Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

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.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The People’s House, Not Trump’s Playground

Ah yes, the White House — the People’s House, the enduring symbol of American democracy. A place where history has been written, decisions have been made, and now, apparently, drywall is being torn down because one man decided his ego needed more square footage.

Yes, Harry Truman once renovated the White House — because it was literally falling apart. Ceilings were collapsing, floors were sagging, and the entire building was about as structurally sound as a toddler’s LEGO tower. Truman’s decision was about safety, preservation, and respect for history. It wasn’t about acoustics for a future “Trump Palace Grand Gala of Gold Leaf and Self-Adoration.”

Other presidents have added things too — modest, human things. A bowling alley. A basketball court. A movie theater. Little perks of life that said, Hey, even leaders need to unwind. But here comes Donald, not to unwind, but to unhouse the East Wing entirely — all in the name of what? A ballroom. Because apparently, nothing screams “public servant” like adding a dance floor large enough to host the next Mar-a-Lago donor soirée.

Let’s be clear: the White House does not belong to any one president. It doesn’t come with a deed. It doesn’t get inherited. It doesn’t have a “Make an Offer” listing on Zillow. It is, and has always been, the People’s House — a residence on loan to whoever temporarily sits behind the Resolute Desk. The president is, at best, a tenant. A renter. And any renter trying to bulldoze an entire wing without the owner’s consent — that’s us, by the way — would be evicted faster than you can say “security deposit.”

And yet here we are. Donald wants to turn the White House into Versailles with Secret Service. He’s not restoring history — he’s rewriting it, in gilded font. Never mind the laws, the public input, or basic historical preservation. No, this is Donald’s America: where democracy is optional, narcissism is policy, and “we the people” are apparently the unpaid contractors of his latest vanity project.

Imagine the audacity: Truman saved the building, Donald wants to gut it. Truman respected the structure, Donald wants to make it a monument to himself. It’s as if someone inherited the Sistine Chapel and said, “You know what this needs? A hot tub.”

So, yes — be outraged. Because tearing down the East Wing without consent isn’t just a renovation. It’s a desecration. A symbolic wrecking ball through the very idea of public trust. The White House belongs to the people — all the people — not to one bloated ego in a red tie with delusions of monarchy.

And when the dust settles — literally — we’ll still be here, the rightful owners of that house. Cleaning up the mess, as we always do, after the tenants move out.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Somewhere along the line—no one’s exactly sure when—a perfectly good, edible, vitamin-rich pumpkin went from being a hearty meal to a hollowed-out decoration left to rot on suburban porches. Once upon a time, this noble gourd fed entire villages through cold autumn nights. Now it’s been demoted to an overgrown lantern with a goofy grin, sacrificed to the gods of seasonal décor and social media aesthetics.

The irony is rich—richer than a pumpkin bisque. Every October, we collectively descend on pumpkin patches like a swarm of decorative locusts, choosing the biggest, roundest, most photogenic fruit we can find (yes, fruit). We bring it home, stab it gleefully, scoop out its guts, and place a candle in its hollowed corpse to watch it slowly collapse in on itself. Meanwhile, the same supermarkets that sell us the pumpkins also host food drives to help families who don’t have enough to eat.

Originally, carving turnips and later pumpkins had a practical and superstitious purpose. The Irish carved “Jack-o’-lanterns” to ward off evil spirits—a kind of autumnal home security system before ADT came along. But once the tradition sailed across the Atlantic, it found bigger, juicier pumpkins and became a lot more about creativity and Instagram likes than spirits. We’ve since turned this ancient folklore into a billion-dollar industry of scented candles, themed lattes, and limited-edition everything.

Imagine, though, the pumpkin’s perspective. It spends months growing in the field, basking in the late-summer sun, dreaming perhaps of becoming a soup, a pie, or maybe a comforting stew. Then October hits, and instead of being simmered and savored, it’s gutted for aesthetics. A short-lived porch celebrity. A decaying monument to human whimsy.

We could roast the seeds, puree the flesh, make a dozen pies, and still have leftovers to share. But instead, we let them melt into a mushy, fly-attracting pile of regret by November 3rd. And yet, we’ll do it again next year—because it’s tradition, because it’s fun, and because nothing says “celebrating the harvest” like wasting part of it.

So here’s a modest proposal: this fall, carve one pumpkin for the spirit of Halloween—but cook another in the spirit of humanity. Make soup. Bake bread. Feed a neighbor. Let’s remind ourselves that this big orange squash once symbolized abundance, not Instagram-worthy decomposition. After all, a jack-o’-lantern’s smile might light the night—but a shared meal actually warms the soul.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Let’s get something straight — Donald Trump does not own the White House. I know, I know, he certainly strutted around like he had just closed escrow on Pennsylvania Avenue, but despite his best Mar-a-Lago sales pitch, that iconic building does not bear his name in gold-plated letters. The White House is, and always has been, the People’s House — which makes Trump, at best, a tenant. And not even a good one. More like that loud guy who moves in, tears down walls without asking, throws wild parties, and then claims the landlord should thank him for “adding value.”

Let’s look at this like a lease agreement, shall we? The people — that’s us — own the property. We, the taxpayers, maintain it, clean it, heat it, and supply it with everything from Secret Service agents to toilet paper. Every four years, we decide who gets to live there rent-free and pretend to know what’s best for the country. It’s a temporary arrangement, like a very fancy Airbnb — only the security deposit is democracy itself.

But Trump, bless his orange-tinted heart, acted like he was the new landlord in town. He stomped through the halls like a reality TV mogul inspecting “his” property, scowling at the furniture as if it should have been upholstered in MAGA red. He slapped his name on everything else in America — hotels, steaks, water, even a so-called “university” — so it’s easy to see why he thought the White House might be next. But sorry, Donnie, the National Park Service doesn’t do branding deals.

And here’s the thing about being a tenant: you don’t get to make “improvements” without permission. You don’t bulldoze the rose garden, rip out the ramps, or hang gold curtains without at least running it past the owner. Yet Trump spent four years doing metaphorical (and occasionally literal) demolition work — taking a sledgehammer to norms, institutions, and truth itself — as though he had an HGTV show called Flip This Democracy.

Every president before and since understands the deal: the house is borrowed, the power is borrowed, and the respect should be earned. But Trump, ever the real estate huckster, never met a lease he didn’t try to break or a rule he didn’t try to rewrite. And when the eviction notice came due in January 2021, he did what every bad tenant does — refused to leave, broke a few windows, and tried to convince the neighbors the landlord was stealing from him.

So let’s make this perfectly clear: Donald Trump doesn’t own the White House. He never did. He was just squatting there on a four-year lease, and the landlord — We the People — have every right to change the locks.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

“The GOP Plays Calvinball: The Only Rule Is There Are No Rules”

If you grew up with Calvin and Hobbes — Bill Watterson’s legendary comic strip about a precocious six-year-old and his sardonic stuffed tiger — you know that Calvinball is not so much a game as it is a declaration of anarchy wrapped in athletic tape. The official rules of Calvinball are simple: you make them up as you go along, and whatever you say is the rule is the rule — until it isn’t anymore.

Calvin and Hobbes would charge around their backyard, wearing masks (because of course you have to wear masks in Calvinball), yelling things like, “I get 10 points for that!” only for the other to retort, “No, you lose 10 points for talking!” The points didn’t matter, the goals were imaginary, and victory was determined solely by who shouted the loudest last.

Sound familiar?

Because lately, the Republican Party — particularly its Trumpian incarnation — has taken the art of Calvinball from backyard chaos to national governance. They have become the grandmasters of political Calvinball, governing not by laws, norms, or even consistency, but by the sheer audacity of deciding, in the moment, what the rules are.

Rule #1: The Rules Only Apply to Other People

In Calvinball, one of the most sacred tenets is that the rules change whenever you want them to — as long as it benefits you. Likewise, in modern GOP Calvinball:

Investigating a sitting president? Perfectly fine if it’s a Democrat. “Weaponization of government” if it’s a Republican.

Executive orders? Tyranny under Obama, patriotic leadership under Trump.

Debt ceiling? A sacred fiscal principle — unless, of course, we’re in charge, in which case let’s raise it quietly and blame the other guys.

When confronted with contradictions, the GOP’s answer is always the same as Calvin’s: “That rule doesn’t count anymore!”

Rule #2: The Scoreboard Is Whatever We Say It Is

Calvinball’s scoreboard changes minute to minute. “I win by 10 points!” Calvin might yell, to which Hobbes would reply, “The score is now infinity to nothing — I win!”

Similarly, in GOP Calvinball, victory is perpetual and preordained. Lost the popular vote? Claim the electoral map was a “landslide.” Lost court cases? Blame “activist judges.” Lost public opinion? Say the polls are rigged. The scoreboard is an interpretive art form, constantly updated by Fox News chyron writers.

When Trump claimed to have won an election he objectively lost, it wasn’t denial — it was just an advanced Calvinball move. “Actually, the rule is that I win no matter what happens.”

Rule #3: Logic Is for Suckers

In Calvinball, logic kills the fun. You can’t question how you got ten points for singing the “Calvinball National Anthem” backwards while holding a croquet mallet. The moment you try to make sense of it, the game collapses.

So too with the GOP’s policy positions.

Fiscal conservatives pass trillion-dollar tax cuts.

Moral crusaders line up behind a man who paid off a porn star.

Law-and-order types cheer on mobs breaking into the Capitol. Try to make sense of it, and you’ll only give yourself a Calvinball migraine.

The modern GOP doesn’t ignore hypocrisy — they treat it as performance art. “We’re defunding the FBI because we love law enforcement” isn’t a contradiction; it’s a bonus round.

Rule #4: If You Lose, Change the Game

Calvinball is notorious for its endgame strategy: when Calvin starts to lose, he simply declares a new rule that reverses the score. “I just invented the reverse-double-bonus rule — I win now!”

In GOP Calvinball, that’s called changing election laws, gerrymandering, or packing the courts. When democracy doesn’t deliver the result you want, you simply tweak the rules so it can’t happen again.

Remember: in Calvinball, fairness is for the weak.

Rule #5: Always Wear the Mask

In Calvinball, the players always wear masks. It’s not clear why — maybe it’s part of the ritual, maybe it’s a metaphor for pretending you’re someone else. Either way, it’s fitting.

The GOP’s mask is “patriotism.” Everything — every outrage, every attack, every act of sabotage — is done “for America.” Never mind that America itself seems increasingly exhausted by the performance. The mask must stay on. To remove it would reveal what Calvinball can never admit: that there are no real rules, just a desperate game of keeping score where no one ever really wins.

Conclusion: The National Game of Calvinball

Calvin once said, “The only permanent rule in Calvinball is that you can’t play it the same way twice.” The GOP has taken that to heart, applying it to governance, ethics, and even reality itself.

Every day brings a new rule, a new grievance, a new definition of “freedom,” “truth,” or “law.” And just like Calvin, they proclaim victory with absolute confidence, even as the rest of us stare at the chaos and wonder what game they think they’re playing.

Calvinball was funny because it was make-believe.

The GOP’s version is less so — because this time, they’ve taken the field for real, and the rest of us are stuck cleaning up the backyard.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

In a nation teetering on the edge of a government shutdown — where paychecks are paused, national parks are closed, and congressional negotiations are as frozen as Trump’s old steak brand — one man stands bravely against the chaos, shovel in hand, ready to build something truly tremendous. Not infrastructure, not relief programs, not schools — no, no, no. President Donald J. Trump (self-appointed “architect of greatness”) has broken ground on his newest, most luxurious, most unnecessary project yet: a grand ballroom.

The destruction of the White House’s dignity began modestly, as all great tragedies do — with Melania’s “beautification” project. The beloved Rose Garden, once a living tribute to American history, was replaced with a tasteful assortment of beige tiles and emotional emptiness. Now, in this post-botanical apocalypse, construction crews are reportedly moving in to make way for the pièce de résistance: Trump’s Ballroom of Greatness.

“It’s going to be beautiful,” he’s imagined to have said, probably to himself in a mirror. “People are saying it’s the most beautiful ballroom ever built, maybe even bigger than Versailles, which by the way, wasn’t that great, okay? I’ve been to Versailles, and frankly, I’ve seen better marble at Mar-a-Lago.”

Naturally, the project has already outgrown its humble beginnings. “Ballroom” sounds too common, too… democratic. So, Trump is workshopping names. “The Octagon,” he reportedly mused, “because eight is bigger than five. People don’t know that. Nobody knew that before me. I figured it out. Genius stuff. The best shapes, really.”

But then inspiration struck like a golden lightning bolt of pure ego: “The Trumpagon. That’s it! Much classier. Much better than the Octagon. Everyone’s doing octagons, you know, but nobody’s doing Trumpagons. It’s totally original — like me.”

The nation, meanwhile, can’t afford to pay its federal employees. But why should that stop progress? Trump has always believed that while America can’t always have functioning governance, it can have a chandelier the size of a minivan. “We need elegance,” he might say. “When people visit the White House — excuse me, Trump Palace — they shouldn’t be looking at boring old history. They should be looking at gold. Real gold. Maybe gold-plated walls. Gold drapes. Gold spoons. It’s classy. It’s presidential. It’s Trump.”

And so, the White House, that iconic seat of democracy, is to be reborn — not as a symbol of the people, but as a monument to one man’s delusion of royalty. The People’s House no longer; soon it will gleam like a casino off the Vegas strip, complete with embossed T’s on every surface and a marble bust of Donald himself, probably winking.

One can only imagine Thomas Jefferson’s ghost wandering the halls, muttering, “We overthrew a king for this?”

Yet Trump persists, blissfully unfazed. “The name ‘White House,’” he might declare, “is so pedestrian. So basic. We’re gonna rename it ‘Trump Palace.’ It’s got a better ring. I think George Washington would love it — he was a great builder, by the way, lots of people don’t know that.”

So as the country stalls, as workers worry, and as the machinery of democracy grinds to a halt, rest assured that somewhere in D.C., amid scaffolding and gold leaf, one man’s vanity project continues undisturbed. Because if America can’t afford to pay for democracy, at least it can pay for Trump’s dance floor.

After all, in his mind, every crisis deserves a gala.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Fourth Estate: Buried Alive (and Jefferson’s Probably Still Rolling)

Thomas Jefferson — that powdered-wig prophet of liberty — once declared that he’d rather have “newspapers without a government” than “a government without newspapers.” He meant it, too. He truly believed that an informed public, guided by a free and fearless press, could keep tyranny at bay. Fast forward two centuries, and Jefferson is most likely doing somersaults in his grave at Monticello fast enough to power a small Virginia town.

Because somewhere between “We hold these truths to be self-evident” and “We’ll get back to you after this message from MyPillow,” America managed to bury the Fourth Estate under an avalanche of propaganda, punditry, and patriotically-approved press releases.

The latest shovelful of dirt came courtesy of Pete Hegseth, Fox News weekend warrior and aspiring information czar, who recently suggested that reporters covering the Department of Defense should sign a pledge agreeing to only publish stories he personally approves. Ah, yes — nothing says “freedom of the press” quite like mandatory loyalty oaths! Jefferson’s pen must be weeping ink in the afterlife. The Founding Fathers risked hanging for speaking freely, and now the press risks a bad segment review from a cable news host.

This, of course, didn’t spring out of nowhere. The groundwork was laid years ago when Fox News decided it was too exhausting to separate fact from fiction — so they just started calling both “fair and balanced.” Who needs investigative journalism when you can have outrage on demand? Why chase the truth when you can just scream your version of it into a camera?

Then along came Donald Trump, who took Fox’s model of narrative-driven “news” and gave it steroids. With the subtlety of a sledgehammer, he branded any unflattering report as “fake news” and any flattering one as “truth.” His followers ate it up like state-sponsored comfort food. The more the press told the truth, the more they were called liars. The more they called out corruption, the more they were accused of being corrupt. Jefferson must be spinning like a colonial fidget spinner by now.

And so, the Fourth Estate — once the proud watchdog of democracy — has been demoted to a lapdog with a social media account. The public, too, has given up on distinguishing journalism from opinion, fact from fantasy, reporting from rage-bait. One side screams “lamestream media,” the other side screams “disinformation!” and meanwhile the truth quietly packs its bags and leaves the country.

Jefferson envisioned a free press that would hold leaders accountable. Instead, we’ve got press briefings that feel like infomercials, journalists treated like traitors, and politicians tweeting conspiracy theories as if they were classified intelligence. The man who authored the Declaration of Independence would probably declare a state of emergency.

So yes, the Fourth Estate still exists — technically. It’s just being slowly replaced by the Approved Narrative Network™, where every story comes with a pre-installed moral: “We’re right, they’re wrong, and Jefferson was overrated anyway.”

Somewhere in that quiet Monticello hillside, Thomas Jefferson isn’t just rolling in his grave — he’s clawing his way out of it, parchment in hand, ready to write one last furious editorial titled “I Told You So.”

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Halloween, now one of the most beloved and commercially successful holidays in the world, is a fascinating blend of ancient rituals, religious observances, and modern pop culture. Its evolution from a solemn Celtic festival to a sugar-fueled celebration of costumes and candy reflects centuries of cultural blending and social change.

From Samhain to All Hallows’ Eve

The roots of Halloween trace back over 2,000 years to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-in), celebrated on October 31. For the Celts of Ireland, Scotland, and parts of northern Europe, Samhain marked the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter—a time associated with death and the supernatural. They believed that on this night, the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was at its thinnest, allowing spirits to roam freely. To ward off or appease these spirits, people lit bonfires, wore disguises, and offered food and drink.

When Christianity spread across Europe, the Church sought to replace pagan festivals with Christian observances. In the 9th century, Pope Gregory IV established All Saints’ Day on November 1, and the evening before became known as All Hallows’ Eve, which eventually evolved linguistically into Halloween. Though the Church attempted to sanctify the day, many pagan customs—such as dressing in costumes and lighting fires—persisted, blending old beliefs with new religious meanings.

From Mischief to “Trick-or-Treat”

In medieval Europe, a custom known as “souling” developed, particularly in England and Ireland. On All Souls’ Day (November 2), the poor would go door to door, offering to pray for the souls of the household’s dead in exchange for “soul cakes,” small round pastries marked with a cross. This early form of door-to-door begging for food can be seen as a precursor to modern trick-or-treating.

Similarly, in Scotland and Ireland, there was the practice of “guising”, where children dressed in costumes and performed songs, recited poems, or told jokes in exchange for small gifts or treats. These customs were carried to North America in the 19th century by Irish and Scottish immigrants, merging with other fall festivals and neighborhood games to form the foundation of Halloween as we know it.

The Rise of Candy Culture

However, the modern custom of giving candy specifically is a relatively recent development. In the early 20th century, children in the United States might have received coins, nuts, fruits, or small toys when they went door to door. It wasn’t until after World War II, when sugar rationing ended and mass-produced sweets became affordable, that candy became the treat of choice.

By the 1950s, as suburban neighborhoods flourished and Halloween became a safe, community-oriented holiday, candy manufacturers recognized a marketing opportunity. Companies like Hershey, Mars, and Nestlé began promoting small, individually wrapped candies as the perfect trick-or-treat items. The simplicity and hygiene of pre-packaged candy made it the ideal choice for parents, and by the 1970s, handing out candy had become the dominant Halloween tradition.

A Holiday of Ancient Echoes and Modern Delights

Today, Halloween is a dazzling mix of ancient spirituality, immigrant folklore, and capitalist ingenuity. While its origins lie in rituals meant to ward off spirits and honor the dead, the modern celebration focuses on fun, imagination, and of course, candy. Each “fun-size” chocolate bar handed out on October 31 carries within it a piece of that long, layered history—from Celtic bonfires to medieval soul cakes to mid-century candy wrappers.

In essence, Halloween is a cultural chameleon: what began as a night of fear and reverence has transformed into one of joy, sugar, and shared community spirit—proof that traditions, like ghosts, have a way of coming back in new forms.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It’s become a national pastime: someone, somewhere, declaring with unwavering conviction that “Biden ruined the economy.” They say it like it’s gospel truth, handed down on stone tablets between Fox News commercial breaks.

So you ask the question—just for fun. “Okay, what did the economy look like in January 1925?”

“Oh, it was great!” they insist, confidently rewriting history as if they personally owned stock in the Roaring Twenties. You can almost see them picturing flappers dancing through speakeasies while Coolidge quietly set the stage for the Great Depression.

Then you follow up: “And what does the economy look like now?”

“Terrible. Biden ruined it.”

“Who’s president now?” you ask.

Cue the confusion. A long pause. Then the reflexive deflection—“Fake news! You just believe whatever CNN tells you!” Logic short-circuits faster than a Tesla on dial-up.

But the pièce de résistance comes next. They shake their head, sigh dramatically, and deliver the line as if it’s a mic drop: “Gas was cheaper under Trump!”

Ah yes, the 2020 golden age—when the world economy flatlined because of a global pandemic that Donald Trump spent months pretending didn’t exist. Gas was cheap, sure, but only because no one was driving anywhere. Planes were grounded, streets were empty, and oil companies were practically paying people to take barrels off their hands. But to them, that wasn’t an economic collapse; that was “good times.”

Meanwhile, under Biden, the economy actually came back to life. Jobs returned in record numbers. Unemployment hit historic lows. The U.S. recovered faster from the pandemic than any other major nation. But none of that matters—because apparently, freedom means gas at $1.80, no matter if it came with a side of refrigerated morgues and empty grocery shelves.

It’s a peculiar kind of nostalgia—one that longs for a past that never quite existed, where gas was cheap, the stock market was “booming,” and the only thing spreading faster than COVID was denial.

So when someone insists Biden ruined the economy, just smile and say, “You’re right—nothing says prosperity like a deadly pandemic and 30 million unemployed.” Then sit back and watch history, logic, and irony all vanish faster than a mask mandate in a red state.