Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald J. Trump is never happier than when he’s orbiting someone profoundly questionable.

It’s practically a cosmic principle.

A celestial alignment.

A spiritual calling, even.

You look back at old photos—the social-era Trump, the disco-era Trump, the “I definitely own this casino even though I don’t” era Trump—and the pattern is unmistakable: place him in a room full of ethically radioactive figures, and suddenly he lights up like a kid at Disney World.

Now, to be clear, we aren’t saying anything about anyone’s guilt or innocence—this is satire, after all—but the optics? Oh, the optics. The man seems to radiate joy in settings where any normal person would be checking for exit routes, hand sanitizer, or subpoenas.

Take, for example, those infamous photographs from the party circuit of yesteryear—the ones with people whose reputations aged like milk left out in July. Trump never looked happier.

The smile!

The glow!

The unspoken “I am truly among my people.”

It’s like watching a rare bird return to its natural habitat.

And then there’s this week’s episode of “Trump in the Oval Office: Who Will He Defend Today?”

A gripping drama in which the President of the United States, instead of defending American values, democracy, or basic decency, chose to defend… well, let’s call him the Crown Prince With the Unfortunate International Incident.

There was Trump, sitting in the Oval Office, beaming like he’d just won a golf tournament he sponsored himself, explaining—at great, excited length—why the journalist who was murdered in a brutally literal way should not be discussed, questioned, or mentioned because to do so would be “unfair” to the prince.

Never mind the CIA.

Never mind U.S. intelligence.

Never mind global outrage.

Donald was having the time of his life.

Ah, loyalty—his favorite currency, right after money and flattery.

And of course, in true Trumpian form, he couldn’t defend a foreign leader accused of a horrifying act without also attacking our own press. Because what is Trumpian loyalty without a little domestic hostility? He denounced American journalists with the same gusto he uses on his teleprompter when it dares scroll too slowly.

It’s almost poetic, in a morally upside-down way:

When confronted with a choice between standing with American journalists or a foreign leader implicated in the unaliving of one… he practically dove across the room to hug the latter.

There’s something almost introspective about it, if you tilt your head sideways and squint:

Why does Donald look happiest around people whose reputations could peel paint?

Why is his emotional thermostat set to “thrilled” whenever he is near someone facing accusations that would make a Bond villain blush?

Why is he never more alive, more radiant, more spiritually fulfilled than when he’s defending the indefensible?

Call it bad luck.

Call it questionable judgment.

Call it a lifelong habit of preferring the company of the flamboyantly notorious.

Call it satire.

But whatever you call it, the man beams—absolutely beams—when he’s in the orbit of people decent leaders would sprint away from.

And if that isn’t the most Trumpian introspection imaginable, I don’t know what is.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

If you listen closely across America’s blue states, you can almost hear the frantic scribbling of lawmakers racing to keep up with the latest episode of Kristi Noem’s Cosplay Cruelty Campaign, the long-running reality show in which state officials attempt to out-Texas Texas by inventing ever more creative ways to “round up” people who simply have the audacity to exist with melanin levels above “Nordic Winter.”

But unlike the governors who treat the Constitution like it’s optional DLC for democracy, the blue states have decided to fight back the only way they know how: by writing laws so by-the-book they make the IRS look like Burning Man.

Yes, indeed. Democratic cities and states across the map are slipping new rules into their state codes with the precision of someone smuggling snacks into a movie theater. These laws politely but firmly say:

“Dear ICE Agents and Your Tactical Halloween-Costume Enthusiasts:

No, you may not lurk outside our courthouses like discount Batman impersonators.

No, you may not drag away witnesses, victims, or literally anyone who came to court voluntarily.

No, you may not set up your ‘surprise immigration checkpoint’ between the parking lot and Judge Hernandez’s courtroom.”

In other words, if federal agents want to cosplay “Frontier Justice,” they’ll have to do it somewhere else—preferably at Comic-Con, where people actually appreciate a good costume.

And the best part? These blue states aren’t even being sneaky about it. They’re doing it legally. Quietly. Methodically. Like that one coworker who reads the employee handbook for fun and then uses it to win every workplace dispute.

So now, thanks to these new laws, if someone shows up in court to testify about a crime they witnessed, or even just to pay a parking ticket, they can do so without being pounced on by a group of tactical-vested role-players who think “due process” is a type of gluten-free snack.

Actually appearing in court?

Participating in the justice system?

Trying to follow the law?

Blue states: “We encourage this.”

Noem’s cosplay squad: “But… but… we brought zip ties.”

Blue states: “That’s nice, dear. Take them home.”

So while some states are busy staging live-action detention theater, others are quietly writing laws that say, essentially:

“If you want to enforce the law, maybe start by not breaking it.”

A radical concept, apparently.

But here we are—America in 2025—where the new frontline in the immigration debate is whether courthouse hallways are safe havens or hunting grounds.

And, frankly, if the choice is between:

states that weaponize bureaucracy like a toddler with a stick, or states that use bureaucracy to protect people from the weaponizers,

then at least the latter is playing by the rules… even if those rules are now longer than a CVS receipt.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Republicans—especially the Trump-loyal, reality-optional faction—have taken up a new national pastime: pointing at Democrats and shouting, “What if this Democrat is on the Epstein list? What if that one is? WHAT IF?!”

They deliver these hypotheticals with the dramatic intensity of a soap-opera actor discovering a long-lost twin. They wait for Democrats to gasp, faint, or clutch their pearls. And instead, Democrats say the most boring thing imaginable:

“If someone did something criminal, let them fall.”

Cue the Republican confusion. Because in GOP culture, loyalty is supposed to override everything—felonies, ethics, the Constitution, basic shame. So the idea that Democrats might actually toss their own overboard? That breaks the simulation.

And honestly, Republicans shouldn’t be surprised. Democrats have a borderline ruthless track record of ejecting their own at the first whiff of misconduct.

Jeffrey Weiner? Gone for sexting someone in his orbit.

Al Franken? Resigned over allegations that, while debatable in severity, were still treated as disqualifying. Democrats said, “You know what? Out.” And out he went. No cult of personality. No “witch hunt” press conference. No chanting his name at rallies like a rejected WWE storyline.

So why, exactly, are Republicans shocked that Democrats would also kick someone straight to the curb if they were involved in anything as horrifying as child exploitation?

Democrats have already demonstrated they’re perfectly willing to apply consequences—even when it hurts, even when the allegations aren’t anywhere near the level of the monstrous acts associated with Epstein’s world. Accountability isn’t a foreign concept; it’s the operating system.

Meanwhile, Republicans keep waving imaginary “gotcha” scenarios around, as if Democrats are secretly playing by the same loyalty-cult rulebook. They’re not. Democrats don’t protect predators, party be damned.

If someone’s guilty, throw them overboard. It’s not complicated.

Which, of course, is why it’s so utterly baffling to a political movement that thinks accountability is something that only happens to the other side.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

After four years of the previous administration, one thrilling year of the current one, and a full four-year Broadway-length production of “THE ELECTION WAS STOLEN: A ONE-MAN WHINE-FEST,” the self-declared champions of freedom—the red-hatted ride-or-dies, the “I did my own research” scholars—are finally tiptoeing off the deck of the S.S. MAGA as it lists violently to port. Turns out, when your ship’s captain is the Idiot-in-Chief himself, screaming into the storm clouds about invisible Kraken and Wi-Fi-powered voting conspiracies, eventually even the most loyal deckhands start questioning their life choices… or at least their political fashion sense.

These are the very same folks who spent nearly a decade declaring him the Chosen One, the Golden God, the man who could “say it like it is”—which, in practice, meant he could say absolutely anything, no matter how deranged, contradictory, or autocorrect-challenged, and they would applaud like he’d just reinvented the wheel. Badly. Out of wet cardboard.

But now? Suddenly the chorus is shifting. Suddenly it’s, “We never REALLY believed all that.” Suddenly they’re blinking into the sunlight like cave creatures realizing that maybe, just maybe, following a man who treated policy like improv comedy and governing like a personal vendetta tour wasn’t the master plan they’d hoped for.

Of course, they won’t call it regret. Oh no. It’s “reevaluating priorities.” It’s “recognizing new information.” It’s “taking a principled stand.” Anything but the truth: the ship is sinking, the captain is gnawing through the hull, and nobody wants to go down with a man whose greatest strategic insight is “post through it.”

So here they are—abandoning the vessel, leaping into lifeboats, paddling desperately away while insisting they always knew things were a little… off. And maybe they did. But it took watching the Titanic hit its fourth iceberg before they finally admitted the water up to their ankles wasn’t just a “deep state illusion.”

Too little? Too late? Absolutely. But at least the spectacle is entertaining. After all, you don’t often get to watch an entire movement try to reverse-uno its own gullibility in real time while the Idiot-in-Chief stands on deck, shouting about how the iceberg was rigged.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

If delusion were an Olympic sport, Donald John Trump wouldn’t just win gold—he’d declare himself the inventor of the Olympics, claim a 92% approval rating among ancient Greeks, and insist that Zeus himself endorsed his candidacy. Because when you’re the self-declared greatest president in the history of ever, facts, history, and basic reality are just optional accessories… like reading briefings or respecting the Constitution.

Let’s begin with the 92% approval rating—an absolutely spectacular number pulled straight from the Mar-a-Lago Statistical Institute (which operates out of the golf cart parked closest to the snack bar). Never mind that no reputable poll shows anything remotely close to this; in Trump’s world, the entirety of America—minus the “traitors,” “losers,” “piggy” journalists, and anyone who can read above a 4th-grade level—adores him. And why wouldn’t they? After all, he’s convinced himself that if he ran head-to-head against George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, he would crush them. Not just beat them—humiliate them. George Washington? “Overrated. Poor branding. Bad posture.” Abraham Lincoln? “Low energy. Weak on projection. Terrible hat.”

Of course, while he’s busy rewriting presidential history, he’s also hosting murder-defense club meetings in the Oval Office, defending Mohammed Solomon—an accomplice in the killing of a journalist—as though it’s just another day of “protecting very fine people.” When asked about this by the press (the press! the audacity!), Trump reacts with all the grace of a cat thrown into a bathtub. Suddenly everyone becomes “fake,” “enemy of the people,” or just a convenient target for one of his preschool-level nicknames. Because nothing screams strength like screaming at reporters for doing their jobs.

Naturally, the meltdown doesn’t end in the Oval Office; no, it continues on Truth Social, his personal digital bouncy castle of rage. There, he threatens members of his own government for posting the unforgivable sin of reminding the military that they swear an oath to the Constitution—not to the guy angrily mashing his phone in Palm Beach. To Trump, this is treason. High treason. Death-penalty treason. Because in his mind, the president is not just commander-in-chief—he’s the sun, the moon, and the Mar-a-Lago resort gift shop.

It doesn’t matter that the military is literally required to reject unlawful orders; if they don’t goose-step behind Trump’s every whim, they’re disloyal. And disloyalty against Trump is disloyalty against America because, in his mind, he is America. Not metaphorically—literally. Forget “government of the people.” Trump’s vision is “government of the Trump, by the Trump, for the Trump,” preferably with a crown, an orb, and a new holiday: Donaldmas.

But fear not—he assures us all this is for our own good. After all, what’s a little authoritarian fantasy between friends? Just because he talks like a wannabe king, acts like a wannabe king, and demands the deference of a wannabe king does not mean he wants to be a king—no, no, perish the thought. He just wants absolute loyalty, zero accountability, total immunity, and the power to punish anyone who questions him. A perfectly normal American request.

So here we are, watching the Megalomaniac-in-Chief cosplay monarchy in a country literally founded to avoid having one. And somehow, he thinks he’s the sane one.

God bless America. It needs it.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Swamp-Drainer Who Showed Up With a Garden Hose Full of Sludge

Back in 2016, Donald Trump stood before America and—with all the sincerity of a late-night infomercial host promising miracle weight loss—declared he would “drain the swamp.” Cue the cheering crowds, the dramatic music, and the mental image of Washington’s bureaucratic bayou finally getting a long-overdue cleanup.

But then he actually got elected, and—surprise!—the man didn’t show up with waders and a pump; he rolled in with a personalized swamp-refilling hose labeled TRUMP BRAND DRAIN-O (DOES NOT DRAIN ANYTHING).

Fast-forward to 2024: Act II of the swamp opera. Once again, he solemnly swears the swamp will be drained—this time for real, folks. Because apparently the problem with 2016 is that he forgot to cross his fingers behind his back or whatever mystical gesture is required for honesty in Trumpworld.

And yet here we are, not with a drained swamp, but with a multi-tiered, VIP-only luxury swamp resort, complete with all-you-can-eat corruption buffets. In this newest administration, Trump hasn’t just failed to drain the swamp—he’s federally funded it, put his name on it, and tried to trench his loyalists into every crack and crevice of government like they’re building a subterranean MAGA subway system.

“Weaponization of government”? Oh absolutely. Except not in the mythological sense he accuses everyone else of doing. No, no—this one’s proudly homegrown. He’s installed allies like little ideological landmines everywhere, each one ready to explode into a fireworks show of loyalty tests, grievance politics, and bureaucratic vengeance. Suddenly, every agency looks like it’s wearing a red hat and muttering about retribution as it clocks in.

The swamp isn’t just deeper now—it’s thriving. It’s an ecosystem. A habitat. A protected wildlife refuge for grifters, sycophants, and anyone willing to nod along while Trump insists he’s the world’s greatest environmentalist, because look—just LOOK—at how green the swamp is getting.

And the funniest part? He still claims he’s “draining” it. This is like a man standing in front of a five-alarm fire holding a flamethrower and insisting he’s a firefighter.

But hey, in fairness, he has drained something: credibility, integrity, oversight, norms, stability… pretty much everything except the swamp he promised to get rid of.

In the end, Trump’s swamp-draining pledge turned out to be the political equivalent of promising to clean your room and instead building a bigger closet to shove more junk into. And somehow expecting applause for it.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Groupthink—that warm, cozy cognitive blanket humanity keeps wrapping around itself no matter how many times it catches on fire. We like to pretend it’s a modern problem, but really, groupthink is one of our most ancient technologies. Before smartphones, before books, before the wheel, there was someone yelling an idea loudly enough that everyone else just nodded along. Voilà—civilization.

And to be fair, groupthink has done some good. World religions are basically the deluxe, premium version of groupthink, wrapped in ritual and incense. Billions of people agreeing that certain stories explain everything? Impressive. Comforting, even. A collective spiritual hug. Sure, occasionally things went off the rails—crusades, inquisitions, the occasional prophet who really needed therapy—but overall, world religions are the closest thing we have to socially acceptable groupthink with a good PR team.

But then there’s the other side—the part where groupthink forgets to check the “Do Not Enter If Hallucinating” sign. Like, say, The Salem Witch Trials, where everyone in town collectively decided that teenage drama plus ergot poisoning equaled Satan’s recruiting drive. Or the Manson Family, whose vibe was “flower power meets homicide.” Or Jonestown, the tragic, horrifying monument to what happens when unquestioning obedience meets one particularly unhinged man with a megaphone. And of course, Ruby Ridge, a situation that shows what happens when groupthink and paranoia shake hands and decide to ruin everyone’s week.

So where are we now? Have we learned? Have we grown?

laughs in 2020s

We now have Fox News and right-wing media attempting to assemble the Infinity Gauntlet of Hive Minds, snapping their fingers to see if they can get half the population to believe that billionaires are actually poor, workers are somehow oppressors, and the only path to salvation is to grovel before the people who already own half the planet. It’s like watching groupthink evolve Pokémon-style—from “everyone in the village thinks Goody Proctor is a witch” to “everyone on this cable network thinks empathy is communism.”

This new strain of hive-mindery whispers to those who have less: You’ll finally get ahead if you worship the ones who have more. It’s trickle-down psychology—just as effective as trickle-down economics, which is to say, not at all.

Where does this all lead? Well, if history is any guide, nowhere good. Groupthink tends to end either with someone drinking Kool-Aid or someone insisting the Earth is flat while holding a smartphone that depends on satellite math. This international hivemind being crafted in real time feels less like a unifying ideology and more like a slow-motion disaster everyone is politely pretending not to see.

But hey—silver lining: at least we’re all collectively witnessing it together.

Groupthink. Bringing people together… right before things go very, very wrong.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

If Texas ever needed a new state motto, it could comfortably be: “Wait… what?” Because that’s the only reasonable reaction to Governor Greg Abbott’s recent policy pinball machine.

First, he triumphantly signs a bill banning DEI in state institutions—DEI, the very framework designed to ensure institutions don’t slam the door on people who don’t fit the old establishment mold. You know, the same kind of policy scaffolding that made it possible for people like Abbott to rise in a system not exactly known for embracing accessibility or inclusion. But suddenly DEI is the Big Bad Wolf, blowing down the house of whatever ideological straw Abbott found lying around this week.

It’s like watching someone saw off the branch they’re sitting on, then hold a press conference declaring the tree “too woke.”

And because the chaos must always escalate, Abbott then declares CAIR—a civil rights organization—as a terrorist group. Not after a federal investigation, not after intelligence findings, but after apparently consulting the Magic 8 Ball of political theater. The move doesn’t solve anything, doesn’t address actual extremism, but it does generate headlines, which, let’s be honest, is the real currency here.

It’s governing by vibes. Bad ones.

But the pièce de résistance? Oh, Abbott is big mad—Texas-sized mad—because his precious redistricting plan just got bodied by a court ruling for being racially discriminatory. One hundred percent. Not even subtle. Not even creative. The court basically said, “You didn’t even try to hide it, Greg.” And there’s nothing Abbott hates more than being told “no,” especially when the “no” comes wrapped in the Constitution and judicial oversight.

So now he’s stomping around the political playroom throwing policy toys at the wall. Ban DEI! Label civil rights groups terrorists! Pound the podium! Spin the outrage wheel again! Something—anything—to distract from the fact that a federal court handed him a very public spanking for violating civil rights.

It’s almost impressive, if you appreciate the art of denial as performance.

Meanwhile, the governor keeps branding himself as a champion of freedom and fairness, which is an interesting angle for a man whose policies routinely get overturned for being unconstitutional, discriminatory, or just plain nonsensical. It’s like watching someone insist they’re a gourmet chef while repeatedly burning cereal.

So here we are, witnessing Abbott govern with the self-assured confusion of someone who forgot his own plotline. One minute it’s small government, the next it’s micromanaging public institutions. One minute it’s civil liberties, the next it’s banning the very mechanisms that protect civil liberties. One minute it’s “don’t tread on me,” the next it’s “unless I’m doing the treading.”

Texans, Americans, and anyone observing from a distance are left asking the same question:

“Is he okay?”

Because at this point, Abbott’s policy agenda looks less like a political strategy and more like a midseason meltdown on a reality show where nobody remembers why they’re fighting but they know they have to keep screaming for ratings.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

If there is one thing you can say about Donald J. Trump without fear of contradiction, it’s that the man has never met an original idea he didn’t immediately steal, rebrand, laminate, and then insist was his from birth. Truly, the “Plagiarism President” has turned recycled political thought into an art form — the kind you’d find taped to the refrigerator by a parent trying very hard to pretend their child has talent.

Let’s start with the greatest hit of all greatest hits: Make America Great Again. Ah yes, the slogan Trump treats like he personally received it from Mount Sinai… when, in reality, Ronald Reagan was using “Let’s Make America Great Again” back when Trump was still trying to convince Manhattan that Trump Tower wasn’t just a gold-plated ego tube. Sure, Reagan didn’t say “again,” but close enough for Trump’s copy-machine brain. Why invent when you can borrow? Why borrow when you can claim you invented?

Then, in office, Trump discovered something incredible: Obama had done things. And worse—some of them were actually popular. So naturally he slapped his name all over the Veterans Choice Act, a program Barack Obama signed in 2014. But according to Trump, he personally carved it into stone tablets and hand-delivered it to every veteran in the nation. Amazing what you can achieve when the past is just an inconvenience you can shout over.

Next up: NAFTA. It existed. Trump didn’t like that Obama had ever spoken its name. So he negotiated a few adjustments, printed a shiny new label—USMCA—and declared it the most revolutionary trade deal in the history of deals. In Trump World, rebranding counts as legislating. If he could Sharpie his signature on the moon, he’d claim he invented outer space.

And now, in 2025, he’s busy trying to steal credit for the CHIPS Act—Biden’s massive semiconductor investment law. Trump had nothing to do with it, didn’t propose it, didn’t sign it, didn’t understand it, and probably thinks “semiconductor” is what you call a conductor who’s only doing the job part-time. But that hasn’t stopped him from claiming he practically handcrafted microchips in the White House basement like some kind of sweaty MAGA Geppetto.

Historically speaking, even his “original” policies are basically dusty re-runs from presidents who left office before electricity. His immigration ideas? A throwback to Andrew Jackson’s worst impulses—except Jackson at least had the decency not to pretend he invented forced displacement. His tariff obsession? Straight from Taft, who already proved a century ago that tariff wars go about as well as stapling your own thumb.

And honestly, would anyone be even remotely surprised if one day Donald Trump waddled into the National Archives, broke open the hermetically sealed cases holding the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, whipped out his jumbo gold Sharpie, and scrawled his slanted autograph across them — declaring, of course, that he had improved them? “These documents were tremendous before, but now—now—they’re perfect. Better than the originals. I fixed the Founding Fathers, folks.”

Which brings us to the point: is there anything — anything at all — this man has ever conceived, devised, or imagined without grabbing it from some other president, slapping an exclamation mark on it, and pretending he created fire?

No. Absolutely not.

The man is a political Xerox machine malfunctioning in real time — a copy of a copy of a copy, each version more smudged, more incoherent, and more convinced that the blurry lines on the page are the result of “very stable genius” rather than cheap toner.

So here’s to Donald Trump, America’s premier plagiarism president: the man who proves that even in politics, originality is optional if you yell loudly and take credit quickly enough.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald, the walking global embarrassment in a red tie long enough to double as a tow rope, has once again demonstrated his world-class contempt for journalism—this time by addressing a reporter as “piggy.” Yes, “piggy.” Because nothing says “leader of the free world” quite like elementary-school cafeteria insults being hurled from a man who once had the nuclear codes.

At this point, it’s honestly unclear whether he’s trying to communicate with adults or auditioning for a reboot of Mean Girls where he plays all three Plastics at once. His entire rhetorical arsenal is basically a grab bag of playground taunts, and somehow every time he reaches inside, he manages to pull out something even more pathetic than the last. It’s like watching a man attempt to perform Shakespeare while armed only with the vocabulary of a cranky second grader.

And the international stage? Oh, they’re watching. They’re always watching. Somewhere out there, world leaders are gathering in quiet rooms, asking, “Did he really call a journalist piggy?” as if they can’t quite believe the United States keeps speed-running the global humiliation leaderboard. Meanwhile, Trump’s base eats it up like it’s a feature, not a catastrophic bug, as though reducing the press to barnyard characters is some kind of masterclass in diplomacy.

Let’s be clear: this isn’t just disrespect for journalism. This is the complete and total absence of respect for anyone who isn’t Donald J. Trump—or, let’s be honest, even people who are Donald J. Trump. But journalists? The people tasked with holding power accountable? He treats them with the same maturity he shows toward umbrellas and ramps.

At this point, it would be less embarrassing if he just showed up to press conferences with a giant Crayola name tag that said “HELLO, I AM MAD TODAY” and communicated exclusively in finger-painted insults. It would at least be thematically consistent.

But no, the man insists on dragging the entire country into yet another round of “Look How Little Respect I Have for Anyone Asking Me a Basic Question.” He is an international embarrassment not by accident, but by sheer relentless dedication. Truly, if weaponized immaturity were an Olympic sport, America would be bringing home gold every time.