Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Once upon a time, in a galaxy not so far away — in fact, right here in the United States — the Republican Party cast itself in the grandest of cinematic roles. In their own imaginations, they’re the scrappy Rebel Alliance, courageously fighting the evil Galactic Deep State with nothing but faith, freedom, and a flamethrower full of grievance. They see themselves as noble freedom fighters, rising against tyranny — which is fascinating, considering they are the ones trying to build the Death Star.

It’s as if Darth Vader looked in the mirror, saw the shiny helmet, heard the mechanical breathing, and said, “Yup, that’s definitely Luke Skywalker staring back.”

In the modern Republican cinematic universe, Donald Trump is a hybrid character — part Tony Stark (minus the genius), part Captain America (minus the moral compass), and part Emperor Palpatine (with all the hand gestures and none of the self-awareness). His loyal followers? Oh, they’re convinced they’re the Avengers — a ragtag group of patriots fighting to “save the republic.” But instead of saving it, they’re busy trying to privatize it and sell the merch.

The irony writes itself. They rail against “the Empire” while marching in lockstep with authoritarianism. They decry “big government” while demanding laws that control books, bodies, and voting booths. They shout about “freedom” while insisting everyone think, pray, and behave exactly as they do. It’s less Rebel Alliance and more Empire with better PR.

And let’s not forget the Marvel side of this delusion. Somewhere between reality and a Fox News green screen, they’ve decided they are Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. But instead of protecting the planet, they’re defending billionaires from paying taxes and making sure Captain Planet dies of deregulation. Hydra — the shadowy fascist organization that infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D.? They’d call it “the Freedom Caucus” and hold a fundraiser for it at Mar-a-Lago.

Remember Hydra’s motto: “Cut off one head, two more shall take its place”? That’s basically the GOP’s 2025 campaign strategy. Every time a scandal knocks one down, another one pops up wearing a flag pin and shouting about “family values” while under investigation for something that definitely violates them.

Meanwhile, the actual rebels — journalists, teachers, scientists, voters who still believe in democracy — are cast as villains. They’re “elites,” “globalists,” or “woke mobs” depending on the day’s script rewrite. It’s like watching The Empire Strikes Back, except this time the stormtroopers are convinced they’re the good guys because they think “order” and “freedom” are synonyms.

If George Lucas wrote today’s political saga, it would probably be called Episode IX: The Gaslighting Awakens. The plot? The Empire rebrands itself as the victims of rebellion. Vader releases a memoir titled The Art of the Force Deal. And the Death Star is renamed the “Freedom Orbital Security Installation.”

The truth is, the Republican Party isn’t the Rebel Alliance or the Avengers — they’re the villains who think they’re heroes. The ones who believe authoritarianism is liberty, censorship is patriotism, and reality is whatever the script says it is. They’ve become the cinematic equivalent of Loki giving a press conference about honesty or Thanos lecturing on population ethics.

But hey — every blockbuster needs its delusional antagonist. The tragedy is that these ones aren’t content to stay on the screen. They’re trying to turn the world’s oldest democracy into their own dystopian sequel — one where Hydra wins, the Empire never falls, and the credits never roll.

Cue the ominous music, fade to black, and remember: in this movie, the bad guys still think they’re saving the galaxy.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Well, dear America, grab your pearls and clutch them tight — democracy is under siege! No, not from the storming of government buildings or the armed mobs waving Confederate flags inside the halls of Congress. No, no, that was just a spirited “tour” of the Capitol by “patriots.” The real danger, we are told, is the No Kings rallies — those horrifying gatherings of everyday citizens, waving American flags, chanting about democracy, and having the audacity to believe that no man should be treated like a monarch. How utterly un-American!

According to the latest political sermon from the self-appointed guardians of freedom (you know, the ones who think the First Amendment only applies to their social media posts), these rallies are clearly the work of terrorists. After all, nothing says “domestic extremism” quite like a group of citizens peacefully demanding accountability, transparency, and an end to political idolatry. They must be plotting an insurrection, because in modern America, dissent against a would-be king is considered treasonous — while worshiping him is practically patriotic.

Meanwhile, over on the other side of the moral seesaw, we find the latest controversy (or should I say, “non-troversy”) — a flood of pro-Nazi, white nationalist, and fascist memes proudly shared by the “youthful” conservatives of our day. Now, some of these “youths” are in their early 40s, but who’s counting? Age is just a number — especially when it comes to sharing hate symbols online. We’re told these aren’t expressions of dangerous ideology, heavens no! They’re just “youthful indiscretions.” You know, the kind that would have gotten anyone else fired, canceled, or at least investigated by the FBI.

But not these folks. No sir. These are the future leaders of the movement — men and women who simply need a little guidance, maybe a rebranding seminar, and a good PR consultant to polish off those goose-stepping edges. After all, everyone experiments in their 40s, right? Some people buy a motorcycle or get a tattoo; others post Nazi propaganda. Tomato, tomahto.

Yet, back to those “No Kings” hooligans. Their real crime isn’t violence or hate speech — it’s something far worse: believing the Constitution still means something. Imagine the audacity! These extremists think citizens should have a say in government decisions, that leaders should be accountable to the people, and that the presidency is a public office, not a throne. Clearly, these are dangerous ideas that could spread if not swiftly stamped out by Fox News and its Ministry of Disinformation.

The irony is almost poetic. A rally that celebrates America’s foundational rejection of monarchy is branded “anti-American,” while those defending authoritarianism are hailed as “true patriots.” It’s as if 1776 never happened — as if King George’s ghost now runs the RNC and hands out loyalty oaths at fundraisers.

Let’s call it what it is: projection wrapped in hypocrisy, sprinkled with fascist nostalgia. The same people who cried foul over “cancel culture” are the first to call for mass arrests when citizens exercise their right to protest — as long as the protest isn’t about guns, God, or the golden idol of Mar-a-Lago.

So, let’s raise a toast — not to kings, not to crowns, but to contradictions. To a world where chanting “No Kings” is sedition, but posting Nazi memes is a minor oopsie. Where democracy is a threat, and fascism is just “free speech.”

Because nothing screams “freedom” quite like criminalizing those who defend it.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It’s maybe not all that surprising that Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—a man whose family history reads like a Shakespearean tragedy—has his mind steeped in conspiracy theories. When your father and uncle are both assassinated in broad daylight, when your family name itself is forever linked to American myth and murder, perhaps suspicion becomes a kind of inheritance. You start looking for patterns in the static, for secret causes behind public events. Maybe you even start to believe that every tragedy has an invisible hand behind it.

But RFK Jr.’s descent into the conspiratorial rabbit hole hasn’t been confined to the realm of politics or assassination lore. No, his particular obsession—the one that has defined his public crusades for years—is autism. Kennedy has clung to the long-debunked idea that vaccines cause autism, a theory that has been refuted by nearly every reputable medical and scientific body on the planet. Yet somehow, he continues to repackage the same paranoia under new labels. His latest claim? That circumcision might somehow cause autism. Yes, you read that right: circumcision.

It’s almost comical, if it weren’t so irresponsibly absurd. Is he suggesting that we trace autism all the way back to the first brisk in the Jewish community, before the birth of Christ? Because if circumcision were the cause, one would expect the ancient world to have been teeming with undiagnosed autism cases in the Bronze Age. This is the kind of pseudoscientific leap that would make even the most ardent conspiracy theorist pause and ask, “Wait, really?”

But of course, it doesn’t stop there. RFK Jr. has also decided to throw Tylenol into the mix—because apparently, nothing is safe from his scattershot suspicion. Perhaps it’s not the circumcision itself, it is the mild pain reliever, the male child is given after having their foreskin removed. He also has claimed that pregnant women that have taken Tylenol may be causing their unborn fetus to develop autism. Acetaminophen, a staple in American households for nearly 70 years, is now, in his mind, the culprit behind rising autism diagnoses. Never mind that autism is now better recognized, better diagnosed, and better understood as a spectrum condition—RFK Jr. needs a villain. And if it isn’t vaccines or circumcision, then it must be over-the-counter pain relief.

The irony is that Kennedy’s fixation on “what causes autism” reveals more about him than it does about autism itself. His thinking mirrors the very pathology of conspiratorial belief: when one story is disproven, the true believer simply shifts to another narrative that fits the same emotional need. There must be a cause. There must be blame. The world, to Kennedy, can’t just be complex—it has to be corrupted.

What’s especially tragic is that RFK Jr. could have been a powerful voice for reason and reform. His family name carries weight, his background commands attention, and his concerns about corporate influence and government transparency could have anchored serious discussions. But instead of using that platform to elevate understanding, he’s squandered it by peddling medical folklore and paranoia disguised as skepticism.

In the end, RFK Jr.’s crusades against vaccines, Tylenol, and now circumcision don’t expose new truths—they expose his own unhealed need to make sense of chaos. The man who lost so much to the unseen forces of violence is still looking for hidden hands everywhere. Unfortunately, in doing so, he’s become exactly what he once might have despised: a man chasing ghosts, mistaking shadows for evidence, and spreading fear in the name of truth.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Tomorrow, Americans from coast to coast will take to the streets under a simple yet powerful banner: “No Kings.” These marches aren’t acts of rebellion or unrest—they are acts of remembrance and renewal. They are a reaffirmation of what this country was built upon: the radical idea that no man, no matter his wealth, power, or self-proclaimed destiny, is above the law.

The No Kings movement is not partisan—it is patriotic. It is the living, breathing spirit of democracy in motion. From Philadelphia to Portland, from Atlanta to Anchorage, citizens are marching to remind those in power that this nation was founded in direct opposition to monarchy. The Founders fought a revolution not to crown a new ruler, but to create a government of the people, by the people, and for the people. Tomorrow’s marches are a declaration that we have not forgotten that promise.

Yet, as expected, the GOP and the Trump-aligned right have begun to twist the message. They’ve labeled the marchers as radicals, anarchists, even “enemies of the state.” But let’s be clear—what they fear isn’t chaos. What they fear is accountability. They fear citizens who refuse to kneel. They fear a public that still believes in the Constitution more than in a cult of personality.

The No Kings movement is a peaceful and powerful stand against authoritarianism masquerading as populism. It is a reminder that patriotism isn’t blind loyalty to one man—it’s loyalty to the principles that define a free nation. The irony, of course, is rich: a political faction once claiming to be the defenders of liberty now seeks to elevate one man as untouchable, infallible, and beyond question. That is not democracy. That is feudalism wrapped in a red, white, and blue flag.

For years, we’ve watched the steady erosion of democratic norms: officials punished for truth-telling, judges attacked for upholding the law, journalists vilified for doing their jobs. We’ve seen this former and unfortunately current president—who still commands the loyalty of a terrified party—speak as though he were chosen, not elected; ordained, not constrained. He demands obedience, not consent. He seeks vengeance, not justice.

That is why tomorrow’s marches matter so deeply. The No Kings movement isn’t about tearing something down—it’s about building something up again: civic courage. It’s about reclaiming the moral center of democracy, one citizen, one step, one sign at a time. The chants won’t be angry—they’ll be resolute. The crowds won’t be mobs—they’ll be patriots.

This nation was born in defiance of monarchy and sustained by the will of its people. Every generation must prove worthy of that inheritance. Tomorrow, as Americans march under the banner of “No Kings,” they’ll be reminding this country—and the world—that democracy doesn’t die quietly. It roars in the streets, wrapped not in violence, but in purpose.

Because in America, there are no kings. There are only citizens. And together, we are the crown.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald J. Trump—our nation’s most stable genius and part-time Gotham City historian—has once again graced us with his latest paranoid bedtime story: that other countries are “dumping their criminals, crazies, and lunatics” into the United States. Apparently, asylum seekers at the border aren’t families fleeing persecution, war, and famine—they’re escapees from international supermax prisons, hand-delivered straight to Texas by evil foreign masterminds.

It’s almost poetic, really. Trump’s imagination has gone full comic book. In his mind, somewhere south of the border, a shadowy cabal of foreign leaders is cackling as they load up buses filled with Joker look-alikes, Harley Quinns, and maybe even a few Riddlers for good measure, all bound for the Rio Grande. Forget facts, forget international law—Donald seems to truly believe that Joe Biden has opened America’s doors to Arkham Asylum.

You can practically hear him now at one of his rallies: “Folks, they’re sending us their worst—murderers, lunatics, villains with face paint! They’re all coming in! Bane himself! Not good, folks. Not good!” And his followers, bless their obedient hearts, nod along as if they just watched The Dark Knight Rises on Newsmax and thought it was a documentary.

This fantasy tells us less about immigration and more about the psychological fan fiction running inside Trump’s head. Because to believe this nonsense, you have to imagine that entire nations have nothing better to do than conspire to unload their most dangerous inmates onto America, as if Honduras has an official “Buy One, Get One Deportation” deal with the White House. It’s absurd, but in Trump’s world, absurdity is policy.

What’s even more unbelievable is that Trump actually sees himself as the hero in this comic book drama—the lone caped crusader standing between “real Americans” and a horde of imported villains. Never mind that his own inner circle has been more of a rogues’ gallery than any asylum intake list: convicted felons, indicted advisors, grifters, and would-be coup plotters. If anyone’s running Arkham, it’s not Biden—it’s Mar-a-Lago.

Let’s remember what asylum seekers actually are: human beings legally exercising their right under international and U.S. law to seek refuge from violence, persecution, and danger. But Trump’s imagination doesn’t have room for that nuance. To him, empathy is weakness, and humanity is just another inconvenient regulation to repeal. So he spins his border mythology—part scare tactic, part campaign fuel, and entirely disconnected from reality.

In his speeches, you can almost picture him pacing like a demented Batman villain himself, shouting about “Biden’s border madness,” while gesturing to invisible convicts parachuting into Arizona. If he had any self-awareness, he might notice that his rhetoric sounds less like a presidential statement and more like a bad comic book pitch: “Gotham Falls: The Biden Betrayal.”

But here’s the irony that could choke even the Joker with laughter: Trump’s own policies helped destabilize parts of the region people are now fleeing from. His administration cut aid to Central American countries, undermined asylum processing, and left a humanitarian vacuum that fueled the very desperation he now demonizes. So in true Trumpian fashion, he broke the system—and now blames the victims.

In the end, this isn’t about crime, immigration, or national security. It’s about fear. Trump thrives on it, marinates in it, and sells it like snake oil to anyone willing to buy. He doesn’t see asylum seekers; he sees villains in need of a campaign villain arc. And he’s counting on his supporters to confuse empathy with chaos and compassion with weakness.

So when Donald Trump tells us that Biden has unleashed the inmates of Arkham Asylum onto American soil, maybe he’s projecting a little. Because if anyone’s been letting the lunatics run the asylum, it’s the man who turned the White House into a live-action farce of his own making.

In Trump’s America, reality isn’t just optional—it’s the enemy. And somewhere, the Joker is probably watching all this unfold, grinning ear to ear, because even he couldn’t write satire this unhinged.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Mike Johnson, the self-anointed messianic shepherd of the House Republicans, has done it again. With one hand raised to heaven and the other clutching a Bible that he reads far more selectively than the Constitution, he has sent his congregation of legislators on vacation—hallelujah!—while the federal government teeters on the edge of collapse. Negotiating with Democrats? Perish the thought. Acknowledging that this shutdown is a monument to GOP cruelty? Blasphemy.

And yet, with all the zeal of a televangelist promising salvation for three easy payments, Johnson insists—hand to God—that the Republican Party is the only one truly concerned about the healthcare of Americans. You know, the same party that’s been trying to dismantle the Affordable Care Act since before it even took effect, that votes against expanding Medicaid, and that now wants to gut the only federal law ensuring emergency medical care for anyone. Yes, that one. Praise be.

While Democrats are fighting to extend the ACA supplemental benefits that keep millions of working-class Americans insured, Johnson’s holy warriors are frothing over EMTALA—the Emergency Medical Treatment and Labor Act. For those blissfully unaware, EMTALA is the Reagan-era law requiring hospitals to treat anyone who shows up in the ER, regardless of insurance status, ability to pay, or immigration papers. It’s the law that prevents the U.S. from descending into full medieval triage at the hospital doors.

But here’s the kicker: EMTALA isn’t some Democratic fever dream hatched in a progressive think tank. It was actually signed into law by Ronald Reagan—the GOP’s patron saint of deregulation, union busting, and trickle-down economics. Yes, the same Reagan who Republicans invoke like a talisman anytime they need to sanctify tax cuts for billionaires also gave us the legal guarantee that hospitals can’t just leave people bleeding on the sidewalk. Apparently, even the Gipper thought “let them die” wasn’t the best look for America.

Fast forward nearly forty years, and Reagan’s moral vestige has become the GOP’s latest punching bag. The same Republicans who quote scripture about loving thy neighbor are now raging that hospitals must, in fact, love their neighbors—especially if that neighbor happens to be undocumented. Because in the Gospel according to Mike Johnson, compassion has a citizenship requirement.

And while Democrats are at the negotiating table trying to prevent millions from losing their healthcare, Johnson has effectively slammed the door and said, “We’ll pray on it.” His caucus, ever faithful, is now off enjoying a taxpayer-funded recess, leaving the country on the verge of shutdown. The parks will close, federal workers will go unpaid, veterans’ services will stall—but hey, at least no one’s accidentally helping an uninsured immigrant get a tetanus shot.

And has anyone bothered to ask Johnson or his disciples what they’d do if the roles were reversed? Imagine one of them in France or the UK—countries with actual universal healthcare—suffering from a burst appendix, only to be told, “Sorry, no treatment, you’re not a citizen.” Would they nobly accept the free-market logic? Or would they unleash a Fox News-worthy meltdown about “foreign healthcare tyranny”? You just know they’d expect first-class treatment, citizenship be damned.

But back home, they’re perfectly fine holding the entire federal government hostage to make a point about who “deserves” care. Because this isn’t about healthcare, budgets, or border policy—it’s about cruelty, plain and simple. Cruelty wrapped in piety, disguised as fiscal responsibility, and broadcast with the smug certainty of a man who believes God personally approves his talking points.

So here we are again: the government shutdown while Mike Johnson leads his flock in another sermon about moral values. Democrats are fighting to keep people insured; Republicans are fighting to keep people out of the ER. And in between them stands EMTALA—Reagan’s inconvenient ghost of decency, haunting a party that’s long since exorcised compassion from its platform.

Because in the great Compassion-Off of 2025, Mike Johnson may claim divine authority, but the only miracles his leadership seems to produce are suffering, hypocrisy, and another looming shutdown. Amen and pass the hospital bill.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There’s something undeniably terrifying about clowns. Not the Hollywood monster kind with razor teeth and red balloons—though, sure, Pennywise deserves an honorable mention—but the real ones. The kind with smeared greasepaint, a laugh that lasts a beat too long, and eyes that say, I know where the bodies are buried.

Clowns are the apex predators of the uncanny valley. They exist in that liminal space between laughter and nightmare, where the human face is painted into something that shouldn’t exist but somehow does. Vampires and werewolves? Those are safe. They’re myths, costumes, characters we can turn off when the porch lights come on. But clowns? Clowns walk among us. They have day jobs. They drive minivans. They shop at Target—sometimes in full makeup.

Historically, clowns weren’t meant to be funny. Court jesters mocked kings and paid for their punchlines in blood. Even the circus variety—the bright costumes, the floppy shoes, the squeaky horns—carry an air of something ancient and dark, like a ritual gone wrong that we just kept doing because laughter was easier than screaming.

Every few years, society remembers the truth. The 1980s clown panics. John Wayne Gacy. The “killer clowns” that started popping up in random towns like demonic Pokémon. We act surprised every time, as if the evidence isn’t painted in greasepaint right in front of us: clowns are real, and they are terrifying because they mean to be.

So, when Halloween rolls around and someone shows up dressed as a vampire, fine. You smile. You offer them candy. But when the clown walks up the driveway, balloon in one hand and that painted grin stretched too wide—you freeze. Because deep down, you know that the mask isn’t covering the monster. The mask is the monster.

So yes, ghosts and ghouls may haunt our imagination. But clowns? Clowns haunt reality.

🎃 Happy Halloween. And remember—if you hear laughter behind you, don’t turn around.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Panopticon Presidency: Orwell Would Be Proud (and Terrified)

If Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon was the “perfect prison,” then George Orwell’s 1984 was the instruction manual for turning that prison into a nation. Both were meant as warnings—cautionary tales about surveillance, control, and psychological domination. Unfortunately, when it comes to the modern American right, particularly under the mango-tinted messiah and his pallid sidekick Stephen Miller, those warnings look more like blueprints.

Let’s be clear: Donald J. Trump has almost certainly never heard of the Panopticon, unless he’s confusing it with a fancy new golf course in Dubai. Reading 1984? Please. That would require staying awake longer than two pages without pictures. But Stephen Miller—oh, he’s read it. He’s the kind of guy who reads 1984 and roots for Big Brother. He probably underlined the parts about obedience and control and thought, “Now this is governance!”

Bentham’s Perfect Prison

The Panopticon, as Bentham imagined it, was elegant in its cruelty: a circular prison where inmates never knew when they were being watched, so they behaved as if they always were. Constant visibility. Constant self-policing. You didn’t need walls of force when you could build walls of fear. The genius—and horror—of the Panopticon was that it turned surveillance into a state of mind.

Orwell’s Perfect State

Orwell took that same psychology and scaled it up to the size of a nation. 1984’s Big Brother isn’t watching everyone all the time—but everyone believes he might be, and that’s enough. Thoughtcrime, Newspeak, the rewriting of history—these weren’t just tools of repression. They were instruments of self-censorship. People learned to police their own minds, to love their captor, to fear even their own thoughts. It wasn’t just a dystopia—it was an obedience factory.

Enter the Modern Panopticon: The Trumpist Edition

Now, imagine that structure of control translated into a reality-TV dictatorship. You have the showman-in-chief who thrives on attention and chaos, and his ideological enforcer who understands that fear is the currency of compliance. The Trump-Miller approach isn’t about policy—it’s about power optics. They don’t need to put cameras in every room when they can convince people that “antifa” is lurking behind every bush and that “deep state” agents are reading your Facebook posts. It’s paranoia as public policy.

Every authoritarian needs their Panopticon. For Trump, it’s the omnipresent media echo chamber, where his followers watch him watching them watching him—a perpetual feedback loop of loyalty and rage. For Miller, it’s the bureaucratic machinery of surveillance, immigration raids, and speech policing dressed up as “law and order.” Together, they’re not building literal prison walls; they’re building psychological ones.

Big Brother Would Approve

Trump’s America flirts with Orwellian control every time the administration attacks journalists as “enemies of the people,” threatens to use the military against protesters, or demands blind allegiance over truth. It’s a police state dressed up in patriotism, a Panopticon powered by social media instead of stone walls. The true genius—or tragedy—is that half the inmates are cheering while the walls go up around them.

In the End

The Panopticon and 1984 both describe systems where people surrender freedom not because they’re forced to, but because they’re trained to. And that’s exactly the kind of obedience the Trump machine thrives on. So yes, while Donald himself couldn’t define “Panopticon” if it were engraved on a golf ball, his administration has certainly absorbed the concept. After all, it’s not about knowing the theory—it’s about living it. And under the watchful eye of Big Don and Little Brother Miller, the American experiment looks more and more like a rerun of a dystopia we were all warned to avoid.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

No surprise , it was only a matter of time before Donald J. Trump — the Mango Maestro of Misinformation, the Sun-Kissed Sultan of Self-Delusion — turned the U.S. government into a spin-off of The Apprentice: Miss Universe Edition. Because why on earth would you pick policy experts or diplomats when you can have contestants from the “Evening Gown and Loyalty Test” portion of the show?

Let’s be clear: this isn’t a joke — this is literally how he staffs the federal government. Trump doesn’t see a Cabinet; he sees a casting call. He’s not hiring, he’s hosting. The Oval Office has become his personal greenroom, complete with ring lights and lip gloss. Qualifications? Oh please — that’s for boring people who read memos. In Trumpworld, the only criteria that matter are (1) camera readiness, (2) willingness to flatter His Orangeness, and (3) the ability to feign shock when democracy crumbles in the background.

His female appointments, coincidentally, all seem to come with headshots and swimsuit competition résumés. Who needs experience in governance when you’ve got “runner-up, Miss Florida 1998” on your CV? In Trump’s twisted worldview, national security briefings are just talent auditions and loyalty oaths are the new talent portion.

It’s as if The Real Housewives of Mar-a-Lago got greenlit without anyone noticing. The taglines practically write themselves:

“I may not understand foreign policy, but I look fabulous doing it.” “You can’t spell ‘executive privilege’ without ‘pretty privilege.’” “I don’t chase subpoenas — subpoenas chase me.”

And let’s not forget the Commander-in-Creep himself, presiding over this glittering circus like some orange Andy Cohen, sipping Diet Coke and judging everyone’s “ratings potential.” Behind every Cabinet meeting, you can almost hear the faint echo of a producer whispering, “Can we get another take of that loyalty pledge, Pam? This time with more sparkle.”

The tragedy, of course, is that this isn’t satire — it’s the Trump doctrine. Competence is out; camera presence is in. America’s government has been rebranded as a reality show where the only reality is how unreal it all feels.

So tune in next week for another episode of The Real Housewives of the Trump Cabinet, where foreign policy takes a backseat to false lashes, and the only thing more inflated than the egos are the approval ratings. Coming soon to a collapsing democracy near you.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Bless her heart… Pam Bondi — the ever-loyal handmaiden of the Orange Throne. She struts onto the national stage like a blonde crusader in sequins, waving her legal sword for Dear Leader DJ T, blissfully unaware that history has a funny way of devouring the king’s courtiers long before it touches the crown.

Let’s take a nostalgic stroll down Watergate Lane, shall we? Once upon a scandal, there was another president who thought he was untouchable — Richard Milhous Nixon, the original “I am not a crook” pioneer. But when the house of lies came crashing down, it wasn’t Nixon who did the hard time. Oh no, the man himself waltzed off into a sunny California retirement, while his loyal Attorney General, John Mitchell — the guy who ran legal interference for the president — ended up in federal prison. Because that’s what happens when you mistake “serving justice” for “serving the boss.”

Fast forward to Pam Bondi, who apparently skipped that chapter in her American history book — maybe too busy prepping for her next Fox News cameo. She’s out here treating the DOJ like a cheerleading squad for DJ T’s latest tantrum, forgetting that the “God King” doesn’t share cell blocks with his disciples. He leaves that part to the true believers who can’t resist the Kool-Aid.

Bondi’s problem is simple: she’s betting her career, her reputation, and possibly her freedom on a man who views loyalty as a disposable commodity. Ask Michael Cohen how that story ends. Ask John Mitchell’s ghost. Hell, ask any of the 34 felonies currently orbiting Trump like a bad cologne cloud.

Pam Bondi may think she’s defending her golden idol from the evil deep state — but what she’s really doing is volunteering to be the next historical footnote. When the indictments come (and trust me, they will), Trump will throw her under the Mar-a-Lago bus with a smile and a golf clap.

Because the God King never falls alone — he just makes sure everyone else hits the ground first.