Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Many of the sing-song verses we feed to children—bright, lilting, and seemingly harmless—are, on closer inspection, tiny time capsules of human horror. They survive because they’re catchy. They persist because they’re easy to remember. But beneath the rhymes and rhythms lie centuries of plague, executions, disasters, and political satire. It’s the world’s darkest history lesson, disguised as a lullaby.

Take “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.” The innocent image of a whimsical gardener hides a far grimmer figure: Mary I of England—“Bloody Mary.” Her “garden” wasn’t a peaceful patch of flowers but a metaphor for the growing number of protestors and dissenters executed under her reign. The “silver bells” and “cockle shells” weren’t gardening tools but, according to popular interpretations, references to instruments of torture. A cheerful jingle about horticulture? Not quite. More like Tudor-era religious violence with a rhyme scheme.

Then there’s “Ring Around the Rosie,” the deceptively cheerful circle game that children play while obliviously reenacting a pandemic. The “rosie” referred to the red-ringed rash of plague victims; the “posies,” herbs stuffed into pockets to fend off disease; “ashes, ashes,” a nod to mass cremations—or, in some versions, the sneezing that heralded illness. And of course, “we all fall down” does exactly what it sounds like. It’s a plague simulator disguised as recess entertainment.

But the darkness doesn’t end there.

“Rock-a-Bye Baby,” for instance, sounds tender—until you realize it describes a baby being blown out of a treetop cradle to its probable doom. Some trace the rhyme to the 17th-century English political climate, with the “baby” representing the infant heir James Francis Edward Stuart, and the “wind” symbolizing political upheaval that would eventually unseat the Stuart line. Others interpret it more straightforwardly: a warning about the dangers of placing infants anywhere except firmly on the ground. Either way, it’s less “peaceful lullaby” and more “catastrophic fall set to melody.”

“Humpty Dumpty” fares no better. Despite modern depictions of a jolly egg, the original rhyme never mentions eggs at all. Many historians believe Humpty wasn’t a creature but a machine—specifically a massive cannon used during the English Civil War. When the cannon fell from its fortification during a siege, “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men” really couldn’t put the shattered artillery back together again. Humpty Dumpty isn’t a clumsy egg—it’s a battlefield disaster sanitized into nonsense verse.

And even “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” the softest, sweetest of the bunch, carries a more sobering backstory. Based on a real 19th-century event in Massachusetts, it reflects early American educational norms and rural life. Mary Sawyer really did have a lamb that followed her to school—an unusual disruption that highlighted strict classroom expectations of the era. Less horrifying than plague or war, perhaps, but still rooted in a time when a farm animal wandering into an austere one-room schoolhouse was noteworthy enough to become cultural lore.

All these cute little rhymes—recited in preschools, printed on blankets, stitched onto baby clothes—are actually memorials to centuries of human suffering, fear, and political turmoil. Nursery rhymes endure because they slip into memory easily, carrying with them stories people once couldn’t write openly or speak safely.

The irony is almost poetic: the songs meant to soothe children are built from the ghosts of history, whispering through melody that the world has always been sharp beneath its soft edges.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Somewhere right now, as the upper half of the continent is being flash-frozen under a December polar vortex so cold it could make a penguin file a workplace complaint, a group of self-appointed climate geniuses is triumphantly proclaiming: “See! This PROVES global warming is a hoax!”

Because nothing says “I deeply understand atmospheric physics” quite like confusing weather, a short-term local mood swing, with climate, the long-term behavior of an entire planet.

Apparently, if the human race had actually affected the climate by burning fossil fuels for 150 years like we’re hosting a global barbecue nobody asked for, then December in Canada should now resemble Miami Beach with moose. Anything less, and clearly the entire scientific community is just making things up for the frequent-flyer miles.

These are the same folks who believe that if your house is on fire but one room has not yet ignited, congratulations—the whole thing must be perfectly fine. Flames? Smoke? Rising temperatures? No worries. Just go stand in the pantry where it’s cool and declare victory over thermodynamics.

But the real triumph is the explanation for the unseasonable cold. How do they reconcile record lows with decades of data showing warming oceans, melting ice caps, and enough greenhouse gases to turn Earth into a slow cooker? Easy. They don’t. They just point to the thermometer, yell “Checkmate, liberals!” and consider the scientific method complete.

Meanwhile, actual climate scientists are standing there like exhausted kindergarten teachers trying to explain that warming the global climate also destabilizes the jet stream, which then causes—you guessed it—more intense polar vortex events. But good luck with that, because the moment you say “jet stream,” someone will respond, “Oh here we go with the conspiracy airline talk again.”

It’s truly remarkable: a group of people who will spend three days researching toaster reviews before buying anything at Walmart have zero hesitation dismissing an entire field of science because they had to scrape ice off their windshield this morning.

So yes, Canada is being deep-froze in December with record-breaking cold. Yes, it’s unseasonable. And yes, it is literally exactly the kind of extreme weather climate scientists have warned about for years.

But please—tell us again how if the planet were really warming, you wouldn’t need to put on gloves today. Tell us how the Earth, a 4.5-billion-year-old system with interconnected atmospheric and oceanic dynamics, must conform to the comfort settings of your thermostat or else the whole field of climatology collapses.

After all, nothing says “scientific credibility” like believing the global climate operates on the same principles as your local forecast app.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

December 7 carries a weight that stretches far beyond a square on a calendar. Eighty-six years ago, in 1941, the quiet Sunday morning at Pearl Harbor shattered under the sudden roar of Japanese aircraft. The attack was not just a strike on a U.S. naval base in Hawaii—it was the spark that hurled the United States fully into World War II, altering the trajectory of the conflict and reshaping the entire world order of the mid-20th century.

Before that day, the U.S. was officially neutral, though tensions simmered beneath the surface. Many Americans wanted no part of another global war after the trauma of World War I. But at 7:48 a.m., when bombs fell and ships burned, neutrality became impossible. The attack killed more than 2,400 Americans and destroyed or damaged much of the Pacific Fleet. The next day, Congress declared war on Japan, and within days Germany and Italy declared war on the United States. In an instant, America went from reluctant observer to full-scale participant in the largest conflict humanity had ever seen.

What followed reshaped the world: the mobilization of the American economy, which became an industrial powerhouse; the island-hopping campaign across the Pacific; the liberation of Europe; the beginnings of nuclear weapons; and the eventual rise of the U.S. and Soviet Union as global superpowers. Pearl Harbor wasn’t just an attack—it was the hinge on which the 20th century swung.

And yet, for many millennials and Gen Z—through no fault of their own—December 7 can feel more like a trivia answer than a turning point. The distance of time, combined with the firehose of modern information, can blur the significance of even world-shaping events. But remembering Pearl Harbor isn’t about glorifying war; it’s about understanding the chain reactions of history. A single morning in Hawaii changed global alliances, battle strategies, economies, borders, and the lives of millions.

December 7 remains a reminder that the world can change in a moment, that decisions made oceans away can reverberate for generations, and that history—no matter how old—still shapes the world young people inherit today.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald John “Arbiter of Peace” Trump—because nothing says global harmony like a man who thinks diplomacy is just a golf course with more flags—has finally cracked the code to that elusive Nobel Peace Prize: just get FIFA to make one up.

After all, if you can’t win the real thing, why not persuade the world’s most dramatically governance-challenged sports organization to invent a prize? FIFA, never a group to shy away from creativity when it comes to awards, titles, or rulebook elasticity, apparently decided that in order to secure the World Cup in the United States, they needed to offer something shinier than a host-nation slot. And voilà: the FIFA Peace Cup™, sponsored by strategic ambiguity and selective memory.

Trump reportedly accepted the honor in a ceremony that looked suspiciously like a halftime show crossed with a campaign rally—complete with pyro, chants, and a trophy that appeared to be repurposed from a Spirit Halloween. Still, he held it aloft as if he’d single-handedly ended war, cured global conflict, and renegotiated the terms of gravity.

But nothing screams peace visionary quite like his obsession with renaming the Department of Defense to the Department of War—a branding choice that’s about as soothing as a fire alarm. The message is clear: if you want peace, you need war, and preferably a war you can loudly announce, theatrically escalate, and eventually forget to finish. Who could possibly misunderstand such serene, monk-like logic?

And so we arrive at the present moment: a man seeking a peace prize by rebranding the Pentagon into something out of a Metallica album, while FIFA—an organization known primarily for soccer, scandals, and occasional geopolitical improvisation—hands him an award for “global stability.”

Somewhere, even satire is asking for a breather.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Across ancient storytelling, the figure of the divinely fathered hero appears so frequently that it becomes almost an archetype: a being caught between worlds, shaped by suffering, and elevated—often literally—after proving himself through trials beyond mortal measure. In Greek myth, this figure takes familiar form in Herakles (Hercules), the mighty son of Zeus. In Christian tradition, the figure is Jesus, son of God the Father, whose life and death became the foundational narrative of the New Testament. While the two traditions arise from entirely different cultures separated by centuries, comparing their arc reveals striking narrative resonances—especially around persecution, trial, sacrificial suffering, and eventual divine exaltation.

Birth Stories: A Divine Father, a Mortal Mother, and a Threatened Beginning

Hercules enters the world through one of Zeus’s characteristic ventures among mortals: he is born of Alcmene, a mortal woman whose beauty attracts the king of Olympus. His divine paternity immediately provokes the jealousy of Hera, Zeus’s wife, who commits herself to tormenting Hercules from infancy onward. The child is divine in power but mortal in vulnerability.

The story of Jesus begins in a humble Bethlehem manger, not the palace of a king. The Gospels present him as born of Mary, a mortal woman overshadowed by the Spirit of God. And, like Hercules, his birth triggers hostility: Herod’s slaughter of the innocents becomes a political counterpart to Hera’s mythic rage, each narrative framing the hero’s entry into life as one that disrupts the order of things.

Both heroes begin under threat because their existence signals a shift in divine–human relations.

Trials in the Wilderness

Hercules is defined by trials—twelve of them in their most codified form—each imposed not to honor him, but to break him. Hera’s wrath lays the groundwork, but the labors force Hercules into confrontation with monsters, tyrants, the natural world, and ultimately himself. The Labors serve as purification, expiation, and the proving ground for eventual immortality.

Jesus’s “labors,” by contrast, are not martial but spiritual. His 40 days in the desert become a concentrated allegory of trial: temptation, deprivation, and the assertion of divine identity over worldly power. Jesus’s desert fast is not a punishment inflicted by a vengeful deity, but a voluntary test that affirms his mission. Yet the structural parallel remains: both heroes must undergo a period of suffering in a barren place before beginning their world-shaping work.

Persecution: Hera’s Torment and the World’s Rejection

Hera hounds Hercules through madness, monsters, and misfortune. The persecution is relentless and deeply personal; his trials are the consequence of a cosmic domestic dispute, with the hero as collateral damage in the marriage of Zeus and Hera.

Jesus’s persecution, while not orchestrated by a jealous goddess, nonetheless becomes a central narrative thread. Rejection by religious authorities, betrayal by followers, and finally condemnation by imperial power mirror the idea that the world itself resists the arrival of the divine child. In each tradition, the hero’s suffering is not incidental—it is intrinsic to proving his role.

The Crucifixion and the Path to the Father

One of the more striking mythological motifs often noted by scholars is Hercules’s death: he builds his own funeral pyre and ascends it willingly, laying himself down to burn away his mortal body so that his divine self may ascend to Olympus. Early Christian writers—Justin Martyr and others—explicitly pointed to this tradition as a pagan precursor to crucifixion imagery. Hercules’s self-sacrifice is the final labor, the ultimate act of agency that opens the door to immortality.

Jesus’s crucifixion serves a parallel narrative function. His death is not accidental but central: according to Christian theology, a voluntary acceptance of suffering and sacrifice that enables resurrection. Where Hercules burns to shed mortality, Jesus dies to defeat it; where Hercules rises to Olympus, Jesus ascends to sit at the right hand of the Father. Both narratives hinge on a moment in which pain becomes the doorway to divine union.

Exaltation: The Hero Beside the Father

In the climax of Hercules’s story, he is received onto Olympus, reconciled even with Hera, and granted a throne beside Zeus. The hero who suffered becomes the immortal who reigns.

In Christian tradition, Jesus’s resurrection and ascension culminate in his enthronement beside God the Father. The imagery is not accidental—this is exaltation language, the lifting up of the suffering hero to divine glory.

Both narratives transform anguish into triumph, mortality into divinity, separation into union.

Conclusion: Two Myths, One Archetype of the Suffering Son

The stories of Hercules and Jesus come from wholly different worlds: one from the mythic imagination of polytheistic Greece, the other from the evolving theological tradition of ancient Israel and early Christianity. But the parallels reveal something deeper: cultures repeatedly return to the figure of the divinely fathered hero whose worth is proved through suffering, whose death is a gateway rather than an end, and whose final place is at the side of his heavenly father.

Whether cast in the form of a monster-slaying demigod or a desert-wandering teacher and healer, the archetype endures—speaking to the human need for stories in which pain is redeemed, trial is meaningful, and the divine is found not by escaping suffering, but by walking directly through it.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Doctors famously take the Hippocratic Oath, a solemn pledge to do no harm. But in 2008, Mitch McConnell — the Senate’s own bleak little Boxturtle with a talent for procedural dark arts — introduced his own twisted counterpart: the Hypocrite Oath. Its core principle? Exploit any rule if it benefits you, ignore it if it doesn’t, and if the other side even thinks about using it, scream that they’re breaking the sanctity of the Senate. A simple creed, really. Elegant in its shamelessness. And Republicans have been chanting it like a Gregorian chorus ever since.

Because if American politics were a board game, Democrats would still be the earnest players reading the instruction booklet out loud while Republicans sit across the table melting the dice, stealing the money, and declaring themselves the winners because “that’s how we’ve always played it.” The Democratic Party, bless their norm-respecting little hearts, keeps showing up to the Senate like it’s a civic institution, while McConnell and friends treat it like a loophole carnival where the prize for cheating is getting to do it again.

Let’s hop in our time machine back to Obama’s first term, shall we? When McConnell and his band of procedural saboteurs dusted off the filibuster — not the cute “debate forever” version from civics class, but the industrial-strength “nothing gets done ever again” blockade — and used it so obsessively that even the History Channel ran out of Civil Rights Era flashbacks to compare it to. They took a tool once infamous for blocking equality and turned it into their daily multivitamin. The purpose? Making sure anything with Obama’s name on it died in the Senate like a houseplant left in the desert.

Harry Reid eventually said “enough” and changed the rules for cabinet posts and lower-level judges just so the government could function at something above “broken.” And Republicans responded with gasps so dramatic you’d think Reid had personally set fire to the Constitution. How dare Democrats adjust a Senate tradition, they cried — you know, that “tradition” that isn’t actually a rule, just a happy little custom senators used to stall civil rights bills. Sacred stuff!

Fast-forward to Obama’s second term. Antonin Scalia dies, and suddenly the Supreme Court has a vacancy. A real, actual constitutional process is supposed to happen here. But McConnell invents the “let the people decide” rule on the spot and blocks Obama’s nominee for 11 months — basically an entire pregnancy — because it was an election year. It was new, it was bold, it was completely made up.

But just wait: when RBG died during another election year, and Republicans controlled the Senate, that whole invented principle evaporated faster than a truth in a Trump speech. They shoved Amy Coney Barrett onto the bench so fast she probably still had packing peanuts in her shoes during confirmation.

Rules! Traditions! Procedures! They matter — unless there’s an R next to your name, in which case you can bend them, stretch them, or snap them in half like a breadstick.

Which brings us to today’s Speaker, Mike Johnson, the spiritual successor to the McConnell Philosophy of Governance: Rules are optional, power is mandatory. When Democrat Adelita Grijalva won her seat, Johnson left her in political limbo for over 50 days before swearing her in. Fifty. Days. During which she couldn’t sign on to push for release of the Epstein list — a total coincidence, surely. His excuses ranged from “government shutdown” to the classic “I just don’t feel like it,” but Tennessee’s Republican winner? Oh, he was sworn in faster than you can say consistent application of norms is for suckers.

Apparently, in today’s GOP, due process is like a dinner reservation: only honored if you’re already on the guest list.

So yes, Democrats keep showing up with their laminated rulebooks and their wide-eyed belief that norms will protect the country. Meanwhile, Republicans are in the corner building a political Rube Goldberg machine out of broken norms, “McConnell rules,” and whatever imaginary precedent they can conjure on a slow Tuesday.

Because in Washington these days, the only rule that truly matters is this:

Rules count only when they can be used against Democrats.

Everything else is optional — or as McConnell’s Hypocrite Oath implies,

“Principles are for people who don’t want power.”

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Are you effing kidding me?

Donald Trump—yes, that Donald Trump, the man whose foreign-policy philosophy boils down to “What if we solved international disputes the way I handle family arguments: loudly, vengefully, and with absolutely no research?”—now wants his name slapped onto the Institute of Peace.

The Institute. Of. Peace.

This is like putting a raccoon in charge of food safety or naming a demolition crew “The Preservation Society.” But sure, let’s pretend the guy currently rattling sabers at Venezuela like a bargain-bin Teddy Roosevelt is the patron saint of tranquility.

And over what? Fentanyl.

Fentanyl… which doesn’t even come from Venezuela. But who cares about facts when there’s oil—the world’s most combustible mood stabilizer—to chase? It’s almost sweet, in a deranged way, watching the paperwork for a “justified conflict” roll out like a kindergarten craft project made of crayons, glue sticks, and total geopolitical ignorance.

Imagine walking through the Institute of Peace one day in the future—a nice quiet building dedicated to, you know, not bombing people—and BAM: there it is. A giant golden plaque reading “Donald J. Trump Institute of Peace.”

You’d have to check the walls for hidden cameras. You’d assume you wandered into a satire museum. You might wonder if the gift shop sells irony by the gallon.

Because nothing screams “global harmony” like a man who treats foreign nations the way he treats staff meetings: fall asleep halfway through, wake up angry, blame someone else, and then threaten to fire a missile.

But hey—if peace is just a branding exercise, why not go all in? Maybe rename the Pentagon the Trump Yoga Center while we’re at it. Rebrand the Joint Chiefs as the Committee for Serene Vibes. Paint the nukes pastel and call them Mindfulness Devices.

At this point, reality is already a parody of itself.

All we can do is laugh—sarcastically, loudly, and with full awareness that the joke isn’t funny so much as it is terrifyingly on brand.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

When people speak of ancient stories that seem to mirror the Christian nativity, they often point to the figure known in Indo-Iranian tradition as Mithra (or Mairii / Mairis in some linguistic reconstructions and regional variants). Though the surviving material about Mithra/Mithras is fragmentary and filtered through centuries of cultural transmission—from Indo-Iranian religion, to Zoroastrianism, to the Roman mystery cults—certain narrative motifs have invited comparison to the Christian story of Jesus.

The most striking parallel emerges in the Roman Mithraic tradition, where Mithras is described as being born from a rock (the petra genetrix)—a miraculous, non-human birth that signaled a divine arrival. Early Christian writers, encountering Mithraic iconography in the late 2nd and 3rd centuries CE, sometimes accused Mithraists of imitating Christian rituals, which ironically suggests they recognized competing narratives of supernatural birth and salvation circulating in the empire.

The possible Indo-Iranian antecedent—often referred to in modern scholarship as Mairis—is associated with themes of cosmic order, divine covenant, light, truth, and the defense of the righteous. In these traditions, the figure is portrayed as a mediator between the divine and human realms, a guarantor of moral order, and a protector of the faithful. These elements are not identical to the Christian nativity story, but they do establish a mythic framework into which a later audience might read similarities.

By the time the Roman world encountered Christianity, Mithras was widely venerated as a savior figure whose birth was celebrated around the winter solstice, whose followers reenacted ritual meals, and whose cult promised divine favor and eternal life. In the religiously competitive landscape of the late Roman Empire, overlapping motifs—miraculous birth, cosmic mission, divine sonship, and salvation—were not just common; they were expected. This made it easy for later commentators, and even some modern interpreters, to see the story of Mairis/Mithras as a kind of mythic “parallel track” running alongside the emerging Christian narrative of the Christ child.

Yet the parallels, while real in theme, do not form a one-to-one equivalence. The Christian nativity is grounded in a linear historical claim tied to a specific mother, time, and place, whereas the stories of Mairis and Mithras are rooted in symbolic cosmology and mystery-cult theology rather than biographical detail. The resemblance lies not in verbatim storytelling but in a shared ancient pattern: a world longing for a divine mediator, a bringer of order, a child of miraculous origin who signifies hope amid chaos.

In this sense, the tale of Mairis and the birth narrative of Jesus Christ are less examples of direct borrowing than they are evidence of a deep, cross-cultural human impulse—an enduring mythic grammar that echoes across civilizations whenever people imagine what it means for salvation, justice, or divine light to enter the world in the form of a child.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

In our glittering, algorithm-polished era—where AI writes love letters, curates our playlists, and probably judges our grocery purchases—the most consistent joke running is that we humans must constantly prove to machines that we are, in fact, human. Before we can check an email, log into a bank, or comment “cute dog” on a friend’s post, some digital gatekeeper demands we solemnly declare: I am not a robot. And we do it. Dutifully. Repeatedly. To a robot.

It’s the 21st-century equivalent of showing your ID to a bouncer who is, let’s be honest, much stronger and smarter than you—and also made of code. We’ve built a civilization where an AI can generate photorealistic art, mimicking every detail of the human experience, yet we’re still being interrogated about which pictures contain a traffic light, as if this is the ultimate Turing test. Meanwhile, somewhere in a server farm, another AI is being asked the same question and probably acing it.

There’s a special flavor of irony in watching humanity sprint into the future, only to trip over a Captcha and spend 45 seconds squinting at a grid of blurry crosswalks. It’s digital slapstick: highly advanced systems determining whether the creature begging access to its own email is a legitimate user or a toaster with ambitions.

And the machines are only getting smarter. Soon the Captchas may need Captchas, and we’ll have recursive layers of robots verifying robots until the whole system becomes an M.C. Escher drawing made of authentication loops. But for now, the joke’s on us—billions of humans politely assuring disembodied software, “No, really, I promise, I’m not a robot,” while a very real robot nods, logs the interaction, and decides if we’re trustworthy.

The future is here, and it’s making us click all the pictures with bicycles.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

At this point, the American news cycle resembles a garage sale of scandals: you think you’ve seen the last dusty box of horrors, but wait—someone drags out another one from under a tarp. So now, right alongside the freshly-unearthed Epstein files, we have Pete Hegseth’s Mediterranean naval cosplay, where boats mysteriously keep sinking and yet somehow nobody in charge is responsible. Amazing how gravity works in politics—blame always rolls downhill, right onto the commanders in the field who didn’t ask for any of this.

Because of course, in this administration, accountability is like a rare species: rumored to exist, often spoken of, but never actually observed in the wild.

Naturally, the official line is that Secretary-of-War-In-His-Own-Mind Pete Hegseth didn’t authorize anything. No, no, don’t be silly—those Mediterranean commanders must’ve woken up one morning and thought, “You know what would look great on my performance eval? A casual maritime war crime.” Totally organic. Absolutely spontaneous. Nothing to do with orders from the cosplay admiral in DC who thinks geopolitical strategy is just the adult expansion pack for Battleship.

And looming above all this is King-in-Waiting Donald, waving the Supreme Court’s “official act” ruling around like an enchanted immunity shield from a bad video game. He could sign an EO demanding that all press conferences begin with a personal standing ovation, and the lawyers would stroke their chins and say, “Hmm, yes, that is technically an executive function.”

So while Donald floats safely in the legal bubble-wrap of presidential immunity, poor Pete is out here exposed—apparently close enough to power to break things, but not close enough to be protected when those things sink in international waters. The Court says Donald can’t be charged for the orders because they’re “official acts.” But cosplay-Captain-Hegseth? Oh, he can absolutely be charged. War crimes, murder—pick a square on the indictment bingo card.

Yet the administration’s PR machine is trying to spin this like it’s the commanders’ fault, as if they were out there running rogue pirate operations for the fun of it. Right. Sure. Because when have we ever seen commanders punished to protect the powerful? That never happens. Ever. In any country. At any time. In the history of Earth.

So here we are again: another scandal, another round of “It wasn’t us,” and another attempt to treat the public like we can’t connect dots drawn with neon Sharpie.

But don’t worry—give it a week and they’ll insist the whole thing is just fake news. And by “fake news,” they mean “news we wish would go away.” Which, unfortunately for them, it absolutely will not.

Not with this crew. Not with these headlines. And honestly—not with this level of comedy.