Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

If the modern Republican Party wanted to prove once and for all that it isn’t a nest of morally bankrupt degenerates shielding monsters, they’re doing an absolutely terrible job of it. Because nothing screams “we have nothing to hide” quite like holding Congress hostage to stop a vote on the Epstein files.

Speaker Mike Johnson — a man who never met a Bible verse he couldn’t weaponize — has decided that now, of all times, is the moment to play gatekeeper of congressional procedure. Arizona’s newly elected representative Adelita Grijalva waits, hand raised, ready to be sworn in. But Johnson suddenly discovers a deep love of “timing,” “recess protocol,” and “shutdown decorum.” How convenient that his newfound respect for process just happens to block the one vote that would bring the Epstein files — the full, unredacted rot — into the light.

It’s as if the GOP collectively said, “Sure, we’ll tank the government, torch the economy, and gut social programs — but God forbid anyone reads the Epstein documents.” The Republican leadership, the self-anointed guardians of “family values,” are treating those files like they’re the Ark of the Covenant. Don’t look too closely or your moral compass might melt.

Because let’s be honest: if the Epstein list were filled with Democrats, the files would have been plastered on Fox News before dawn, with Tucker Carlson narrating from a candlelit studio while Marjorie Taylor Greene reenacted scenes with sock puppets. The fact that the party is suddenly allergic to transparency tells us everything. You don’t barricade the vault unless you’re terrified of what’s inside.

So what’s in those files that’s worth stalling a member of Congress over? Is it Trump’s name, a few big-money donors, a handful of “family values” megachurch patriots? The silence from the GOP tells its own story — one of panic, guilt, and rot dressed up as righteousness.

Every excuse they offer, every delay, every procedural trick reeks of the same cowardice that defines their brand. The party that once claimed to protect children is now bending itself into moral pretzels to protect the predators. It’s not about justice, or privacy, or due process — it’s about survival.

If the Republican Party truly believed in innocence, they’d open the Epstein files tomorrow and let the chips fall where they may. But they won’t. Because this isn’t a party anymore — it’s a serpent pit, hissing in unison, slithering to cover its own trail.

The House of Vipers has chosen its hill to die on — and apparently, that hill is built on the bones of the truth.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Once upon a time, in the enchanted land of Right-Wing Make-Believe, there arose a fearsome menace called ANTIFA™ — an all-powerful, shadowy organization that apparently has offices, board meetings, a treasurer, and maybe even a seasonal bake sale. According to the fair and balanced storytellers of the realm, Antifa has HR policies, a pension plan, and an annual retreat where members gather to decide which American city they’ll “destroy” next — usually right after brunch.

Enter Pam Bondi (AKA) DOJ Barbie, standing gallantly before the cameras, hair perfectly sprayed into immovable formation, announcing that they would “tear down Antifa brick by brick!” — which is quite the heroic declaration considering there are no actual bricks, or buildings, or anything tangible to tear down. But logic never stopped a good political performance. No, ma’am. This was a crusade against a ghost — a federally funded séance to exorcise a spirit that only exists in their own talking points.

In Pam’s grand fantasy, Antifa isn’t just an ideology or a loosely connected label slapped on anyone who dislikes fascism. Oh no. It’s a full-blown global cabal. There’s probably a central office somewhere — maybe in Portland, next to the vegan donut shop — where the Antifa Board of Directors convenes. Picture them there: Chairperson of Chaos calling the meeting to order, Treasurer of Turmoil approving the budget for Molotov cocktails, Secretary of Smashing Stuff taking minutes (“motion to adjourn — seconded by Anarchy itself”).

Meanwhile, in the real world, the rest of us are scratching our heads thinking, “You do know Antifa literally just means anti-fascist, right? As in… people who think fascism is bad?” But Pam and friends are undeterred. Facts are boring. Reality doesn’t trend. What does trend is righteous indignation delivered from behind a lectern with an American flag in the background and the words LAW AND ORDER scrolling at the bottom of the screen.

So the DOJ heroes ride forth to dismantle the Imaginary Empire of Antifa — launching investigations into vapor, compiling dossiers on shadows, and holding press conferences to announce the capture of nobody in particular. It’s performance art disguised as policy — like spending millions to arrest the Tooth Fairy or subpoenaing Bigfoot.

And yet, every time the crusade is questioned, we get the same dead-serious look and the same trembling voice declaring, “We will root them out!” Root out what, exactly? Dissent? Disagreement? People who don’t think goose-stepping is cool? The absurdity writes itself.

So here’s the fairy tale ending: Pam Bondi and her Trump loyal DOJ stand proudly atop the ruins of nothing at all, declaring victory over the great invisible enemy. Confetti rains down, headlines roll, and the nation is once again saved from an organization that doesn’t even exist.

Somewhere, Mary Shelley is probably shaking her head — because this isn’t the reanimation of dead flesh. It’s the resurrection of dead logic. And it’s alive, ALIVE… at every campaign rally near you.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus was never meant to become the plastic green giant lumbering down the aisles of every Halloween superstore — yet here we are. What began in 1818 as a chilling philosophical meditation on ambition, science, and the fragile line between life and death has evolved into a cultural mascot of spooky season — complete with neck bolts, flat-top head, and a permanent look of mild confusion.

Shelley, writing in the glow (and occasional flicker) of the Enlightenment, was wrestling with humanity’s swelling ego — the idea that with enough electricity and curiosity, we might just snatch life itself from the hands of nature. Her Dr. Victor Frankenstein wasn’t a mad scientist in a crumbling castle surrounded by lightning rods; he was a young idealist, a scholar obsessed with the boundaries of human knowledge. And his creation — the “Creature,” as Shelley deliberately called him — was not the grunting monster of later films but an articulate, tragic figure who only turned violent after society rejected him. The real horror in Shelley’s story wasn’t the creature’s patchwork face; it was the mirror it held up to human arrogance and moral negligence.

Fast forward a century, and Hollywood took that elegant Gothic novel and gave it the Universal treatment — thunder crashes, villagers with torches, and Boris Karloff rising from the lab table with a moan that shook the silver screen. By 1931, Shelley’s tragic meditation had been stitched together into pop culture’s most recognizable monster. The Creature lost his eloquence but gained marketability: green skin, heavy boots, and a trademark groan that could be sold as a Halloween costume.

By the mid-20th century, Frankenstein’s Monster had gone from symbol of moral overreach to misunderstood party guest. He’s danced with Dracula, shared screen time with Abbott and Costello, and even taught children on The Munsters that being different isn’t all that bad. Somewhere along the way, Shelley’s nightmare warning about playing God became the friendly neighborhood face of “spooky but safe.” The lightning that once sparked a philosophical horror now powers inflatable lawn decorations.

Yet, in a strange way, that transformation feels fitting. Frankenstein was always about humanity’s compulsion to create — to animate the inanimate, to bring dead matter to life. In turning Shelley’s intellectual horror into a seasonal icon, we’ve done exactly what her story predicted: taken something profound and breathed artificial life into it until it lurches, glowing-eyed, through our modern world. We’ve reanimated Frankenstein himself.

So when you see that grinning green face this Halloween, maybe spare a thought for Mary Shelley — 18 years old, staring at the firelight, conjuring not a monster, but a warning. A warning that, two centuries later, we still haven’t quite learned to heed.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Day Six of yet another Trump–Republican government shutdown, and the GOP’s official position remains, with all the confidence of a toddler blaming the dog for breaking the vase: “The Democrats did it.”

Truly inspiring. The Republican Party currently controls the House, the Senate, and the White House — a political monopoly so complete it would make a Bond villain blush — and yet, somehow, in this alternate universe, the shutdown is entirely the fault of the powerless minority party that couldn’t pass a motion to rename a post office if it tried.

You have to admire the creativity, though. The GOP has turned excuse-making into performance art. “We control everything,” they say, “but we can’t possibly govern because of those sneaky Democrats who… don’t have any votes.” It’s like watching a magician saw a lady in half, forget to put her back together, and then blame the audience for “negative energy.”

Meanwhile, federal workers aren’t getting paid, national parks are closed, and the economy’s starting to wheeze — but hey, as long as the talking points sound good on Fox News, who cares? You can practically hear the press conference rehearsals: “Sure, we could end this shutdown anytime we want, but why take responsibility when we can just scream ‘Democrats!’ and ride the victim wave straight through the next election cycle?”

It’s the same playbook every time. Republicans light the dumpster on fire, then hold a press conference in front of the flames, shaking their heads solemnly and saying, “Look what those Democrats did.” Never mind that every match, every gallon of gasoline, and every memo saying ‘burn it all down’ has an elephant logo in the corner.

Of course, Trump himself insists that this is all part of a “negotiating strategy,” which is a generous way of describing political arson. The man who campaigned on being the ultimate dealmaker has now proven he can’t even make a deal with his own party — and yet somehow the Democrats, who have about as much influence right now as a folding chair, are supposedly the culprits.

This is the political equivalent of a kid eating an entire cake, getting sick, and then declaring, “Mom made me do it because she didn’t hide it better.”

And the GOP chorus line is right there behind him, nodding along like malfunctioning bobbleheads. “Yes,” they say, “it’s the Democrats’ fault for refusing to support our totally reasonable, wildly unpopular, constitutionally questionable demands.”

Let’s be clear: if the Republicans wanted to reopen the government, they could do it this afternoon. They could snap their fingers — or in Trump’s case, his Cheeto-dusted digits — and pass a clean funding bill before dinner. But that would require actual governing, which is tragically less fun than performative blame games and fundraising emails titled “STOP THE RADICAL LEFT (who don’t currently have any legislative power).”

So here we are: Day Six. The government is closed for business, the GOP is holding the keys, and they’re still insisting that the Democrats are somehow jiggling the doorknob from the outside.

If irony were currency, Washington could reopen the government tomorrow.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ah, Stephen Miller — the human thumb that somehow learned to speak and file lawsuits — has once again blessed us with another electrifying episode of “Oops, I Said the Fascist Part Out Loud.” There he was, blinking like a confused ferret caught under a tanning lamp, proudly declaring that the president has “plenary powers.” For those who don’t speak Fluently Delusional, that means: “The President is basically God now. You may kneel.”

Of course, this isn’t exactly new territory for Pee-Wee German, the only man who can make a podium look uncomfortable. Every time he steps in front of a camera, you can practically hear the wiring in his skull sizzling — like an old toaster deciding whether to catch fire or keep pretending it’s useful. And then, without fail, out comes another declaration of absolute executive power that sounds like it was ghostwritten by Darth Vader’s intern.

Miller’s been doing this for years — blurting out the quiet part, the illegal part, and sometimes even the part that makes the Constitution start weeping softly in the background. Remember when he said the president’s authority “will not be questioned”? That’s not a political philosophy. That’s a Bond villain audition tape. And yet, there he stands, puffed up with the self-importance of a mall cop with a badge and a God complex, telling America that we should be grateful for our new benevolent overlord.

At this point, it’s less “he said the quiet part out loud” and more “he hired a skywriter to spell it over the Lincoln Memorial.” The whole administration does it — babbling their dystopian fantasies like kids at show-and-tell — but Miller does it with that special dead-eyed conviction that makes you wonder if his diet consists entirely of Red Bull and resentment.

And honestly, it’s only a matter of time before his inner monologue just gives up pretending to be human altogether. One day, mid-interview, he’s going to stop mid-sentence, his pupils will dilate, horns will sprout from his shiny dome, and he’ll glide into full Loki mode. Picture it: Miller raising his hands before a horrified press corps and declaring in that nasal monotone, “I am freeing you… from freedom! You were made to be ruled. It is your natural state.”

And the worst part? You just know half the room will nod politely, take notes, and ask if the new regime plans to offer health insurance.

Because that’s the genius of Miller’s whole schtick — he says the monstrous parts so casually, so bureaucratically, that people forget to panic. He’s like if a DMV clerk suddenly declared martial law and everyone just kept waiting in line.

So no, we’re not surprised. Not when the human embodiment of a paper cut keeps accidentally confessing the entire authoritarian playbook. Not when every “quiet part” he says out loud is basically a recruitment ad for dictatorship. Stephen Miller doesn’t “reveal” fascism; he leaks it — constantly, proudly, and with all the emotional warmth of a malfunctioning Roomba.

So go ahead, Pee-Wee German. Tell us again how the president’s powers are infinite, how freedom is overrated, and how we should all just accept our “natural state” of obedience. Just don’t act shocked when the horns finally pop through — we’ve been expecting it for years.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Tariffs have long been sold to the public as a clever economic weapon — a way to “punish” foreign producers, fix trade imbalances, and protect domestic industries. Politicians love them because they sound tough and patriotic. “We’ll make China pay!” is a much easier slogan than “We’ll slightly increase import taxes that consumers will quietly absorb.” The reality, however, is far less cinematic. Tariffs, despite their political marketing, are not paid by foreign governments or companies — they are paid by us, the consumers, through higher prices on imported goods and anything made with imported parts.

Here’s how it really works. When the U.S. government imposes a tariff — let’s say 25% on imported steel — that tax is collected at the border by U.S. Customs from the importer, not from the foreign exporter. That importer then adds the tariff cost to the price they charge manufacturers or retailers, who in turn pass it on to consumers. By the time it reaches you, the cost of that steel shows up in the price of your car, washing machine, or even canned food. So when a politician says another country is paying, what they actually mean is you are paying on their behalf.

Now, tariffs can serve a legitimate economic purpose — when used properly. In theory, they’re a tool to protect developing or strategically important domestic industries from unfair competition, particularly when foreign producers benefit from heavy government subsidies or exploitative labor practices. By temporarily raising the price of imports, tariffs can give local industries room to grow, modernize, and compete. This approach, however, requires surgical precision — targeted, time-limited tariffs designed to encourage competitiveness, not complacency.

In practice, however, tariffs are often wielded like a sledgehammer rather than a scalpel. Instead of fostering industrial growth, they become political theater — a way for leaders to posture as defenders of national pride while ignoring the downstream costs. Broad, long-term tariffs distort markets, raise consumer prices, and provoke retaliatory tariffs from other countries that hurt U.S. exporters — especially farmers and manufacturers. The 2018–2019 trade war with China was a prime example: while the rhetoric was about punishing China for unfair trade practices, the economic pain landed squarely on American businesses and consumers, who paid billions in higher costs.

A well-designed tariff policy would be transparent, temporary, and strategic — paired with investments in domestic production, workforce development, and innovation. But when tariffs are used as a political cudgel, the result is inflation, inefficiency, and global resentment.

The painful irony is that while tariffs are often sold as acts of economic nationalism, their cost is borne by the very citizens they claim to protect. A tariff is, at its core, a tax — a hidden tax that appears on grocery shelves, in car lots, and in hardware stores. It doesn’t punish importers; it punishes consumers.

And yet, Donald the self-proclaimed “Great Deal Maker” still doesn’t seem to understand this. In his magical world of “Art of the Deal” economics, he imagines China, Mexico, and Canada dutifully writing checks to the U.S. Treasury every time he slaps on a tariff — as if the world’s trading partners are just paying him tribute for his genius. His red-hat faithful nod along, convinced that foreign nations are depositing billions straight into Uncle Sam’s piggy bank, all while their grocery bills, car prices, and construction costs quietly soar.

In reality, the only people writing checks are American consumers. The only “deal” being made is the one where we pay more for less — and smile while doing it. Tariffs, when abused, aren’t a symbol of strength. They’re a very expensive illusion sold to a very gullible audience.

Welcome to Trumpanomics: the art of making Americans pay for foreign taxes — and calling it victory.

Harvest Moon

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It was a dark day for science — the kind of day when reason itself packed up and left Washington for good — when Robert F. Kennedy Jr. was sworn in as Secretary of Health and Human Services.

Yes, that Robert F. Kennedy Jr. — the man who once confessed to picking up a dead bear and hiding it in Central Park like some macabre trophy. The man who cut off the head of a whale and strapped it to the roof of his car, as though he were auditioning for a role in Moby-Dick: The Reckoning. And now, somehow, he’s the nation’s top health official — our grimly smiling guardian of vaccines, viruses, and vital signs.

Only in modern America could we hand the keys of public health to a man who’s spent decades waging war against it.

This is the man who solemnly insists that American children receive 75 vaccines, a number plucked straight from the fevered swamps of social media, bearing no resemblance to reality. The man who declares that no vaccine has ever been placebo-tested or verified for safety — a claim so false it would make a CDC scientist faint dead away.

And now, he lectures us about medicine, as if the last century of immunology were some grand pharmaceutical hoax.

This is a man who could sit in a lifeguard chair — whistle in mouth, zinc on his nose — and argue, without irony, that water doesn’t cause drownings. That what really kills swimmers is the government, the chlorine, or maybe a plot by Big Pool.

And yet this man, this oracle of misinformation, now stands atop the Department of Health and Human Services, gazing down on a nation he’s spent years convincing to distrust the very science that keeps it alive.

Why should we trust him? Because he’s a Kennedy? Because he once loved whales so much he decapitated one? Because he’s an environmental lawyer who thinks vaccines are a global conspiracy?

No — we shouldn’t trust him. Not with the truth. Not with our children. Not with a thermometer.

Public health depends on data, not delusion. Vaccines are tested, verified, and continually monitored. They are why our kids don’t die from polio or diphtheria or measles — not because of luck, but because of science. The same science that the new Secretary of Shadows mocks from his lifeguard chair of denial.

And that’s what makes this story terrifying. Not because it’s fiction, but because it’s happening in real time — a conspiracy theorist in charge of the nation’s health, rewriting reality, one falsehood at a time.

If he can convince you that vaccines cause harm, why not that water doesn’t drown? Or that gravity is a hoax?

Welcome to the new age of American health — where the Surgeon General will soon need an exorcist, and the CDC might as well stand for Conspiracy Denial Center.

The rest of us can only hope that science survives the storm.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

My Dearest Caroline,

I write to you from the battlefront of the Great Chicago Conflict of 2025, where our gallant National Guard regiments—those brave defenders of Freedom and Frappuccinos—are locked in mortal combat with the most fearsome enemy this Republic has ever known: teenagers with iPhones and oat milk lattes.

Oh, Caroline, you cannot imagine the horror. The enemy lines stretch from Wicker Park to Lincoln Square. Their banners are rainbow flags; their muskets, reusable metal straws. They advance not with bayonets, but with hashtags and carefully worded social justice slogans. Our men, untrained in this new form of warfare, have been forced to adapt—some by attempting to confiscate TikToks, others by simply crying into their protein shakes.

General Biff of the 32nd Tactical Pickup Truck Division sent word this morning: “We have secured the Starbucks on Clark Street. Casualties were heavy—three soldiers mistook the Pumpkin Spice Latte machine for an IED.” A tragedy, to be sure.

The city is in chaos, Caroline. At night, the wails of sirens mix with the dreadful rhythm of bass from rooftop parties. The streets run red with spilled IPA. Brave Corporal Kyle attempted to arrest a man for “loitering with intent to craft beer,” but was swiftly overwhelmed by a battalion of hipsters quoting city ordinances at him. He was last seen being forced to try kombucha.

Meanwhile, in the southern districts, our supply chain falters. The men are rationed to one Chipotle burrito per day. Some whisper mutiny. Sergeant Chad declared, “We didn’t sign up to fight our own people—we signed up to look tough on Instagram!” Oh, Caroline, his words ring true. The war has changed them all.

In the western front—known locally as Los Angeles—our reinforcements report terrible confusion. The troops mistook a film shoot for an insurrection and occupied a movie set for three days before realizing they had merely joined the cast. The footage, I’m told, will be released on Netflix under the title Freedom Patrol: Based on a True Delusion.

But perhaps the fiercest battles rage in Portland, where the 14th Tactical Flannel Brigade made their last stand against the anarchists of Brewpub Battalion. They fought valiantly, even after realizing most of the enemy were baristas just asking them to recycle properly.

The toll is great, Caroline. Not in lives, but in dignity. For how can one measure the loss of reason, the surrender of logic, the sheer idiocy of sending uniformed troops to liberate Americans from their own coffee shops?

Still, our leaders declare victory. They claim the streets are safe, though no one asked them to make war in the first place. And so, as I write this by candlelight in a commandeered Whole Foods, I can only pray that one day, historians will look upon this foolish campaign and say: Here ended the dumbest war ever fought on American soil.

Until then, my dearest Caroline, I remain your devoted soldier,

Private First Class Todd “Freedom” Jenkins

32nd Selfie Infantry

P.S. Tell mother I love her, and tell the government to please stop deploying us to cities that have brunch reservations.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ah, Donald J. Trump — our self-proclaimed “peacetime president,” a man so devoted to global tranquility that he nearly started wars just to prove how peaceful he was. Ever the Nobel Priest Prize hopeful (he never did quite nail down the pronunciation, but who’s counting?), Trump spent the weekend heroically attempting to deploy troops to war-torn Portland — a city under siege by the unholy forces of craft beer, food trucks, and rainbow flags.

Yes, dear reader, while the rest of the world slept soundly under the oppressive rule of peace and lattes, Trump saw the warning signs. There were people in Portland… smiling. They were riding bikes that weren’t even motorcycles. There were coffee shops where baristas refused to salute the flag before serving a macchiato. The horror! It was time, Trump decided, to defend America from this terrifying hipster insurgency before avocado toast reached the Midwest.

Reports say he gathered his top generals — or at least those who hadn’t yet resigned — to brief them on Operation Hopocalypse Now. The mission: send federal troops to Portland to restore “law and order” by eradicating microbreweries, dismantling co-ops, and capturing the elusive warlord known as “Todd, the vegan DJ.” Sources close to the White House confirmed that Trump believed Antifa stood for “Antiques, Furniture, and Tattoos,” and that he was determined to liberate the city from the tyranny of artisanal living.

Of course, Trump’s humanitarian instincts were also on full display. “We must save Portland,” he declared, “from the radical leftists who want to paint everything rainbow. Not on my watch — we love rainbows, the best rainbows, but only when they lead to gold.” Rumor has it he even considered dropping care packages filled with MAGA hats, Chick-fil-A gift cards, and the occasional can of Bud Light (before he found out it had gone woke).

Meanwhile, Portland residents were seen bravely enduring the invasion by sipping hazy IPAs and watching live streams of the federal agents trying to navigate the city’s labyrinth of food carts. One particularly fierce skirmish broke out at a kombucha stand when troops mistook a group of yoga instructors for enemy combatants. The instructors responded with the deadliest weapon known to man — condescending calmness.

As Trump waited for his Nobel “Priest” Prize to arrive in the mail (he heard the committee was running it through Mar-a-Lago for “inspection”), he took to Truth Social to declare victory: “Portland liberated! Peace restored! Craft beer canceled! They said it couldn’t be done — but I’m a very stable genius, and I know more about peace than anyone, maybe ever.”

And so, history will forever remember this moment — when America’s bravest peacetime president saved us not from foreign threats or domestic crises, but from the existential menace of kale salads, gender-neutral pronouns, and IPA flights served in mason jars.

Some presidents end wars. Trump, in his infinite wisdom, started one with brunch culture — and for that, perhaps, he deserves his Nobel after all. Or at least a participation trophy from the Proud Boys.