Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald the Mango Moron. It’s a moniker that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and perfectly accurate, summing up a man who was likely a nightmare even in diapers. One can almost picture him as a toddler, chubby fists clenched, stamping his feet, demanding that his wet nurse be fired—yes, fired—for not wiping his bottom to his exacting standards. Because, of course, when your entire worldview is built on the belief that everyone else exists only to serve you, even early childhood hygiene becomes a matter of “you’re fired.”

And from there? Nothing. A void of achievement, a canyon of failure, a wasteland of bankrupt casinos and fleeced investors. The man’s life was a succession of daddy’s bailouts and bad decisions dressed up in gold plating. But then came Mark Burnett, reality TV impresario and the man who unintentionally broke America. By casting Donald as a titan of industry on The Apprentice, Burnett essentially gave him the only job he ever excelled at: playing pretend. The show created an illusion—a glossy fiction that Trump was a “brilliant dealmaker,” a Bruce Wayne–esque figure who wielded his billions for the good of Gotham. Millions of viewers swallowed it whole, not realizing they were just watching a con man being carefully edited to look competent.

And so the Mango Moron stumbled his way into the White House in 2016, not through genius, but through the toxic cocktail of television fame, grievance politics, and a frightening number of gullible voters who thought reality TV was, well, reality. Once in office, he tasted real power for the first time. It was intoxicating. Gone were the fake boardrooms and scripted catchphrases—now he could issue executive orders and demand loyalty oaths. To him, the presidency wasn’t a responsibility; it was the world’s largest stage for his ego.

When he lost in 2020, he did what any petulant toddler would do: he threw a tantrum. Only this time, the tantrum involved trying to overthrow the government, sending mobs to the Capitol, and insisting that democracy itself was rigged against him. And in the chaos of America’s fractured political landscape, he somehow clawed his way back into the Oval Office in 2024.

But here’s the catch—he no longer sees himself as Bruce Wayne, the benevolent billionaire. No, in his own mind, he’s evolved. Now, he’s Lex Luthor: the genius villain, the mastermind, the one who outsmarts everyone else. The problem? Lex Luthor was actually brilliant, a man with strategy, intellect, and vision. Trump is none of those things—he’s just a man who believes shouting “I’m the smartest” enough times makes it true.

The danger, of course, is that while Lex Luthor’s schemes stayed on comic book pages, Donald the Mango Moron’s delusions play out in real time, with real consequences. He genuinely believes he can bend institutions to his will, that he can fire prosecutors, judges, critics, journalists—even democracy itself. He has confused the Constitution with a contract from The Apprentice, imagining he can simply say, “You’re fired” to the very foundations of American governance.

And millions of followers cheer him on, not realizing they’ve mistaken a comic book villain for a statesman. America, once the shining city on a hill, is now trapped in the absurd reality show that never ends, run by a man who went from firing pretend interns to trying to fire the Republic.

Donald the Mango Moron: not Bruce Wayne, not Lex Luthor—just a spoiled brat who never learned the difference between fantasy and reality. And unless the nation wakes up, he just might get his wish and fire democracy itself.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The sheer hypocrisy would be laughable if it weren’t so dangerous. For years, dear leader screamed from the rooftops that the “Biden administration” had weaponized the government against him. That claim became the central grievance of his political martyrdom. But now? He has gleefully taken the Department of Justice and bent it into his own personal cudgel, demanding prosecutions of anyone who ever dared to challenge him — James Comey, Letitia James, and just about anyone else who had the audacity to call him out. The supposed victim of government weaponization has become the gleeful executioner.

This is not just hypocrisy — it’s an inversion of the very legal system the United States was built on nearly 250 years ago. Our founders tried to craft a system where laws applied equally, where the government wasn’t a tool of kings or petty tyrants, where justice was supposed to be blind. And yet, what do we have today? A justice system being twisted into a personal vendetta machine, with prosecutors pressured to go after whoever bruised dear leader’s fragile ego in 2016 or beyond. This isn’t justice; it’s vengeance masquerading as law.

And the tragedy is that the very people who once wrapped themselves in the Flag— the self-proclaimed party of law and order — are now kneeling in blind obedience to the man dismantling it. Trump Republicans (Trumpubicans) are not just looking the other way; they are actively cheering as the safeguards of democracy are shredded before our eyes. They claim to revere the founders, yet they stand by while the balance of powers is replaced with a single man’s grudge list.

Make no mistake: this kind of blind loyalty, this eagerness to convert the DOJ into an extension of one man’s will, could very well be the downfall of the American experiment. Democracies don’t collapse overnight — they erode, one corrupted institution at a time, while too many people convince themselves that their leader’s hypocrisy is somehow justified. If weaponization was once the charge, then Trump’s own weaponization of the DOJ is the smoking gun.

And here’s the most bitter irony: he claims he is proving himself to be “a just man.” But justice that is selective, vindictive, and wielded like a club against critics is not justice at all — it is tyranny with paperwork. If this path continues, the United States risks trading in 250 years of hard-fought democratic governance for the whims of a single man and the spineless party too afraid to tell him no.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Reality Winner. A name so perfectly suited for the times you almost couldn’t script it better. She was the young Air Force linguist who dared to do what supposedly makes America great: tell the truth. She released one document—one—confirming that Russia had meddled in the 2016 election. Not 10,000 documents. Not pallets of state secrets. Just one measly file. And for that, the government threw the book at her so hard it might as well have been the entire Library of Congress. She became the poster child for the Espionage Act, sentenced to more than five years—the harshest punishment ever given for a leak to the press.

Now, let’s spin the camera over to Donald J. Trump. This man treated classified documents like his personal set of Pokémon cards. Nuclear secrets? Check. Attack plans? Check. Intel on allies? Tossed in a cardboard box next to a box of golf shirts. Where did he keep them? Bathrooms, ballrooms, and storage closets with padlocks from 1987. And instead of wearing an orange jumpsuit, Trump is rewarded with a second presidency, cheered on as though he’s a conquering hero. Reality Winner gets solitary confinement; Trump gets Secret Service protection. Winner was called a traitor; Trump is called “Mr. President” again.

And here’s where the hypocrisy goes from galling to grotesque: Reality has written a book about her ordeal. A chance to tell her side of the story, to explain what it feels like to be crushed by a system that punishes truth-tellers and rewards conmen. But no—she’s barred from profiting off it. Uncle Sam says, “Sorry, Reality, your reality doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to us.” Meanwhile, Trump monetizes every indictment, every mugshot, every golden-plated grievance. He literally sells Bibles with his name stamped on them and rakes in cash. He can profit from lies, treason, and corruption. She can’t profit from honesty.

It’s enough to make you wonder—if Woodward and Bernstein had tried to do Watergate in the Trump era, they wouldn’t have been lionized as truth-seekers. They’d have been dragged into court, charged under the Espionage Act, and probably executed on pay-per-view, with Tucker Carlson providing live commentary. Deep Throat? More like Dead Throat. The very same system that once celebrated whistleblowers and watchdog journalism now demands absolute obedience to Dear Leader—or else.

This is the upside-down universe we live in: a young woman who exposed foreign interference in American democracy is gagged, punished, and silenced, while the man who begged for that interference, hoarded national secrets, and tried to overturn an election is now running the country again. The word for this isn’t “justice.” It’s “authoritarian theater.”

Remembering Reality Winner means remembering the stark double standard: when ordinary people speak truth, they’re crushed. When power hoards secrets, lies, and treason, it’s rewarded with more power. And if that doesn’t make your blood boil, you’ve probably already switched the channel to Trump’s next rally.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Oh, Donnie went to the United Nations again? How adorable. Nothing quite says serious world power like sending your orange-skinned toddler-in-chief to the international grown-ups’ table, where leaders gather to discuss things like climate catastrophe, famine, war, peace, and—oh right—democracy. And what does Donnie bring? His usual grab bag of grievance, chest-thumping, and the subtle diplomatic nuance of a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving dinner.

It’s becoming painfully clear that every time he steps foot in that marble hall, he manages to confirm the suspicion shared quietly by diplomats everywhere: maybe the United States doesn’t actually deserve a seat at the big boy table under his “leadership.” You know, the table where people behave like statesmen, not like Twitter-addicted monarchs screaming about how unfair life is.

Instead of presenting America as a steady hand in an unstable world, Donnie treats the UN like his personal therapy session. Cue the endless victimhood routine: the media is mean, other countries are freeloading, everyone should be nicer to me. Nothing says “superpower” quite like whining to 192 nations that your feelings are hurt. It’s as if the world is supposed to take notes while he performs his “poor me” routine on the global stage. Forget addressing global hunger or nuclear proliferation—what really matters is how the French president didn’t clap hard enough during Donnie’s speech.

And let’s talk about that paper-thin skin. Dictators everywhere must love him. He’s their best PR guy. When Trump rails against international criticism, demanding fealty and respect like some tinpot banana republic strongman, he’s not projecting strength. He’s projecting insecurity so loud it’s practically deafening. The whole charade screams: please clap for me, or I’ll throw a tantrum. America once stood for freedom and resilience; now it stands for the diplomatic equivalent of a toddler smashing his toy truck because someone looked at it funny.

What’s worse is how his UN appearances erode America’s standing. Once upon a time, the U.S. was the adult in the room—the flawed adult, sure, but the one others looked to when the world was on fire. Under Donnie, we’re the clown no one wants to sit next to. It’s hard to push for global cooperation when your leader is onstage basically saying, “It’s all about me, folks, and if you don’t adore me, you’re the enemy.” International alliances thrive on trust and respect; Donnie operates entirely on loyalty oaths and flattery.

So what are we left with? A United States that looks less like a superpower and more like a deeply insecure guy screaming at the maître d’ because his “VIP” table wasn’t close enough to the spotlight. Other nations see the bluster, the ignorance, the fragile ego, and they draw the obvious conclusion: maybe America isn’t really up for this whole leadership thing anymore.

And Donnie? He’s perfectly fine with that, as long as someone, somewhere, calls him a genius while he’s in earshot. Forget legacy, forget democracy, forget respect on the world stage. All that matters is the applause meter. And when the applause is weak—or worse, polite silence—he interprets it not as global exhaustion but as betrayal.

So yes, Donnie’s UN show-and-tell once again proves the point: under his rule, the U.S. doesn’t deserve a seat at the big boy table. Maybe a booster seat at the kids’ table, where he can shout about how unfair the rules are while everyone else gets on with the business of running the world.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald Trump has always operated less like a statesman and more like a traveling carnival barker, peddling snake oil to anyone desperate enough to believe. His favorite bottle of tonic? Tariffs. He sold them as a miracle cure for America’s ailments: jobs would return, factories would roar, deficits would vanish, and China would foot the bill. In reality, it was the oldest con in the book—distract the crowd with big talk, pick their pockets, and disappear before they realize the trick.

Tariffs, in Trump’s mythology, were a weapon America could wield without cost. He claimed foreign governments were the ones paying. To his base, it sounded like easy money—Uncle Sam shaking down the world. But the truth is simple: tariffs are taxes on Americans. Importers pay them at the border, businesses absorb them reluctantly, and then consumers pay higher prices. Every extra dollar at the checkout line was not a tribute from Beijing—it was a tax from Trump. He promised a fat check from China, but all you got was a thinner wallet.

And what about those “sacred” industries he swore to protect? Steelmakers got a short-lived boost, but automakers and construction firms—who actually use steel—saw costs skyrocket. Farmers were gutted when China retaliated, markets for soybeans and pork evaporating overnight. Trump’s fix? Multi-billion-dollar bailouts, taxpayer-funded hush money to keep rural America from revolting. He created the wound and then bragged about handing out Band-Aids. It wasn’t economic policy—it was extortion disguised as patriotism.

Meanwhile, the trade deficit—the very dragon he promised to slay—grew larger. Supply chains didn’t come home; they simply rerouted to Vietnam, Mexico, and anywhere outside the tariff blast radius. Globalization didn’t die because Trump puffed his chest; it just learned to step around him. American workers weren’t showered in jobs; they were saddled with higher costs while their industries scrambled to adapt.

Businesses, investors, and families all paid for his con. Markets lurched at every late-night tweet, as corporations tried to guess whether Trump’s threats were real policy or just another tantrum. Investment slowed, hiring stalled, and uncertainty reigned. For all his talk of being a businessman, he introduced the one thing markets fear most: chaos.

The cruelty of Trump’s tariff con is that it preyed on patriotism. He wrapped a tax hike in the flag and called it strength. When families paid more at the store, they weren’t victims of bad policy—they were “fighting China.” When farmers lost their livelihoods, they weren’t casualties of incompetence—they were “heroes in a trade war.” Every failure was rebranded as sacrifice, every cost reframed as victory. It was less economics than propaganda, a shell game dressed in red, white, and blue.

Trump promised tariffs would make America rich. Instead, they made life more expensive, businesses more anxious, and the country more divided. Like any good con artist, he cashed out on applause while leaving others holding the bill. The magic never worked, the wealth never came, and the only thing that grew was the debt—financial and moral—that America is still paying.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

If you tried to sketch a Venn diagram of our current era, you’d probably snap your pencil in half before you finished, simply out of despair. On one side: right-wing fundamentalism, a bubbling stew of half-baked theology, paranoid nationalism, and a fanatical devotion to banning books while worshipping guns. On another side: the top one percent, those benevolent overlords who hoard wealth like dragons yet insist they’re “job creators,” as if your part-time DoorDash gig is thanks to their divine generosity. On the third side: the dazzling explosion of technology, medicine, and information—tools that should have catapulted us into Star Trek utopia, but instead have been repurposed to sell us overpriced gadgets, keep us scrolling, and harvest our attention like it’s just another cash crop.

And right in the middle of this Venn diagram? The Stupidest Timeline.

Circle One: Right-Wing Fundamentalism.

A movement that claims to love freedom but obsesses over which bathrooms people use. That howls about “indoctrination” while demanding schools replace science with Sunday school sermons. That insists America is the “greatest country in the world” but is perpetually terrified of drag queens, vaccines, and solar panels. Their theology is less “love thy neighbor” and more “vote for the guy who promises to make your neighbor illegal.”

Circle Two: The One Percent.

Ah yes, our lords and saviors. The folks who own ten yachts but are offended by the concept of a living wage. Who build rocket ships not to explore the cosmos, but to escape paying taxes. Who lobby to gut healthcare and education while publicly posting inspirational quotes about “hard work” on LinkedIn. They don’t just buy politicians—they put them on layaway.

Circle Three: Technology, Information, Medicine.

We cracked the human genome, but can’t crack the code of affordable insulin. We invented the internet, the single greatest tool for sharing knowledge, and promptly used it to argue with strangers about whether birds are real. We created artificial intelligence that can write symphonies, solve equations, and generate art—and what do we use it for? Deepfaking celebrities and writing corporate emails faster.

The Overlap: The Stupidest Timeline.

So here we are, standing proudly in the middle. The place where billionaires bankroll preachers who tell us climate change isn’t real, while wildfires turn half the country into Mordor. Where medical breakthroughs that could save millions are locked behind a paywall more impenetrable than the Berlin Wall. Where technology meant to connect us has instead radicalized half the population into thinking Bill Gates microchipped them through vaccines.

This is not the golden age of humanity. This is the age where we could colonize Mars, but we can’t even fix the potholes on Main Street. The age where we can edit DNA but can’t edit out the idea that the Earth is 6,000 years old. The age where you can 3D-print an entire house but still have to Venmo your doctor after a trip to the ER because your insurance plan has a $10,000 deductible.

Congratulations, humanity: you’ve somehow assembled all the pieces to build a utopia, and then used them to construct a funhouse mirror version of dystopia instead.

Possible Solutions (a.k.a. The “Get Out of Stupid Free” Card)

Satire is fun, but unless we want the Stupidest Timeline to become the Only Timeline, we need exits. Some obvious, some radical, but all doable if people stop treating democracy like a spectator sport.

De-fund Fundamentalism. Separate church and state like your life depends on it—because it does. No tax breaks for megachurches that act like political action committees. No public dollars for pseudo-science curriculums. Faith is fine; theocracy is not.

De-oligarch the Economy. Close tax loopholes so billionaires actually pay more than their assistants. Break up monopolies that strangle competition and innovation. Treat corporate lobbying like the bribery it is. A system that rewards hoarding over contribution is designed to collapse.

Reclaim Technology. Algorithms should serve the public, not dopamine-addicted shareholders. Treat access to the internet and healthcare innovations as public goods, not luxury products. If AI can replace millions of jobs, then the profits from that efficiency must fund universal basic income, not another yacht for Jeff Bezos.

Rebuild Civic Muscle. Authoritarianism thrives on apathy. That means voting in every election, local or national. It means grassroots organizing. It means demanding accountability, not shrugging and doomscrolling while billionaires and zealots rearrange the furniture of society.

Redefine Progress. Stop fetishizing GDP and start measuring quality of life—healthcare access, education, environmental sustainability, equity. A society isn’t rich if its people are poor in health, knowledge, or dignity.

Will these fixes be easy? Of course not. But neither is living in the dumbest version of history, where we use the pinnacle of human advancement to livestream our own decline. The solutions exist—we just need the collective willpower to choose wisdom over stupidity, courage over convenience, and humanity over profit.

Because the only thing worse than living in the Stupidest Timeline is choosing to stay here.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The First Amendment—remember that old thing? The one scribbled on parchment, waved around at rallies, and trotted out whenever convenient? Well, turns out it now comes with fine print: “Applies only if you’re praising Dear Leader.” Free speech is still on the books, sure—but only if it’s glowing, fawning, and loyal. Criticism? Questioning? Sarcasm? Forget it. That’s “treasonous.” That’s “un-American.” That’s the kind of dangerous speech that gets you exiled from platforms, targeted by mobs, or worse—dragged into the kangaroo court of public opinion where the verdict is already guilty.

And these people—oh, these people—who spent years foaming at the mouth about pronouns, about being “forced” to respect others, decided to spend an entire day at a memorial service turning the English language into their personal weapon. “Us” and “them.” Over and over again, like a holy chant. They stood there declaring themselves the chosen, the righteous, the real Americans, while the rest of us—the critics, the skeptics, the ones who still think the Constitution applies to everyone—were painted as enemies, outsiders, filth to be pushed down, silenced, erased.

The hypocrisy is enough to choke on. They’ll howl about tyranny when someone suggests respecting gender identity, but they’ll cheer and clap when entire groups are told to shut up and “know their place.” They’ll wail that cancel culture is destroying America, but they’ll cancel the First Amendment itself the second Dear Leader’s fragile ego takes a hit. Their “freedom” is a one-way street: they speak, you obey. They preach about liberty while writing a liturgy of exclusion.

And make no mistake, it’s not about reverence, it’s not about mourning, and it sure as hell isn’t about unity. It’s about control. It’s about turning the stage into a pulpit, the pulpit into a weapon, and the weapon into a warning: don’t you dare step out of line. Their entire show of patriotism—flags lowered, hymns sung, tears performed—isn’t about honoring anyone. It’s about indoctrination. It’s about making sure that “freedom of speech” is theirs and theirs alone, while the rest of us are told to sit down and shut up.

This is their America now: a country where the First Amendment is brandished like a sword when it suits them and buried six feet deep when it doesn’t. Where “free speech” means loyalty oaths, where “patriotism” means submission, and where the chosen few get to decide who counts as American. And the rest of us? We’re the “others.” Always the others. Always the enemy.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Today in Glendale, Arizona, the spectacle at State Farm Stadium wasn’t so much a memorial as it was a coronation — or perhaps a canonization. Charlie Kirk, the right-wing provocateur turned Republican martyr, was sent off with a ceremony more fitting for a head of state than a man who made a career out of stoking division and amplifying hate. The scene was drenched in overblown theatrics: giant screens, choreographed tributes, and speakers who spoke of Kirk not as a man, but as a “savior” of the movement, a Republican messiah sent to rescue America from reality itself.

Of course, the president and vice president were in attendance, not so much to mourn as to bask in the glow of a carefully crafted martyrdom. Their arrival alone snarled traffic for hours, creating chaos for thousands of ordinary Arizonans who had the audacity to need to go about their daily lives. Yet, in the twisted logic of our current political circus, this disruption was billed as an act of reverence. After all, what better way to show “respect” for a man who thrived on chaos than by literally shutting down a city?

What should truly disturb us, however, is not the pageantry but the precedent. Flags were lowered to half-staff in Kirk’s honor, a gesture traditionally reserved for presidents, statesmen, and genuine national tragedies. That this honor was extended to someone whose life was dedicated to venomous rhetoric is an insult to every veteran, teacher, activist, or public servant who actually worked to bring people together rather than tear them apart. And let’s not forget the hypocrisy: Trump, now in his imperial role as arbiter of symbolic patriotism, once mandated that flags be raised during his own inauguration even as the nation mourned the death of President Jimmy Carter — because lowered flags “didn’t look good” on his big day. The message could not be clearer: mourning is optional, respect is conditional, but worship of their chosen icons is mandatory.

So we say goodbye to Charlie Kirk, not with reverence, but with the unease of watching history distort itself in real time. He has been elevated far beyond what his life and work merited, a testament not to his greatness but to the GOP’s desperation to manufacture saints where there are only opportunists. The true disgrace isn’t Kirk himself — it’s the nation’s willingness to play along.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ah yes, Emperor Donald the First—self-anointed Mango Monarch, wielder of Sharpie decrees, and connoisseur of poorly spelled Twitter proclamations—has once again reshaped reality with the stroke of his stubby royal scepter. By divine fiat, he has declared antifa—a concept, an idea, an adjective with legs—into a fully fledged terrorist organization. One almost expects him next to outlaw “gravity” for pulling his poll numbers down, or “algebra” for being too complicated and elitist.

But here’s the obvious snag: antifa is not, never has been, and never will be an actual organization. It has no membership cards, no headquarters, no tax-exempt status, no matching polo shirts or golf tournaments. It is literally shorthand for “anti-fascist.” To designate “being against fascism” as terrorism is as absurd as declaring “being against cancer” to be a medical crime. Yet in Mango Moron logic, ideology is now a criminal conspiracy.

And this is where the irony kicks into overdrive. Does Emperor Donald the First not realize that the so-called “Greatest Generation” stormed the beaches of Normandy to fight fascism? That the blood spilled at Anzio, the lives lost in the Ardennes, the men and women who endured rationing, blackouts, and fear—they did all of that to stop Mussolini and Hitler? And yet here comes Trump, proudly branding anyone opposed to fascism as the enemy. It’s like watching someone declare, “Anyone against arson is now a fire hazard.”

If we’re being brutally honest, no Trump ever fought for anything but their own bank accounts, golf courses, or fragile egos. Fred Trump made his fortune on shady deals while others fought World War II. Donald dodged Vietnam with bone spurs so delicate they only acted up when service was mentioned, but not when a tennis racket was nearby. And if there had been a Trump in uniform during WWII? Let’s just say the odds of him goose-stepping next to Göring are higher than him crawling through mud next to Eisenhower’s men. One can picture him in Rome, sipping wine with Mussolini, complaining that the uniforms weren’t “classy” enough and that the Nazi swastika really needed more gold trim.

Declaring antifa terrorism is not just authoritarian creep—it’s an open admission of allegiance. Because to be against anti-fascists is, by definition, to side with fascists. Trump doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. He glorifies strongmen, flirts with dictatorship, and now criminalizes resistance to it. He’s not interested in accuracy, legality, or historical consistency. He’s interested in creating enemies, keeping his followers enraged, and branding dissent as treason.

But here’s the kicker: fascism doesn’t arrive in a single tank rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue. It creeps in through rhetoric. It paints opponents as “terrorists,” journalists as “enemies of the people,” and dissenters as “traitors.” It thrives on confusion, thrives on fear, thrives on the kind of weaponized ignorance Trump has mastered. When he declares antifa terrorism, he is not just spouting nonsense—he is rehearsing dictatorship.

The Greatest Generation would recognize this for exactly what it is. They lived through the propaganda, the scapegoating, the demagoguery. They risked everything to crush it abroad. And now, decades later, the Mango Moron in the Oval Office tries to normalize it at home. For all his flag-hugging and military parades, Trump shows nothing but contempt for the actual legacy of sacrifice. The truth is simple: the only side a Trump has ever fought for is the Trump side, and if history had aligned differently, you’d likely find the family fortune stamped with Reichsmarks instead of U.S. dollars.

The decree against antifa is not just unconstitutional—it’s a confession. Emperor Donald the First has finally said the quiet part loud: he is against anti-fascism because he is, at his core, a fascist. And like all would-be emperors, he demands loyalty not to country, not to principle, but to himself.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

From the Desk of Baby Trump, Self-Proclaimed Economic Genius

“Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for has arrived. After months of whining, stomping my feet, and tweeting like a caffeinated toddler, I have forced the big, bad Federal Reserve to bend the knee. That’s right—interest rates are going down, down, down. And do you know why? Because I am the most powerful negotiator in history. Nobody threatens like me, nobody intimidates like me. Jerome Powell? He used to have a spine. Now he fetches my golf balls at Mar-a-Lago.”

That’s the narrative, anyway. The reality? This so-called “victory” is about as hollow as one of Trump’s casinos after bankruptcy. Interest rate cuts don’t mean the economy is strong—they mean the exact opposite. Rates drop when growth is slowing, when confidence is wobbling, and when central bankers are looking around at the flaming wreckage saying, “We’d better soften the crash.”

But Baby Trump, ever the marketing genius, will sell this as evidence of his unmatched brilliance. “See? Look at the low rates! The economy is thriving!” Except, of course, low rates are life support, not a celebration. It’s like bragging about getting a cast after breaking your leg: you’re not healthier, you’re injured.

And make no mistake, the injury is self-inflicted. Trade wars started on a whim, tariffs slapped around like cheap bumper stickers, supply chains strangled, markets rattled daily by presidential mood swings—it’s a wonder the global economy hasn’t filed for a restraining order. Businesses can’t plan, investors can’t trust, and consumers are tightening their wallets because who knows what tantrum tomorrow will bring.

So the Fed cuts rates. Not to celebrate, but to stabilize. Not because Trump “won,” but because his chaos has weakened the system. And yet here he is, parading around, chest puffed out, telling the world he scared the big bankers into submission. Never mind that retirees are punished with lower savings returns. Never mind that cheap borrowing doesn’t equal prosperity if no one has faith in the future. Never mind that this is a blinking neon sign that the economy is fragile.

But Baby Trump doesn’t deal in reality—he deals in optics. If he can declare victory loud enough, his base will cheer and the headlines will spin. “Strongest economy ever!” he’ll tweet, while the very mechanics of monetary policy are screaming, Danger ahead.

So yes, Trump has gotten his way. He bullied, he threatened, he threw his toys across the room until the adults sighed and gave in. But let’s not confuse capitulation with leadership. Lower interest rates don’t mean America is winning—they mean Trump broke the system badly enough that it needed a crutch. And, like every other time in his life, he’ll strut around the ruins pretending he built them.