Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ah yes, nothing screams “leadership” quite like setting up a meeting with the nation’s top generals and immediately showing them that you’ve got all the tactical depth of a Call of Duty lobby. The whole performance was supposed to project strength, dominance, the aura of a man who could command armies and reshape global strategy. Instead, it conveyed all the gravitas of a kid in his dad’s suit demanding to be called “sir.”

The goal was clear: he wanted to look like the new Secretary of War—yes, War—because apparently “Defense” just sounds too wimpy. You see, “Defense” implies protecting the country, safeguarding interests, thinking strategically. But “War”? Oh, that’s so much tougher, so much manlier. You can practically smell the testosterone dripping off the word. He wanted to be the guy with the big red button on his desk, not the one reading nuanced policy briefings about cyber threats or supply chain resilience. Subtlety, after all, is for cowards.

And then—like clockwork—enter Trump. Because what’s a meeting with generals without Trump’s personal brand of wisdom, right? It’s like inviting a drunk uncle to Thanksgiving dinner: you know it’s going to be a trainwreck, but you can’t stop watching. Trump’s input didn’t just fail to help; it actively made things worse. The generals were probably sitting there thinking, Do we salute? Do we laugh? Or do we just start drawing up early retirement papers?

Trump, of course, has always been obsessed with appearances over substance. He doesn’t want a military that functions—he wants a military that poses. And this is where his hype man Pete Hegseth comes in. Their shared dream seems to be a Pentagon run like Hollywood central casting. Forget logistics, forget strategy, forget making sure soldiers have working gear or adequate mental health care—what really matters is whether the troops look like they just stepped off the set of a Michael Bay movie. Square jaws, polished boots, gleaming medals, and uniforms crisp enough to cut glass. Who cares if the policy behind them is a dumpster fire, as long as they make a good backdrop for the photo op?

The generals, men and women who’ve spent decades worrying about actual combat readiness, had to sit there and endure Trump and Hegseth’s fantasies about turning the armed forces into a propaganda fashion show. It wasn’t about strength—it was about optics. It was about the image of power, not the reality of it. A military designed to win wars? Please. That’s boring. They wanted a military designed to look good in glossy campaign ads, with Trump standing proudly in front, like some kind of spray-tanned Caesar.

The problem, of course, is that Trump always thinks “toughness” means yelling louder, puffing his chest, or bragging about things he doesn’t understand. So instead of sober discussion on strategy, you get a pep rally about “winning so much you’ll be tired of winning” and vague mutterings about “the best missiles, the biggest missiles, missiles like you’ve never seen before.” Meanwhile, the generals—actual professionals who’ve dedicated their lives to military service—have to nod politely as the man with zero military experience lectures them on how wars are “easy to win if you’re smart, which I am, very smart.”

So we ended up with a spectacle: a wannabe Secretary of War trying to cosplay as General Patton, only with less credibility and a worse haircut, backed by a former president whose military experience consists of avoiding the draft with bone spurs. And standing right behind him, Hegseth beaming like a stage mom at a middle school play, gushing about how amazing the uniforms look under the lights.

Together, they projected all the strength of a wet paper bag in a thunderstorm. By trying so hard to look strong, they looked weaker than ever. The generals didn’t see fearless warriors. They saw two wannabe casting directors trying to turn the U.S. military into a bad reality show, mistaking bluster for power and costumes for capability.

At the end of the day, the whole charade made one thing very clear: if you have to insist you’re strong, you’re not. And if you need Trump and Pete Hegseth to design your military like it’s a Marvel movie trailer, you’ve already lost the plot.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Ladies and gentlemen, patriots, and believers in the best health care the galaxy has ever seen—welcome to TrumpCare 2.0: The Med Bed Revolution. Forget Obamacare, forget Medicare, forget every plan in human history, because Donald J. Trump has done what no other president has dared: he has cut out doctors, nurses, and scientists, and gone straight to the aliens.

For years, Trump promised a “phenomenal healthcare plan.” Reporters asked where it was, Democrats begged for details, and even Republicans scratched their heads. The answer, it turns out, was hidden in Area 51 the whole time. Forget premiums, deductibles, or co-pays. Now, all you need is a golden ticket and a MAGA hat to climb into your very own extraterrestrial tanning bed.

Cancer? Gone in 30 minutes. Broken hip? Reset by cosmic vibrations. Wrinkles? Not on Trump’s watch—he’ll be the first president to campaign at 100 years old while looking like he just stepped off The Apprentice. These med beds don’t just heal, they resurrect—so don’t be surprised if Trump’s 2028 running mate is George Washington himself.

Of course, the fine print is where things get tricky. Who pays for these alien spa pods? Are they made in America or shipped from Mars? Will Blue Cross cover it, or do you need Elon Musk to sponsor your deductible? Don’t ask too many questions—because, as Trump himself would say, “Nobody knows more about alien technology than me, believe me.”

The reality is, this isn’t healthcare policy—it’s a bedtime story for the gullible. Americans deserve a functioning system where families aren’t bankrupted by a hospital visit. Instead, Trump is selling snake oil wrapped in a sci-fi fantasy. If his first term was empty promises, his second is interstellar comedy.

So here it is, folks: the “big, beautiful healthcare plan” we’ve all been waiting for. Not Medicare for All, not private market reform, not even a serious conversation. Just TrumpCare: Powered by aliens, endorsed by QAnon, and coming soon to a spaceship near you.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Mike Johnson, the self-anointed God Warrior of the House, struts around with his gavel like it’s the staff of Moses, but the only thing he ever manages to part is common sense. This is the man, the baby Speaker, who is once again threatening to shut down the government—not because Democrats want to rewrite the Constitution, not because they’re demanding socialism or free puppies for everyone, but because they asked for one small thing: remove the GOP’s “right of rescission” from the continuing resolution. That’s it. The tiniest tweak to keep the lights on. But Johnson, backed by his band of ghouls in red ties, would rather burn down the entire government than give Democrats the satisfaction of fixing a problem.

And let’s remember: Mike Johnson and his GOP wrecking crew haven’t actually passed a budget. Not one. Not since he picked up the gavel. The “fiscally responsible” Republican Party is running the country on Nancy Pelosi’s budget like freeloaders crashing at their ex’s apartment, still eating her groceries while screaming about how awful she is. Every continuing resolution is a Pelosi hand-me-down, but somehow Johnson and his cult of chaos spin this as leadership. If this is leadership, then a three-year-old in a tantrum aisle at Walmart is a statesman.

But Johnson isn’t just a failure at governance—he’s also a hypocrite of biblical proportions. This self-proclaimed devout Christian has shattered one of the Ten Commandments in full view of the world. “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image”? Please. Johnson practically polishes the golden calf himself: an idol with an oversized red tie, an orange-tinted face, and hair that looks like it was spun from fool’s gold. Donald J. Trump isn’t just his political leader—he’s his deity. Johnson and the GOP don’t worship God anymore. They worship Trump, the twice-impeached, four-times-indicted false prophet of Mar-a-Lago. Sunday sermons are for show; the real altar is at a rally, lit by MAGA hats and cheap fireworks.

And Johnson is far from alone in this disgrace. The entire Republican Party has followed him into this pit of idolatry. They don’t legislate; they litigate against democracy itself. They don’t solve problems; they create crises and then blame Democrats for cleaning up the mess. They pretend to care about the debt but will gleefully tank the economy if it means sticking it to Joe Biden. They claim to defend freedom but spend their days attacking women’s rights, voting rights, and basic human decency. It’s not a political party anymore—it’s a doomsday cult with a tax break.

The GOP’s strategy these days is simple: break the government, cry that the government doesn’t work, then demand more power to fix the mess they created. Johnson is just the latest empty suit in this endless parade of incompetence. He’s not leading, he’s babysitting—a squabbling caucus of arsonists who want credit for burning down the building while demanding hazard pay.

What makes it all worse is the sanctimony. Johnson cloaks himself in religion and righteousness while leading a party of grifters, liars, and sycophants. They call themselves patriots while cheering on a man who tried to overturn an election. They call themselves Christians while erecting golden shrines to a conman who wouldn’t recognize humility or honesty if it bit him in the spray tan. They claim to be for “the people,” yet every action they take proves they’re only for themselves—and for the bloated ego of the man-child they’ve enthroned as their false messiah.

So here we are again: government on the brink of shutdown, not because Democrats are intractable, but because the GOP refuses to govern. Johnson and his Republican colleagues would rather hold the country hostage than admit Nancy Pelosi’s budget is the only thing keeping the lights on. They’d rather worship at Trump’s altar than actually serve the people they were elected to represent.

History will remember Johnson and this GOP not as leaders, but as vandals—cowards who mistook obstruction for strategy, who confused idolatry for faith, who chose loyalty to a golden-haired fraud over duty to the Constitution. They are not guardians of democracy. They are its saboteurs.

And when the government shutters and chaos follows, Mike Johnson won’t be Moses leading his people to the Promised Land. He’ll be the guy clutching his Bible in one hand, his gavel in the other, and bowing to the graven image in the red tie—while the rest of America pays the price for his cowardice.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It’s nearly October and Halloween spirit stores are open and the childish pleasure of Halloween and horror stories is definitely in the air. So I’m gonna start now on explaining many of the legends of Halloween and maybe make them into a semi spooky story.

On a cold October night, when the air grows thin and the shadows seem to move on their own, old words whisper their secrets. One of those words is “lu.” Long ago, in the tongues of our ancestors, lūna meant the moon, casting its pale light across a haunted world. In French, loup meant wolf, the prowling creature of the dark forests that surrounded their villages. Over centuries, these words tangled together in folklore, and soon “lu” was tied to both the light of the moon and the howl of the wolf.

But how did the two become inseparable in legend?

The earliest tales spoke of men cursed to wear the skin of wolves. In Greece, there was Lycaon, who angered Zeus and was transformed into a beast. In the icy north, Norse warriors donned wolf pelts, believing they could channel the fury of the animal. Yet none of these tales mentioned the moon. That came later, when villagers looked up at the swollen full moon and felt its strange pull. It was said the moon stirred madness—lunacy—making men restless, unstable, even violent. And when the wolves howled at that silver disc in the sky, what could be more natural than believing it called to their human brothers in disguise?

So the myth was born: under the full moon’s light, a man cursed with the blood of the wolf would twist and break, his bones reshaping, his voice becoming a howl. It was not just the wolf in the forest to fear—it was the neighbor, the farmer, the friend, who by night might bare his fangs.

And as Halloween approaches, when the moon rides high and the night grows long, the old warning echoes still:

When the lu (moon) shines brightest, the wolf may be walking among us.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Kamala Harris warned us, point-blank, during the campaign: “If I come into the White House, I’ll bring a to-do list. Donald Trump will bring an enemies list.” Turns out, she was being charitable. Donald didn’t bring just an enemies list—he brought a middle-school burn book, complete with glitter glue, Sharpie doodles, and Pam Bondi playing DOJ Barbie as his enforcer.

Let’s be clear: Kamala’s “to-do list” was about actual governing—fixing health care, protecting reproductive rights, stabilizing democracy. You know, boring adult stuff like making sure people can afford insulin and keeping the lights on in Washington. Trump’s “list” looks more like the scribbled rage notes of a mall cop who got fired for sleeping on the job. He doesn’t want to govern; he wants to settle grudges from the last forty years. If you once said mean things about his hair, his spray tan, or his tragic escalator entrance, congratulations—you’re on the list.

And who better to weaponize the nation’s top law enforcement agency than Pam Bondi, the woman whose résumé is basically “Fox News pundit” and “loyal Trump parrot.” She’s not Attorney General material—she’s a cosplay version of it, all glossy veneers and rehearsed outrage, holding subpoenas like fashion accessories. Lady Justice is supposed to be blindfolded; under Trump and Bondi, she’s wearing false lashes and peeking out to make sure she’s arresting the “right” people—the ones who ever dared cross Dear Leader.

The hypocrisy is Olympic-level. For years, Trump shrieked about the “weaponization” of the DOJ, about how Democrats were running witch hunts. Now? The Mango Moron has strapped the DOJ to his private jet and turned it into his own hit squad. It’s not about justice; it’s about vengeance. It’s not about law; it’s about loyalty. And Bondi, ever the eager Barbie doll, smiles for the cameras while she sharpens the knives.

The sad part is—it’s all so predictable. Trump doesn’t do “policy.” He does vendettas. His idea of a second-term agenda is a scrapbook of grudges. His vision for America is simple: a nation run by one man’s fragile ego. And if you dare laugh at the emperor’s orange clothes, you’re in legal jeopardy.

Kamala Harris saw it coming. She told us the truth. And now, while she keeps ticking off her to-do list, Trump and his DOJ Barbie are busy scribbling new names onto the enemies list. It’s government by tantrum, law enforcement by vendetta, democracy by demolition derby.

We could have had adults in the room. Instead, we’ve got Donnie and his doll.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Friends, we’ve done this before—and we’re going to do it again.

Back in 2018, when Trump strutted into Washington thinking he was untouchable, the American people reminded him who really holds the power. We organized. We marched. We voted. And we took back the House of Representatives. That victory wasn’t just a headline—it was a lifeline. It was proof that when democracy is on the line, we don’t sit on the sidelines.

And now, here we are again. 2026 is our moment. The stakes? Higher than ever. This is about whether we continue forward as a democracy—or slide backward into the grip of a wannabe dictator who wants power without accountability, obedience without question, and loyalty to himself instead of to the Constitution.

But here’s the truth: he only wins if we give up. And we are not giving up. We’ve beaten him before, and we’ll do it again. Because we know the playbook—grassroots organizing, relentless truth-telling, and most of all, showing up in numbers too big to ignore.

We are the firewall. We are the movement. And in 2026, we are going to shut him down in his tracks.

So let’s do what we do best. Knock the doors. Make the calls. Register the voters. Spread the word. And remind every American that our future is not his to steal—it’s ours to shape.

Together, let’s make 2026 another turning point. Together, let’s defend democracy. Together, let’s win.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Alright, let’s wade into this glorious swamp of hypocrisy. The very same crowd that once puffed their perms to the heavens, caked on eyeliner like it was war paint, and strutted across stages in leopard-print spandex tighter than a sausage casing, are now shrieking into their Fox News-branded megaphones about the dangers of men in dresses. Yes, the generation that raised their fists to Twisted Sister’s anthem “We’re Not Gonna Take It” now seems absolutely determined to take it — all of it — away from anyone who doesn’t conform to their suddenly delicate sensibilities.

Let’s start with the obvious. If you were at a Mötley Crüe concert in 1985, chances are good you saw Vince Neil teetering on high heels, doused in eyeliner, and wearing more lipstick than your mother owned. Nikki Sixx wasn’t exactly dressed for Sunday service either — unless your church was run by Liberace. The glam rock era wasn’t just music; it was a full-on drag show with pyrotechnics, shredding guitars, and a chorus of mullets. And the crowd? They loved it. They cheered for it. They bought the albums, wore the merch, and tried to tease their hair into the same Aqua Net-defying shapes. And now these same people — these leather-pants apostles of glam excess — are clutching their pearls over a drag queen reading Green Eggs and Ham to kids at a library? Please.

What makes it even richer is that Twisted Sister’s Dee Snider himself — the very poster boy of glam metal gender-bending — once had to testify before Congress about music censorship in the infamous PMRC hearings. He stood there, in his ripped T-shirt and mascara, defending freedom of expression against Tipper Gore and the moral scolds of the 1980s. Fast-forward a few decades and some of the very fans who screamed “yeah, Dee, stick it to The Man!” are now being The Man — demanding book bans, attacking libraries, and hyperventilating about a drag queen whose biggest crime is probably mispronouncing “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom.”

And let’s not forget the sheer absurdity of the complaint itself. We’re talking about grown adults who once blasted songs about sex, drugs, and partying until dawn, yet they’re terrified of children being “corrupted” by someone in a sequined gown reading Where the Wild Things Are. Newsflash: kids aren’t going to be warped by a story hour; they’re going to get warped by watching their dad scream at the television every night about immigrants, or by mom’s Facebook rabbit hole full of conspiracy memes about litter boxes in schools.

The cognitive dissonance is staggering. These folks cheered for artists who strutted onstage in thigh-high boots and fishnets, but drag queens — who are doing essentially the same thing, just without the Marshall stacks and pyrotechnics — are apparently civilization-ending threats. It’s like they forgot their own adolescence, or maybe they’re too embarrassed to admit that their “bad boy” idols wore more makeup than RuPaul.

So yes, the irony here isn’t just thick — it’s practically a new genre of metal. Imagine if Dee Snider had told his fans back in ’84, “Hey, thirty years from now you’re all going to be outraged by drag queens in libraries.” They would’ve laughed him off the stage. Yet here we are: the Aqua Net warriors of yesteryear transformed into cranky culture warriors, still shouting “We’re Not Gonna Take It!” — but this time, it’s directed at someone reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar. You can’t make it up.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I wanted to take everyone on a little tour of my brain when I’m trying not to focus on the existential threat of what is going on in our world today. Here’s a little trip down the rabbit hole.

So, here’s the thing—Gilligan’s Island. “A three-hour tour.” A THREE. HOUR. TOUR. And yet, somehow, Ginger shows up with a wardrobe that would make Cher jealous during a Vegas residency. The Howells? They’ve got steamer trunks, evening wear, tennis whites, pearls, and a portable safe. On a day cruise. Who brings formal wear to a glorified booze cruise? Were they expecting a Titanic-style gala on a tiny boat piloted by a guy named “Skipper”? Oh, and let’s not forget the Professor. The man couldn’t fix the boat, couldn’t patch a hole, but somehow—SOMEHOW—he had the tools, raw materials, and electrical know-how to build a radio out of coconuts, a washing machine out of bamboo, and what was essentially a renewable energy grid in the middle of nowhere. But patch the damn boat? Nope. Apparently, coconut-based naval engineering wasn’t part of the curriculum.

And don’t even get me started on the food situation. They were supposed to be gone for three hours. Three. Hours. Yet there was always an endless supply of fruit, pies, and random props like ropes, tents, and medical kits. Like, who’s catering this island? Is there an Amazon Prime drone dropping packages just out of camera range? And why, after YEARS stranded, did no one look remotely sunburned? No peeling, no tan lines, no desperate mosquito-swatting? Either that lagoon had an SPF rating of infinity, or the Professor secretly invented Coppertone out of palm fronds.

But wait—here comes the mental hard left turn—because thinking about TV absurdities makes me leap straight to Happy Days. A show filmed in the 1970s about the 1950s. Fine, nostalgia goggles, leather jackets, jukeboxes, The Fonz smacking appliances into obedience—cool. But here’s the horrifying part: if we did Happy Days now, in 2025, it would be about the year 2000. The year 2000! You know, Y2K panic, frosted tips, Napster lawsuits, the Spice Girls fading out while Limp Bizkit was inexplicably popular. People were still carrying Nokia bricks and bragging about 200 text messages a month. You’d have an entire episode about someone trying to burn a mix CD without ruining the disc, or someone screaming because their mom picked up the phone and kicked them off dial-up AOL.

And as a Gen X-er, this is where the cold sweat sets in—because the 2000s don’t feel like “retro.” They feel like, I don’t know, last week? Like I could still find a Blockbuster return envelope under my car seat. But no, apparently, kids now look at the year 2000 the way we looked at Happy Days. The past. Ancient history. The retro aesthetic. Which means someday, some dead-eyed network exec is going to greenlight a laugh-track sitcom where the “cool guy” is wearing JNCO jeans, flipping open a Motorola Razr, and saying “Talk to the hand” without irony.

And that, friends, is way scarier than being stranded on an island with Gilligan, a suitcase of sequined gowns, and a professor who can invent a nuclear reactor but not a damn raft.

Thanks for taking the short trip down the rabbit hole…

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Let’s get one thing straight right out of the gate: MAGA is not a political party, it’s not even a political “movement.” It’s a cult. A big, red-hat-wearing, grievance-chanting, logic-immune cult. You can slap some stars and stripes on it, have rallies that look like NASCAR meets Pentecostal revival, and pretend it’s all about patriotism—but at the end of the day, it functions less like a serious ideology and more like the Church of Trump, where loyalty to the Dear Leader is the only sacrament.

Political parties debate policy. Movements advocate for ideas. Cults, however, demand blind allegiance to one man, insist on rewriting reality to fit his narrative, and excommunicate anyone who dares to ask questions. Sound familiar? MAGA doesn’t have a platform beyond “whatever Trump feels like today.” Remember when the Republican National Committee literally gave up writing a platform in 2020 and just said, “We support Trump”? That’s not politics. That’s a cult’s mission statement: “Our doctrine is whatever the prophet tweeted at 3 a.m.”

And let’s not overlook the rituals. The rallies are indistinguishable from revival tents, complete with the chanting of slogans, mass displays of merchandise (all proceeds, of course, funneled to the leader’s coffers), and the ecstatic belief that Trump is simultaneously a persecuted martyr and an all-powerful savior. Logic doesn’t enter into it. A political movement would ask, “What policies make sense?” MAGA asks, “How can we better worship the man who can’t walk down a ramp without assistance but assures us he’s the most vigorous specimen of humanity alive?”

The paranoia also reeks of cult dynamics. MAGA devotees are convinced they alone see “the truth,” while the rest of the world is brainwashed. Never mind that their version of “truth” involves lizard-people Democrats drinking baby blood and Hugo Chávez hacking voting machines from beyond the grave. Cults thrive on paranoia. Political movements, in contrast, thrive on ideas. The MAGA idea is simply: if you don’t worship Trump, you’re a traitor.

Of course, every cult needs enemies. And oh, how the MAGA church loves its enemies: the media, the “deep state,” immigrants, anyone who uses pronouns other than what Fox & Friends approve of. Enemies justify the persecution complex that keeps the cult glued together. After all, what’s a messiah without the evil empire supposedly trying to destroy him?

And let’s not ignore the financial angle. Cults are always about money, and MAGA is no different. You can’t just show up and believe—you’ve got to buy the merch, donate to the PACs that cover legal bills, and, if possible, tithe your Social Security check directly into Trump’s defense fund. A political movement tries to raise money to win elections. A cult tries to drain every last penny from its members while assuring them that bankruptcy is simply a test of faith.

Ultimately, what makes MAGA a cult and not a political movement is that it requires the total suspension of reality. Gas is $3.50? Trump would have made it 25 cents. Hurricanes? Never happened before Biden. Indictments? Just proof of his holiness. Cult members don’t care if the predictions never come true, if the contradictions pile up, if the leader is a walking scandal factory. Their faith is impervious.

So let’s stop pretending. MAGA isn’t a movement to “make America great again.” It’s a cult dedicated to making one man feel great about himself, again and again, no matter the cost to democracy, decency, or basic human intelligence. The red hats aren’t symbols of patriotism; they’re membership badges in the Church of Trump, where questioning is heresy, loyalty is salvation, and reality is optional.

And the cruelest irony? Like all cults, MAGA will eventually burn out. The question is whether it takes the rest of us with it before the Kool-Aid runs dry.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Oh, the toughness. The grit. The unflinching, ice-veined masculinity of Trump and his acolytes, embodied in the loyal stormtroopers of ICE. These men (and a handful of women, mostly for photo ops) like to remind us at every opportunity that they are the wall between “civilization” and the chaos of desperate families whose biggest crime is fleeing gang violence or famine. Clad head-to-toe in black tactical gear, Kevlar vests bulging at the seams, they strut like they’ve just parachuted into a war zone. Except the “war zone” usually turns out to be a church basement, a community clinic, or a Greyhound bus. And the “enemy combatants”? Women clutching toddlers, children carrying juice boxes, maybe a grandfather with a limp. The ICE commandos throw them down, cuff them, and parade their bravery, because obviously the most pressing threat to the Dear Leader’s empire is a six-year-old with a Pokémon backpack.

But wait—don’t be fooled. These guys are tough. Just ask them. They’ll tell you all about the dangers they face, about how every knock on a door could be their last, every detention center raid a brush with death. Except, of course, when there actually is violence at a detention center, the tough-guy narrative collapses faster than Trump trying to walk down a ramp. Case in point: a shooting erupts in one of their beloved cages. One detainee killed, two others injured. Blood spilled, lives shattered. And ICE? Well, not a single one of these Kevlar-clad warriors so much as grazed by a bullet. But still, they clutch their pearls, wipe their brows, and scream, “ICE is under attack!”

Let’s pause and admire the audacity of this victim cosplay. Three migrants—people locked up in conditions so inhumane that Amnesty International can’t write reports fast enough—are the ones who pay in flesh and blood. Yet somehow, ICE manages to spin it into a war story where they’re the heroes, and simultaneously, the victims. It’s a remarkable talent, really: turning human suffering into propaganda for more funding, more toys, more jackboots.

And Trump? Oh, he eats it up. For a man who nearly collapses when an escalator turns into stairs, ICE is the perfect extension of his mythology. They are his muscle, his black-clad avatars of “strength.” Never mind that their “strength” is deployed against terrified families who pose less threat than a malfunctioning handrail. Never mind that when real violence intrudes, ICE is nowhere near the line of fire. In Trump’s telling, they are warriors besieged, noble gladiators defending the republic from the invasion of—checks notes—mothers nursing babies.

What’s most grotesque is how eagerly the cult laps it up. They cheer the images of ICE agents dragging children away at dawn, but then demand sympathy and tax dollars when their “heroes” cry danger after not even being scratched in an actual shooting. These are the “tough guys” America is supposed to admire: soldiers in an imaginary war, cosplaying courage while avoiding any real risk. They puff out their chests, pose for campaign ads, and remind us of their bravery—all while their Dear Leader trembles at the sight of a staircase.

If this is toughness, then maybe toughness has gone the way of Trump’s escalator: broken, ridiculous, and leading nowhere.