Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Statues, Plaques, and the Art of Hero Worship Gone Completely Sideways

If you ever needed a single, crystalline example of how upside-down our political moment has become, look no further than the Turning Point event where GOP leaders—Mike Johnson included—floated the idea of erecting a statue of Charlie Kirk in the U.S. Capitol Rotunda. Yes, that Rotunda. The one reserved for people who shaped the nation, preserved democracy, or at minimum didn’t build a career out of yelling into microphones and confusing decibels with ideas.

Let’s savor the audacity. Not content with book deals, donor lists, and a permanent residency in the algorithm, we now apparently need to immortalize Charlie Kirk in marble. Because when future generations tour the Capitol, nothing explains American democracy better than: “Here stands the podcaster who perfected the art of grievance cosplay.”

Meanwhile—and this is not a metaphor or a talking point—the same people clutching pearls over “political symbolism” refuse to hang a plaque honoring the January 6 Capitol Police officers. Not because it’s controversial. Not because it’s complicated. But despite the inconvenient fact that Congress literally passed a law requiring that plaque to be installed.

That’s right. This isn’t some symbolic gesture stalled in committee or lost in bureaucratic purgatory. The plaque honoring the officers who physically held the line against a violent mob is mandated by law. And it still hasn’t gone up. Apparently, in today’s GOP, the rule of law is sacred—right up until it makes them uncomfortable.

Because hanging that plaque would require acknowledging a reality they are desperate to memory-hole: that on January 6, law enforcement wasn’t protecting Republicans from Democrats, or patriots from tyrants. They were protecting democracy from radical right Trump supporters who tried to overturn an election they didn’t like.

That’s a harder story to swallow than carving Charlie Kirk’s haircut into limestone.

So instead, we get fantasy hero worship. Not of courage, sacrifice, or public service, but of ideological loyalty and media clout. The modern Republican Party doesn’t want heroes who defend institutions; it wants influencers who attack them while insisting they’re the real victims.

The Capitol Rotunda, once a space meant to honor those who upheld the republic, is now being auditioned as a shrine to outrage capitalism. A podcast studio with better lighting and worse consequences.

The contrast couldn’t be clearer. A plaque honoring officers who upheld the law—required by law—is ignored. A statue for a political activist who has never defended the Capitol in his life is enthusiastically proposed.

If this feels like the most insane thing you’ve heard all year, that’s because it is. In today’s GOP, bravery under fire earns you silence. Obedience to the narrative earns you marble. And democracy, apparently, can wait—again.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

So there stood JD Vance in Phoenix this weekend, beard carefully cultivated to signal “I’m rugged but thoughtful,” delivering a Turning Point speech that can best be summarized as: This is a white Christian nation, and if you think that sounds racist, well, that’s because you just don’t understand how not-racism works anymore.

Are. You. Kidding. Me.

According to Vance’s rhetorical gymnastics, declaring America a “white Christian nation” isn’t racist at all. No, no—racism is when you mean it in a bad way. This, apparently, is the heritage version. Like saying, “I’m not excluding anyone, I’m just loudly defining the country in a way that excludes most people historically, culturally, and demographically.” Totally different.

The logic goes something like this:

America was founded by white Christians → therefore America is a white Christian nation → therefore anyone who doesn’t fit that description is merely a guest who should stop rearranging the furniture. See? Not racism. Just… architectural nostalgia.

And don’t worry, Vance isn’t saying non-white, non-Christian Americans don’t belong. He’s just saying they belong conditionally, so long as they accept that the country’s “real” identity was already decided without them, by people who didn’t think they were people. That’s not discrimination—that’s tradition.

Critics might point out that the Constitution very explicitly avoided establishing a national religion, and that the First Amendment exists precisely because the founders were terrified of theocratic nonsense. But JD Vance has discovered a clever workaround: simply ignore the parts of American history that are inconvenient and declare vibes as facts. If it feels like a white Christian nation to him and a cheering crowd in Phoenix, who are we to bring up things like pluralism, immigration, or reality?

And when people inevitably say, “Hey, that sounds racist,” the defense is airtight: You’re the real racist for noticing. Because in 2025 conservative discourse, naming whiteness is only racist if a liberal does it. When the right does it, it’s just “telling the truth” or “defending Western civilization,” which is apparently so fragile it needs constant protection from food trucks, textbooks, and anyone praying in the wrong direction.

What makes the whole performance especially rich is the faux victimhood layered on top. Vance speaks as if white Christians are an endangered species, bravely clinging to survival while controlling most political institutions, the Supreme Court, and a disproportionate share of wealth. It’s less “oppressed minority” and more “still mad we have to share.”

So no, JD, proclaiming America a white Christian nation isn’t magically “not racist” because you said it with confidence and a beard. It’s racist because it reduces a wildly diverse, secular constitutional republic into a monochrome fantasy where some Americans are clearly more “real” than others.

But sure—tell us again how this is about unity. Just as soon as everyone agrees on who actually counts.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Once upon a time—before billionaires had Twitter accounts and space hobbies—there was a rich guy who was, let’s be honest, a complete dick. Classic Dickens setup. Enter three ghosts, because apparently even in the 1800s HR didn’t exist, so hauntings were the preferred performance review.

Ghost #1: Past.

Shows up like an old mixtape and reminds Rich Guy that, once upon a time, he wasn’t such a raging asshole. He had friends. Dreams. A soul. You know, before compound interest replaced empathy.

Ghost #2: Present.

Rolls in to show how his current behavior is screwing over everyone around him—overworked employees, struggling families, the general vibe of society. This is where Rich Guy is supposed to feel bad. And miraculously, in the original story, he does.

Ghost #3: Future.

Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t lecture. Just shows Rich Guy that no one will miss him. No statues. No warm memories. Just a shrug and a clearance sale. This hits the ego, and boom, redemption arc unlocked.

Cue transformation. He gives money away. People cheer. Christmas is saved. Capitalism grows a conscience for about five minutes.

Now here’s the Gen X problem: this story does not work anymore.

Today’s oligarchs would watch the whole ghost PowerPoint and say, “Cool story, bro,” then write it off as a tax deduction. They don’t care about the past, they outsource the present, and the future? They assume they’ll be remembered forever because their name is already on a stadium, a rocket, or a democracy-sized loophole.

Rockefeller and Carnegie at least wanted a legacy. Libraries. Museums. Plaques. Today’s ultra-rich don’t want to be loved—they want to be unavoidable. Conscience is optional. Consequences are for other people.

So a modern Christmas Carol wouldn’t end with redemption. It would end with the ghosts being laid off, Scrooge launching into low Earth orbit, and Tiny Tim being told to “learn to code.”

God bless us, everyone. Or at least the shareholders. 🎄

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Let’s begin with the First Amendment, the crown jewel of American freedom: speech, religion, press, assembly, and petition. The very amendment that allows people to scream “I hate liberals” on the internet without being arrested by the state. Irony alert 🚨—the same folks who defend this amendment most loudly tend to forget that it exists specifically to protect dissent, minority opinions, and unpopular ideas. In other words: the exact things liberals keep insisting should be protected when you’d rather they shut up.

The Second Amendment comes next, and yes, everyone loves to treat it like it was delivered from Mount Sinai on an AR-15. But even here, thank a liberal—or at least a proto-liberal Enlightenment thinker—for the radical idea that power should not be monopolized by the state. The same philosophical tradition that gave you gun rights also gave you labor rights, civil rights, and the annoying insistence that the government shouldn’t trample people it doesn’t like. You don’t get to cherry-pick the philosophy without looking foolish.

The Third Amendment—no forced quartering of soldiers—is a direct response to government overreach. You know, that thing liberals won’t shut up about. It’s almost as if the Founders were deeply suspicious of unchecked authority and believed private citizens deserved autonomy in their own homes. Weird how that sounds like modern liberal arguments about privacy and bodily autonomy, isn’t it?

The Fourth Amendment protects against unreasonable searches and seizures. This one really stings, because every time a liberal complains about mass surveillance, warrantless wiretapping, or militarized policing, they’re just rereading the Constitution out loud. If you enjoy not having the government rummage through your life because you “seemed suspicious,” you can send a thank-you card to civil libertarians.

The Fifth Amendment gives us due process, the right to remain silent, and protection from self-incrimination. This amendment alone has probably saved more self-described “law and order” types than they’d ever admit. Funny how quickly “I know my rights” becomes a liberal talking point the moment a cop asks too many questions.

The Sixth and Seventh Amendments guarantee fair, speedy trials and juries of peers. Again, radical stuff: the idea that the state must prove its case, that individuals aren’t disposable, and that justice shouldn’t be arbitrary. These aren’t conservative ideas. They’re liberal ones—rooted in the belief that individuals matter more than institutions.

The Eighth Amendment bans cruel and unusual punishment, which is apparently controversial now. The notion that even guilty people retain basic human dignity is peak liberalism, and always has been. If your instinct is “some people deserve anything they get,” congratulations—you’ve just argued against the Bill of Rights.

Finally, the Ninth and Tenth Amendments acknowledge that rights exist beyond what’s written down and that power should be limited. This is the Founders openly admitting they didn’t think government—or themselves—should have total control. It’s humility baked into law, a concept modern reactionaries seem deeply allergic to.

So yes, by all means, keep hating “liberals.” Just remember: the freedoms you wrap yourself in like a flag were born from liberal philosophy, defended by liberal movements, and preserved by liberals when it became inconvenient. Every time you exercise your rights while sneering at the people who fight to protect them, you’re living proof that irony is still alive and well in America.

www.instagram.com/p/DSelvVsjONj/

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Every year in Whoville, the people gathered to celebrate generosity, community, and the radical idea that happiness doesn’t come with a subscription fee. High above them—naturally, in a tax-optimized mountain lair—lived the Grinch.

In this version, the Grinch had options: he was either Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos, depending on which billionaire mood swing the news cycle was in that day.

He hated Christmas. Not because of the singing, or the lights, or even the joy. He hated it because none of it could be monetized enough. Carolers didn’t accept ads. Gifts weren’t bundled with premium upgrades. And worst of all—Whoville kept insisting that “togetherness” mattered more than quarterly earnings.

So the Grinch did what modern Grinches do. He didn’t sneak down chimneys. That was inefficient. Instead, he bought the chimney company, fired the workers, automated the chimneys, and raised prices 40%.

He stole Christmas quietly—through acquisitions, patents, union-busting, and same-day delivery. Toys? Rebranded. Food? Subscription-based. Lights? Powered by proprietary energy grids. Even the roast beast came with terms of service no one read.

And yet, on Christmas morning, something strange happened.

Down in Whoville, the people still sang.

They sang without Prime.

They sang without rockets.

They sang without a single billionaire “disrupting” joy for a fee.

The Grinch paused. For a brief, horrifying moment, his heart grew.

Not metaphorically—medically.

It swelled three sizes. Chrome-plated. With optional AI integration. His smartwatch immediately sent an alert: ANOMALY DETECTED. EMPATHY SPIKE.

“Absolutely not,” the Grinch muttered.

Within minutes, a private helicopter was dispatched. He was rushed to the nearest luxury hospital—one that didn’t accept regular insurance because that would be socialism. Doctors gathered around, shaking their heads.

“Sir,” one whispered, “your heart appears to be… expanding.”

The Grinch gasped. “Reverse it. Now.”

“But this could mean—”

“I did not spend my life avoiding taxes, hoarding wealth, and calling basic compassion ‘inefficient’ just to feel something now.”

The surgeons worked quickly. The heart was reduced. Shareholder-friendly. Optimized. The excess compassion was removed and stored in a vault, later written off as a loss.

Back on the mountain, the Grinch watched Whoville celebrate. He considered—briefly—giving something back.

Then he checked his net worth.

“Oh good,” he said. “Still obscene.”

And so Christmas continued below, warm and human and unprofitable, while high above, the Grinch smiled—not because his heart grew, but because he had successfully had it fixed.

And that, children, is the modern moral of the story:

In today’s world, the Grinch doesn’t learn a lesson.

He learns how to afford not to. 🎄

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Once upon a time—specifically in 2012—Mitt Romney stood on a debate stage and delivered the immortal line, “Corporations are people, my friend.” It was said with the calm confidence of a man who genuinely believed that ExxonMobil tucked its children into bed at night and worried about its student loans. That sentence was not a slip of the tongue; it was a mission statement. It became shorthand for a Republican Party whose greatest humanitarian concern was whether capital felt sufficiently loved and protected.

Fast forward to today, and suddenly Romney appears to have been visited by three spectral apparitions: the Ghost of Republicans Past, the Ghost of Actuaries Present, and the Ghost of Math Yet to Come. Because now—brace yourself—he’s suggesting there should be no cap on Social Security payroll taxes and that capital gains should help fund SSI. Capital gains. For Social Security. Somewhere, a hedge fund manager just fainted onto a leather chaise lounge.

This is, to put it mildly, heresy. The man who once treated corporations like vulnerable single parents is now suggesting that wealthy individuals and investors might have to contribute more to the same system regular workers pay into every paycheck. The same system Republicans swear they love right up until the moment it requires asking rich people for money. Apparently, Romney has decided that if Social Security is going to survive, the laws of arithmetic might need to apply universally, even to those who summer in Aspen.

Let’s be clear: Romney didn’t suddenly turn into Bernie Sanders. He hasn’t started calling yachts “late-stage capitalism floatation devices.” He merely noticed that the current cap on taxable wages for Social Security means a teacher pays SSI taxes on all of their income, while a billionaire stops contributing sometime around February and spends the rest of the year free-loading off the concept of civilization. This modest observation alone is enough to get you branded a Marxist in today’s GOP.

The modern Republican Party will not receive this kindly. They will clutch their pearls—gold-plated, tax-advantaged pearls—and whisper that Mitt has “gone Washington,” “lost touch,” or worst of all, “started sounding reasonable.” Tucker Carlson will likely accuse him of plotting to nationalize golf courses. Someone on X will post a blurry photo of Romney next to a red flag and declare him a socialist sleeper agent activated by Big Spreadsheet.

And disown him they will. This iteration of the Republican Party has no room for apostates who suggest that capitalism might survive even if capital is occasionally taxed. Romney’s proposal violates the first commandment of MAGA economics: deficits are fake unless Democrats are in power, and taxes are theft unless they’re regressive. By suggesting that capital gains—literally money made from money—should help support retirees and the disabled, Romney has committed the ultimate sin: he implied that the wealthy are part of society, not separate from it.

So expect the excommunication papers any day now. Romney will be described as “out of step with the base,” which is polite code for “he remembered how numbers work.” His past will be erased, his loyalty questioned, and his famous “corporations are people” quote will be quietly retired, because nothing confuses the modern GOP more than ideological consistency.

In the end, Mitt Romney hasn’t changed that much. He’s still a cautious institutionalist who believes systems should function and not collapse in a screaming heap. The problem is that today’s Republican Party no longer believes in systems—only vibes, grievances, and tax cuts that trickle upward like a reverse waterfall.

And so the man who once humanized corporations has now committed the unforgivable act of humanizing Social Security. For this, he will not be forgiven.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Great Reveal That Wasn’t

Yesterday brought us the long-teased “release” of the Epstein files, an event hyped like a season finale and delivered like a rerun—complete with heavy redactions and absolutely no new information. It was less All the President’s Men and more Previously On Things We Already Knew.

The documents arrived looking like they’d been edited by a nervous Sharpie with a gym membership. Names vanished. Details evaporated. Context fled the scene. What remained was the unmistakable message that transparency is alive and well, provided you don’t expect to actually see anything.

Of course, we were told this release would finally shine light into dark corners. And it did—briefly—before someone hit the dimmer switch and reminded us that institutional opacity is a cherished American tradition. The public asked for answers; the system responded with a tasteful blackout.

As long as Pam Bondi remains comfortably seated where uncomfortable truths go to die, it seems safe to assume these files will continue their slow metamorphosis from “explosive revelations” into “heavily censored historical artifacts.” Not buried, mind you—just politely escorted out of view.

So here we are, once again reassured that everything has been disclosed, except for the parts that matter. Justice has been served, transparency has been honored, and accountability has been… redacted for clarity.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Trump Derangement Syndrome: A Diagnosis With a Mirror

Donald Trump recently accused Rob Reiner of suffering from “Trump Derangement Syndrome,” or TDS—capital letters implied, stethoscope optional. As with most Trumpian diagnoses, this one was delivered remotely, without examination, credentials, or any awareness of irony. Because if there is one thing America has learned over the past decade, it’s that when Donald Trump accuses someone else of being obsessed with Donald Trump, it’s time to check who’s actually wearing the merch.

Let’s revisit the original conservative definition of Trump Derangement Syndrome. According to MAGA folklore, TDS is a condition afflicting Democrats who cannot stop thinking, talking, tweeting, writing, joking, or warning about Donald Trump. Symptoms include anxiety over democracy, an irrational attachment to constitutional norms, and the persistent belief that laws should apply to presidents. Tragic stuff, really.

But then something strange happened.

The people most concerned about Trump’s mental real estate began building shrines to it.

They put his name on hats, shirts, flags, bumper stickers, boats, houses, and occasionally their own bodies. They fly banners depicting him as Rambo, Jesus, a king, or all three at once. They attend rallies years after elections ended, chant his name like it’s a sports franchise and a religion rolled into one, and spend entire news cycles explaining that everything wrong in America is either Joe Biden’s fault or proof that Trump is still secretly in charge.

Yet somehow, this is not derangement. No, no—this is “patriotism.”

Meanwhile, when someone like Rob Reiner—whose résumé includes decades of cultural contribution and zero gold-plated toilets—criticizes Trump, that’s when the alarm bells go off. “TDS!” they cry, as if concern about authoritarian rhetoric is a psychological disorder and not, say, basic pattern recognition.

Let’s consider the third-term conversation. A normal political movement, when told the Constitution limits presidents to two terms, might say, “Yes, that seems wise, given the whole King George thing.” The Trump movement, however, reacts like a toddler being told bedtime is non-negotiable. Suddenly, the 22nd Amendment is “debatable,” “unfair,” or “just a suggestion.” Trump himself “jokes” about staying forever, and his followers laugh nervously while quietly Googling how amendments work—and whether vibes can override them.

But sure, it’s the critics who are deranged.

There’s a certain elegance to the projection. The people who insist Trump lives rent-free in Democrats’ heads are the same people who cannot imagine politics, identity, or reality without him at the center. Remove Trump, and the movement doesn’t have a platform—it has a grievance support group. No policy agenda, no governing philosophy, just a shared belief that their guy is persecuted, perfect, and perpetually owed more power.

That’s not political loyalty. That’s fixation.

Trump Derangement Syndrome, it turns out, is real—but not in the way it’s marketed. It’s not the refusal to normalize chaos. It’s not the discomfort with a man who praises dictators while flirting with kingship. It’s not the belief that presidents should follow laws and leave when their terms end.

The real syndrome is believing one man is so essential, so infallible, so irreplaceable, that democracy itself should bend around his ego.

And if you’re still wearing the hat, flying the flag, defending the tantrums, rationalizing the lies, and fantasizing about a third term—while accusing everyone else of obsession—it might be time to accept the diagnosis.

Because the call is coming from inside the red cap.