” the “Leaf Blower Dads,” and—most gloriously—the “Tuba Brigade,” blasting out brass renditions of protest songs to drown out police sirens. It was absurd. It was brilliant. And it was effective. The cruelty machine runs on fear; it chokes on laughter.

Imagine that kind of joyful resistance on a national scale. When Trump announces his latest “Order for Patriotic Purity,” respond with a parade of clowns dressed as Founding Fathers on roller skates. When Miller drafts another xenophobic policy, organize a mariachi flash mob on the Capitol steps. When they rail about “Godless liberals,” flood the streets with gospel choirs singing “This Little Light of Mine.” Their darkness cannot comprehend the noise of joy—it has no countermeasure for art, dance, or collective laughter.

They want rage; give them rhythm.

They want chaos; give them choreography.

They want blood in the streets; give them brass bands, bubbles, and banners that mock their smallness.

The truth is, joyful defiance is the most radical act in the face of authoritarianism. It says: you cannot have my despair. It reminds us that resistance isn’t just about survival—it’s about preserving the soul of the country. The No Kings rallies embodied that truth. They turned Trump’s fantasy of a violent uprising into a nationwide dance floor. They robbed him of his power by refusing to play his game.

So yes—the Trump-Miller edict is real, dangerous, and destructive. But history shows that authoritarian movements don’t crumble when we shout louder. They crumble when the people laugh at their pomposity, sing over their lies, and make joy contagious.

In the end, joy is louder than hate.

And that’s the noise they can’t silence.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Yes, the sweet sound of empathy—Trump-style. As the nation trudges toward the 30-day mark of a government shutdown, farmers are losing their land, federal workers are pawning possessions to pay rent, and families are standing in food bank lines that grow longer than his rally speeches. The world burns, democracy frays, and what, pray tell, is Donald J. Trump’s number one priority? According to his ever-loyal echo, Caroline Levitt, it’s the grand ballroom.

That’s right. While millions of Americans are skipping meals, Trump is skipping marble samples. Levitt’s tone-deaf declaration lands like a modern-day “let them eat cake” —except Marie Antoinette at least had the decency to pretend she didn’t know what hunger looked like. Trump knows, and he still picked out chandeliers.

Picture it: America’s farmers—those “great, tremendous people” he once claimed to love—are now auctioning off generations-old family land, casualties of his tariff tantrums that made soybeans more symbolic than profitable. The dairy industry is collapsing, small towns are bleeding jobs, and Washington sits paralyzed, locked in a stalemate of his making. And yet, somewhere in the ruins of reason, Caroline Levitt smiles into a microphone and declares that Donald’s focus is on finishing his grand ballroom.

It’s the perfect metaphor for the Trump era: while the country cracks, he’s measuring drapes for his next monument to himself. His “people’s house” has become his personal Versailles—minus the culture, class, or comprehension of history. Truman rebuilt the White House because it was falling apart. Trump is demolishing the East Wing because it doesn’t have enough room for his ego.

Levitt’s announcement wasn’t just tone-deaf—it was operatic in its obliviousness. It screamed, “We have no bread? Well, build a bigger dance floor!” It was the political equivalent of gilding a yacht while the crew drowns. In a time of widespread suffering—economic, moral, and democratic—Trump’s priority isn’t feeding the people, uniting the nation, or reopening the government. It’s making sure his ballroom has “the best acoustics, people are saying it.”

And this, dear citizens, is the true Trump legacy: governing as though America is one of his failed casinos. When the lights go out, when the workers go unpaid, when the creditors circle—he simply slaps gold paint on the walls and calls it luxury. He’s not a president; he’s a pageant host with access to nuclear codes.

If Marie Antoinette ruled in silk and oblivion, Trump rules in spray tan and grievance. Her “let them eat cake” moment was one of history’s most infamous gaffes of privilege. His is worse—it’s deliberate. A man who’s seen farmers foreclosed, families evicted, and still says, “But look at this ballroom, folks, it’s going to be tremendous.”

So yes, Caroline Levitt is right in one sense: Trump’s top priority truly is his grand ballroom. Because nothing says “man of the people” like throwing a party in the ashes of the republic.

Let them eat cake? No.

Let them eat gold leaf, courtesy of the Mango Marie himself—Donald J. Trump, the Ballerina of Bankruptcy, the Ballroom Baron, and now, apparently, the Emperor of Empty Priorities.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ah yes, Donald J. Trump—DJT, the Mango Moron-in-Chief—America’s self-declared “greatest peace president ever.” A man so allergic to reality he thinks détente is something you can trademark. Now, in his own unmistakable voice, let’s let the “stable genius” himself explain his greatness:

“Nobody’s ever seen peace like this, folks. I’m the greatest peace president—some people are saying maybe in history, maybe ever, definitely better than Obama, who, by the way, started so many wars, folks, you wouldn’t believe. I just completed the greatest peace deal ever between the Hatfields and the McCoys—generations of feuding, terrible fighting, lots of bad hombres—and I said, ‘Let’s make a deal,’ and they did. They love me now, tremendous people, both sides, really beautiful teeth now, because of me.”

And he didn’t stop there, oh no. The Trump Peace Tour continues:

“We just finished another huge, historic negotiation, very important, between Gargamel and the Smurf Village. Nobody thought it could be done—people said, ‘Sir, you can’t make peace between a wizard and tiny blue people,’ but I did it. I broke a peace that’s never been seen before. Now Gargamel controls Smurf Village—it’s the best thing for the Smurfs, believe me, they’re very happy, very small, but very happy. Papa Smurf came up to me, tears in his eyes, and said, ‘Sir, thank you for your strength.’ It’s beautiful.”

This is Trumpian peace: where the aggressor gets the spoils, the victims get a handshake, and everyone else gets gaslit into applause. It’s the same logic he applies to Ukraine and Russia: give Putin what he wants, call it peace, and slap his name on it like a gaudy hotel sign. “Trump Peace Towers—Now Open in Occupied Territory.”

But to hear Trump tell it, he’s already won the Nobel Prize in everything:

“They should’ve given me the Nobel Peace Prize many times—many people agree. Obama got it for doing nothing, absolutely nothing, and I’ve done so much more. Gaza? I made it peaceful, folks. Ukraine? I could end it in 24 hours. Smurfs? Total harmony. I’m like Gandhi, but stronger, with better ratings.”

And maybe that’s the heart of it. Trump doesn’t want peace—he wants applause. Peace is just another prop in his reality show presidency. When he says he’s “the greatest peace president,” what he means is he’s great at pretending peace exists as long as he’s the one in charge.

So yes, give the man his due: he has indeed “negotiated” more fictional truces than anyone else alive. The only thing standing between Trump and the Nobel Peace Prize is the Nobel Committee’s stubborn refusal to grade delusion on a curve.

They Were So Afraid, They Erased the Words.

Yesterday, I stood on the Senate floor and spoke truth about what happened in North Carolina. About democracy being stolen in broad daylight. About rigged maps and broken promises. About betraying every sacrifice ever made for the right to vote.

Then something extraordinary happened.

Senator Grafstein moved that my remarks be spread upon the journal, entered into the permanent record of this body. This is routine. It happens constantly. It’s almost always done without objection, a simple courtesy extended across party lines for speeches on both sides.

The Republicans immediately objected.

They forced a vote. And on a straight party line, they voted to keep my words out of the permanent record.

In my entire time in the Senate, I have never seen this happen.

Let that sink in for a moment.

They rigged the maps. Then they voted to erase any record of someone calling them out for it.
This isn’t about me. This is about what their fear reveals.

They weren’t afraid of my words because they were false, they were afraid because they were true. They weren’t blocking the record to protect themselves, they were doing it because they know history will judge them harshly for what they did yesterday.

They stood on that floor, voted to rig our elections at Trump’s command, and then, in the very next breath, tried to memory-hole anyone who dared to say it out loud.

That’s not the behavior of people confident in their principles. That’s the behavior of people ashamed of their actions.

If what they did was righteous, they’d want it documented. If their cause was just, they’d welcome debate for the permanent record. If they believed they were serving North Carolina, they’d let history judge them on the merits.

But they don’t believe any of that. They know what they did was wrong. They know they sold out democracy. They know they chose Trump over the people of North Carolina. They know they stole voices and rigged maps and betrayed their oaths.

And they’re so ashamed, so terrified that future generations will read what was said and render judgment, that they won’t even let the words stand in the record.

But you can’t erase truth by blocking it from a journal.

You can’t make democracy’s defenders disappear by parliamentary procedure. You can’t memory-hole a movement by refusing to record it.

Those words were said. Thousands watched online. The press reported it. North Carolinians heard it. And now millions more will hear about it, because their attempt to silence it only amplified the message.

They tried to bury the truth. Instead, they proved it.

Their fear is our proof. Their shame is our vindication.

Because you don’t try to erase words from the record unless those words have power. You don’t vote on party lines to block routine motions unless you’re terrified of what they represent. You don’t abandon decades of Senate courtesy unless you know, deep in your bones, that history will not be kind.

They are losing, and they know it.

Not today’s vote, they won that. They got their rigged maps. They’ll steal their seats. They’ll cling to power for a few more years.

But they’re losing the war that matters. The war for legitimacy. The war for history’s judgment. The war for the hearts and minds of the next generation watching this unfold.
This weekend, millions marched saying “America has no kings.” Yesterday, North Carolina Republicans proved exactly why those marches were necessary. They rigged our elections, tried to erase any record of opposition, then went home thinking they’d won.

They have no idea what’s coming.

Because every time they silence a voice, ten more rise up. Every time they rig a map, a thousand more people organize. Every time they betray democracy, a million more Americans understand: this is the fight of our generation, and surrender is not an option.

Their fear means we’re winning. Their desperation means our movement has power. Their need to erase us from the record means they hear us perfectly, and what they hear terrifies them.

So we get louder. We organize harder. We fight fiercer.

They can block words from a journal, but they cannot block the march of justice. They can erase speeches from the record, but they cannot erase the promise from the hearts of a people who refuse to bow to kings.

They were so afraid of the truth, they voted to erase it from history.

That tells you everything about the weakness of their cause and everything about the power of ours.

Yesterday, truth was spoken. Today, they’re still trying to silence it. Tomorrow, we rise louder than before.

The fight continues. The promise endures. And every desperate attempt they make to silence us only proves we’re saying exactly what they fear most:

Their time is ending. Democracy’s reckoning is coming. And no rigged map, no stolen vote, no erased record can stop a people who refuse to be silent.

We’re just getting started.

NoKings #NCPolitics #DefendDemocracy #TheyreAfraid #Democracy #WeAreWinning

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

“Unprecedented”: The Word That Died from Overuse

There was a time, long ago—say, around 2015—when the word unprecedented actually meant something. It was reserved for world-shifting events: a moon landing, a cure for polio, maybe even the invention of sliced bread. But under the Trump Redux Administration, unprecedented has been wrung dry, overworked, and beaten into a meaningless pulp. Like a toddler’s favorite toy, it’s been chewed on, screamed at, and hurled across the room so many times it’s barely recognizable.

Because let’s be honest—every single week, nay, every single tweet, is “unprecedented.” The term has become the verbal duct tape holding together what’s left of journalistic sanity. At this point, it might as well be the official slogan of the administration: “Trump 2025: Unprecedented Since Day One.”

Let’s review the Top Five Crimes So Unprecedented, the Dictionary Just Gave Up.

1. The 34-Count Convicted Felon Who Became President Again

We started off strong. Imagine: a man convicted on 34 felony counts somehow running for president—and winning. Not just any felonies, mind you, but good old-fashioned falsifying-records-to-cover-up-a-crime felonies. America collectively shrugged and said, “Eh, let’s give him another shot.” After all, who doesn’t love a comeback story? Sure, Nelson Mandela did 27 years in prison before becoming president, but Mandela didn’t do it for hush money payments and tax fraud. Unprecedented.

2. Deploying Troops on U.S. Soil—Because Feelings

In a bold reinterpretation of the Constitution, the Commander-in-Chief decided that sending troops into U.S. cities is perfectly fine, as long as the reason is “whatever he feels like that day.” Portland, Chicago, New York—no protest too peaceful, no governor too elected. Who needs checks and balances when you’ve got tanks and Twitter? When the National Guard started showing up to clear out yoga moms holding “Democracy Is Cool” signs, even the Pentagon collectively sighed. Unprecedented.

3. Turning the East Wing into a Rubble Pile

Then came the pièce de résistance: the demolition of the East Wing. No, not for safety, not for historical preservation—just because “it didn’t match the vibe.” A literal wing of the People’s House reduced to dust so a grand ballroom could rise from its ashes. When critics asked if there was any public process for the decision, the answer was a resounding “I am the process.” The ghost of Harry Truman, who once rebuilt the White House because it was collapsing, reportedly muttered, “What the actual hell?” Unprecedented.

4. Suing the U.S. Government for Laws He Broke

In a Shakespearean plot twist, the President has filed a lawsuit against his own government for enforcing laws he personally violated. The logic? “If I’m the government, how can I break the law against myself?” Somewhere, every civics teacher in America simultaneously burst into flames. Imagine robbing a bank, getting arrested, and then suing the police for “interfering with your economic freedom.” That’s not just audacious—it’s Trumpaciously unprecedented.

5. The Never-Ending, Ever-Expanding, “Unprecedented” List of Crimes

From obstruction of justice to mishandling classified documents to installing loyalists in positions meant to check his power, the man’s résumé is longer than the Mueller Report (and just as incriminating). He’s managed to stretch the bounds of legality, ethics, and reality itself. Historians have given up trying to label each scandal—they now just refer to them as Episodes of the Unprecedented Saga. Season 3 airs next week.

At this point, “unprecedented” has been so overused, Merriam-Webster is reportedly replacing the entry with a photo of Trump holding a golf club over the smoking ruins of democratic norms.

So perhaps it’s time for a new word—something beyond unprecedented. Apocalyptic? Constitutional-adjacent? Criminalicious? Whatever it is, we’re going to need it. Because as long as this administration continues to make history by setting it on fire, “unprecedented” just isn’t cutting it anymore.

America used to lead the world in innovation and progress. Now, we lead in felony counts and audacity. Truly—unprecedented.