Never pass up a chance to sit down or relieve yourself. -old Apache saying

Tuesday, June 2, 2026

250 years

The United States turns 250 years old this coming July 4, and naturally, Trump has to make it all about himself. There is something seriously wrong with our "president." I hope we never make this mistake again. I say "we" but only about 32% of the U.S. population voted for this criminal. 31% for Kamala Harris (who probably actually won the election, but Dems don't fight those fights) and perhaps worst of all, 36% didn't even bother to vote at all. I fail to understand how so many registered voters thought the election wasn't serious enough to cast a vote. Lots of apathetic motherfuckers in this country. And look what happens.




Commentary by Oliver Kornetzke : 250 years. Two hundred and fifty fucking years of the most powerful, most resourced, most theoretically capable nation in the history of human civilization and here is what we have to show for it.

Forty million people on food stamps, thirty million without health insurance, the highest maternal mortality rate in the developed world, the highest incarceration rate on earth, an opioid crisis that has killed over half a million people and counting, a housing market so broken that working people cannot afford to live in the cities they work in, an education system that buries young people in debt before they earn their first dollar, infrastructure that is literally collapsing, a life expectancy that is going backwards, a political system so thoroughly purchased by concentrated wealth that the laws it produces bear almost no relationship to what the public actually wants or needs, a working class that has not seen meaningful real wage growth in thirty years, a mental health crisis so severe we normalized it, a gun violence epidemic so routine we don’t even act when preschoolers are slaughtered, and a climate hurtling toward catastrophe while the people paid to address it collect checks from the industry causing it.

Two hundred and fifty years of that. And to celebrate, we built a wrestling arena on the White House lawn.

Not a hospital, or a school, or a housing development. Not a single fucking thing that addresses a single goddamn item on the list above. A wrestling arena. With cranes and pyrotechnics and a steel arch that probably cost more than the annual budget of three rural counties combined, erected in front of the building where Lincoln and Roosevelt and every president who ever tried to make any of this mean something once lived and worked and in some cases died trying.

Truthfully, this is not a departure from American values. This is the fullest possible expression of them. Because this is what we chose. Every single time the choice was presented.

We built a culture where a football coach makes forty times what a physics professor makes and then express genuine bewilderment at the outcomes. Where a reality television star becomes president and a school district cuts its art program in the same fiscal year. Where children know every statistic of every player on their favorite sport team and cannot locate their own country on a map. Where scientific consensus on vaccines, climate, evolution, and basic nutrition gets weighed against a Facebook post and the Facebook post wins at the dinner table. Where the school that wins the state championship gets a parade and the school that produces a Nobel laureate gets a budget cut.

We chose the bomber over the teacher. The tank over the clinic. The aircraft carrier over the water treatment plant. We spend more on military than the next ten countries combined, including our allies, while veterans sleep on the streets of the cities they came back to. We built the most expensive killing apparatus in human history and then told the nurse she made too much money. We sent young men to die in wars that made defense contractors rich and called it freedom and put a yellow ribbon magnet on the back of the car and called that support. We made the soldier and the police officer into sacred untouchable symbols of national identity and then cut their benefits, denied their PTSD claims, let them die waiting for VA appointments, and sent them back for third and fourth tours because it was cheaper than taking care of them when they came home. We worshipped the uniform and neglected the human inside it because the uniform is a symbol and symbols are cheaper than healthcare and housing and the therapy that would actually help. We built bases in a hundred and fifty countries and could not build enough affordable housing in fifty states. We funded a military budget that could have ended homelessness and medical debt and student debt several times over and we did it with bipartisan enthusiasm and called the people who questioned it unserious.

We chose entertainment over education so many times and for so long and at every available level of society that we forgot there was a distinction worth making. Spectacle over substance, performance over policy, the aesthetics of greatness in place of the actual thing, and the feeling of winning instead of asking what was being won and who was paying for it and what it would cost the people who came next.

Rome had bread and circuses. We Americans have food stamps and a wrestling ring outside the Oval Office.

250 years. This is what we built. This is what we chose. This is what we are celebrating. And the most perfectly, catastrophically, irreducibly American thing about all of it is that anyone pointing at this image and asking what it means will be called unpatriotic by people watching it on a television they bought on credit they cannot afford to pay back, rooting for a sport they cannot explain, in a country they cannot describe, celebrating a birthday they cannot contextualize, for a nation that has spent two and a half centuries confusing the noise it makes with the work it never did, all while claiming to be the greatest country on Earth.

Happy Birthday America! You have never looked more like yourself!


Sunday, May 31, 2026

Adam Kinzinger

Adam Kinzinger (R-Illinois 11th), one of the few U.S. House Republicans who were not "going along" with Trump on everything like most every Republican did. Lynne Cheney? Thomas Massie? I must be forgetting someone or two, surely. Adam puts together a relevant read on today's insanity, and he even helped me remember a few things about the movie "Idiocracy." Well done, Adam.



I look around at the corruption, the bluster, the nonsense and I can't help but feel that we are living in the movie "Idiocracy." And the credits are rolling.

In 2006, Mike Judge released Idiocracy, a satirical comedy so niche that Fox buried it with almost no marketing or wide release. The studio apparently didn't know what to do with it, but we became it.

The premise is deceptively simple: Joe Bauers, the most average man in America, gets frozen in a military experiment and wakes up 500 years in the future. Humanity, having out-bred intelligence for generations, has devolved into a civilization of breathtaking stupidity. Crops are dying because agribusiness replaced irrigation water with a sports drink called Brawndo: The Thirst Mutilator — because “it’s got electrolytes.” No one can explain what electrolytes are, only that Brawndo has them, and Brawndo is good, so shut up.

The President of the United States is Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho — a former pro wrestler and porn star turned head of state, who opens his State of the Union address by firing a machine gun into the air from a stage surrounded by pyrotechnics, monster trucks, and screaming fans. He communicates in slogans. He doesn’t know how to fix anything. But he’s entertaining, and in the world of Idiocracy, that’s the whole job.

Joe, now the smartest man alive by default, is appointed Secretary of the Interior and given one week to fix the economy, the dust bowls, and the dying crops — or be thrown into a demolition derby death match called “Monday Night Rehabilitation.”

It’s a comedy. Mostly.

Enter: The Real-Life Camacho
When Idiocracy was released, it felt like a warning. By 2016, it felt like a prophecy. By now, it feels like a documentary with a ten-year delay.

Consider the parallels. President Camacho is a pro wrestler turned entertainer turned head of state. Donald Trump is a pro wrestler — legitimately, having appeared in WWE events and been inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame — turned reality TV star turned President of the United States. Both men built their brands on spectacle, dominance, and the performance of strength to adoring crowds. Neither was elected because of policy expertise. Both were elected because they were watchable.

The differences are largely cosmetic. Camacho is fictional.

The Parade, the Finger, and “Quiet, Piggy”
In Idiocracy, President Camacho rides through the streets of Washington on a motorcycle, flanked by adoring masses, and flips the crowd the bird — a gesture that is received not with horror, but with thunderous applause. To his people, it reads as authentic. He’s one of them. He doesn’t play by the rules. He’s real.

You don’t have to squint hard to see the echo. In November 2025, aboard Air Force One, Donald Trump turned to a female reporter who had asked him a question he didn’t want to answer and told her: “Quiet, quiet, piggy.” The remark — casual, contemptuous, aimed at a woman doing her job — was received by his base not as a disqualifying moment but as another proof of authenticity. He says what he thinks. He doesn’t pretend.

The gesture and the epithet are different in form, identical in function: dominance performance for a crowd that has been trained to read cruelty as strength.

The White House Gets a Makeover
The future Washington D.C. in Idiocracy looks like the Vegas Strip was dropped inside a demolition yard — garish, gold-trimmed, maximalist, empire-coded.

The real White House, under its current occupant, is trending in a strikingly similar direction. Trump’s ongoing renovation project calls for a $1 Billion State Ballroom to replace the East Wing, featuring gilded Corinthian columns, coffered ceilings with gold inlays, crystal chandeliers, gold floor lamps, and checkered marble floors.

The Oval Office has already been bedecked in gilded frames and golden details. The architect of record, McCrery Architects, specializes in classical design — which in this context means less Lincoln Memorial and more Roman imperial court.

The people’s house, retrofitted to look like a monument to one man. Camacho would recognize it immediately. And of course, the UFC fight.

The 250th Birthday Party Nobody Wants to Play
The single most Idiocracy moment of this particular season may be the slow-motion unraveling of the Great American State Fair — the White House-backed extravaganza planned for the National Mall from June 25 to July 10 to commemorate America’s 250th birthday.

The event, organized under the White House initiative “Freedom 250,” was initially billed to artists as a nonpartisan celebration of the nation. Then the lineup was announced. Then artists started reading the press coverage. Then the exodus began.

Morris Day and The Time pulled out. Young MC pulled out, saying he was “never told about any political involvement.” Rapper-turned-country-artist Jodie Rocco of Milli Vanilli backed out. Country star Martina McBride posted on X that she had believed the event was nonpartisan and dropped out the moment she learned otherwise. The Commodores withdrew. Bret Michaels, frontman of Poison, dropped out.

Who stayed? Vanilla Ice, who is contractually obligated to perform on June 26 and, per his management, will honor that contract.

The optics are almost too perfect. A celebration of America that most of America’s entertainers — the very people who were supposed to make it feel festive — want no part of. What was sold as a national birthday party has been understood, correctly, as a campaign rally with better fireworks.

In Idiocracy, the president throws a party and everyone shows up because they have no choice and no context. In America 2026, the entertainers have a choice, and they’re using it.

A Star Burns Bright Before It Implodes
There’s a phenomenon in astrophysics that most people know intuitively even if they’ve never studied it: a dying star doesn’t go quietly. In its final phase, it expands — burning hotter, brighter, and more dramatically than at any point in its life. It becomes a red giant, luminous beyond reason, consuming everything within reach. And then, with a violence proportional to its brilliance, it collapses.

MAGA, at this moment, is burning very bright.
The big beautiful ballroom. The gilded columns. The 250th birthday spectacular on the National Mall. The motorcades. The slogans. The performance of power, non-stop, unyielding. It looks, from a certain angle, like an empire at its peak.

But the numbers tell a different story. As of May 2026, 31 percent of Americans approve of the way Donald Trump is handling his job. Sixty-four percent disapprove. His net approval rating — positive minus negative — sits at -34, compared to -6 just fourteen months ago. Just 29 percent approve of his handling of the economy.

These are not the numbers of a movement at high tide. These are the numbers of a star in its final expansion.

And in November 2026, Americans go back to the polls. 

Democrats need to flip three seats to reclaim the House. Generic congressional ballot polling shows Democratic leads ranging from 4 to 13 points. The historical pattern — the president’s party almost always loses ground in midterms — has not been suspended.

The sequels to Idiocracy were never made, perhaps because the movie ends on a cautiously hopeful note: Joe becomes president, introduces water to the crops, and slowly, painfully, things begin to get better. Intelligence, it turns out, is not entirely extinct. It just had to wait for the right moment.

That moment may be coming.

The star burns bright and big — spectacular, impossible to ignore — right before it implodes. What comes after a supernova is not darkness. It’s a new beginning. The fuel is running out, the approval ratings are cratering, the entertainers are walking away, and November is on the calendar.

Idiocracy was a warning. The warning was ignored. But the ending — the part where someone finally waters the crops — that part is still being written.

- Adam Kinzinger

Friday, May 29, 2026

Glee Violette

Trump has built up such an edifice of bullshit it looks intimidating to many. Certainly intimidating to Congress, but that body never has had a preponderance of SPINE. Sometimes I get discouraged at what Trump seems to be getting away with. But is he really going to skate scot-free? Unlikely. A lot of what Trump is doing is barely hanging on by a thread. A strong push one way or the other is enough to get this bully to back down and cave. He may try an end-around and push again, but we the people have to be ready. That's not just regular citizens. It's everyone: lawyers, bankers, truck drivers, carpenters, teachers, accountants, judges, law enforcement, musicians, ANYONE who has a vested interest in stability and peace.

Another independent voice I discovered online is Glee Violette. People are popping up all over. 


BREAKING - NOW HE SAYS HE DOESN'T WANNA.
by Glee Violette
Excuse me while I while I hurl every filthy, nasty obscene term I know in the direction of a certain bloated, decayed, somewhat human-shaped creature. The one that recently erected a golden idol of himself, and dedicated it in his own "honor" - a word he uses often, but which does not mean what he thinks he means.

ONE MORE TIME, this slimy creature has destroyed something, and then slithered away, leaving the REST of us to clean up his mess. And pay for the damage.

YES. We are talking about The John F Kennedy Memorial Center for the Performing Arts in Washington DC.

Which this abominable creature closed for TWO YEARS of renovations. After first FIRING the people who turned it into the gem of the nation, and putting himself and his cronies in charge. After turning its premier entertainment schedule into a pathetic lineup of his handful of washed-up one-hit wonders, and boring religious indoctrination films. After banishing our National Symphonic Orchestra and our National Ballet and Dance Companies.

And most despicable of all, after putting his OWN shameful name ABOVE that of the REAL President that our National Arts Center was built to TRULY honor, as a living memorial to his memory.

Today, Friday, a federal judge ruled he could NOT rename the Center OR close it for renovations. unless CONGRESS approves the plans.

And this is what he posted this evening in retribution:

"Unless I am free to do what I do better than anyone else, bring this Institution back, physically, financially, and artistically, I have no interest in continuing what could only be a hopeless journey into "NEVER NEVER LAND"
"Therefore, based on the fact that the Radical Left Democrats care more about opposing your favorite President, ME, than saving a dying Performing Arts Center, almost all of which lose large amounts of money throughout the Country, we are going to be working with Congress to transfer this failing Institution back to them so they can make a determination as to what to do with it," he posted.

"Transfer BACK"??? WHAT, he thinks he OWNS the place???

Excuse me. I have thought of a few more words to yell out my window, in the direction of Washington DC.

I hope it rains like HELL on June 14th. And never mind it raining locusts and frogs. May there be a plague of wasps and snakes. Not the harmless baby Black Racers that RFK Jr just made a big show of molesting. The kind of snake that junior's BOSS recited about at rallies.

As for HIM, he is not even a TRUE snake, at all. Just a shape-shifting FAKE creature. A disgusting, ugly and USELESS creature that needs to slither back under its rock. And STAY there.

Tuesday, May 26, 2026

Dominique Alexander

My being an atheist doesn't mean I won't even listen (now and then) to what ministers/ preachers/call 'em whatever you wanna call 'em have to say. Lord knows there are plenty of charlatans masquerading as true believers that are in it to win it and fleece the flock of whatever they can get. I think Dominique Alexander is in it for the right reasons: to help people. 

Dominique Alexander

Texas, we must prepare ourselves for what is coming. The moment Ken Paxton became the Republican nominee for the United States Senate seat, the same political strategy immediately returned: fearmongering, division, and misinformation. We are already hearing the same recycled attacks targeting transgender kids in sports, dishonest narratives about energy, and misleading statements designed to distract Texans from the real issues impacting our communities every single day.

This is not leadership. This is a calculated political tactic used to divide people, create outrage, and manipulate voters through fear instead of facts. Texans deserve better than politicians who build campaigns on confusion, deception, and culture wars while families struggle with rising costs, failing infrastructure, public education challenges, healthcare access, and economic uncertainty.

We must rise up across this state and commit ourselves to truth, transparency, education, and voter engagement. We cannot allow lies to go unanswered. We cannot allow fear to define the future of Texas. Every community must be informed, every voter must be educated, and every voice must be empowered heading into November.

The lies will come. The attacks will come. The misinformation campaigns will continue. But our responsibility is greater than their politics. We must organize harder, educate deeper, and mobilize stronger than ever before. The future of Texas depends on people who are willing to stand on facts, defend democracy, and fight for a state that works for everyone not just political extremists chasing power.

November is bigger than politics. It is about the soul and direction of Texas. Let’s organize. Let’s educate. Let’s mobilize. And let’s make sure every Texan is informed, prepared, and ready to vote.


Sunday, May 24, 2026

Jochum, Pt 2

When I try to write columns for release in the wild, I struggle. I have a decent vocabulary and a fairly good sense of history, but something keeps me from finishing the column. Myself, I guess. I find myself writing things that I have perhaps recently heard, not exactly plagiarism but drifting toward it. Writing paragraphs that don't bear much relation to earlier paragraphs. Spending hours looking up quotes to include, only to have trouble finding just what I want. So....on this blog, I tend to not publish much myself, but highlight those with opinions I can relate to.

You just never know. I have a collection of incomplete writings that I might just be able to put together into a sensible whole. Or not. 

Meanwhile...

Fools Paradise
by Michael Jochum
I saw the writing on the wall in 2016. I really did. I assumed, naively, as it turns out, that four years of Donald Trump would function like an inoculation. That Americans would witness the chaos, the narcissism, the corruption, the relentless lying, the casual cruelty, the degradation of the office itself, and collectively say, well, that was a national fever dream, let’s never do that shit again. I figured he’d drift into obscurity like a musical one-hit wonder with a bad spray tan and a grievance addiction. Instead, America handed him an encore.

And here we are.

What I did not fully appreciate then was that Trump was never the disease. He was the symptom. The loudest, ugliest, most shameless manifestation of something darker that had apparently been fermenting beneath the floorboards of this country for a very long time.

What we’ve witnessed in these first sixteen months is not governance. It’s a smash-and-grab operation dressed up in patriotic cosplay. A fascist improvisation with flags as props and the Constitution treated like an inconvenient suggestion. Due process becomes optional. Human beings are detained as political theater. The emoluments clause might as well be cocktail napkin copy for all the regard this administration appears to have for constitutional boundaries. The poor are told to tighten their belts while the already obscenely wealthy are handed bigger forks.

And then there’s the grotesque vanity project of it all. Plastering his name, figuratively and spiritually if not always literally, across institutions and symbols patriotic Americans have long held sacred, as though the presidency were not a temporary stewardship but a licensing agreement for his personal brand. Remodeling the White House to suit his gold-plated ego, turning the people’s house into some gilded monument to insecurity and self-worship. Always with the underlying sense that the man who dodged service with bone spurs needs a bunker nearby when the turbulence of his own making inevitably arrives at the front door. It would all be darkly comical if it weren’t so serious. Decimating the arts, politicizing cultural institutions, treating places meant to elevate the American spirit as props in his endless reality show performance. Every institution becomes either a mirror or a target.

And I sit here now on the outskirts of Omaha, Nebraska, looking out at a stretch of American heartland I genuinely love, and I cannot shake the feeling that millions of decent people are being conned by one of the greatest con men ever to occupy the Oval Office, a Cohn man in every sense of the phrase, carrying forward the cynical playbook of Roy Cohn with all the empathy of a casino foreclosure notice. That’s the maddening part. Not just the corruption itself, but the astonishing durability of the con.

Because authoritarians always come for the press.

A free press is not an annoyance to democracy. It is democracy’s immune system. And what does Trump do? He attacks journalists, vilifies reporters, restricts access, weaponizes language against those whose job it is to ask inconvenient questions. But his particular contempt for women in the press has always carried its own special stench. Women who challenge him. Women who refuse to smile on command. Women who don’t package their intelligence in deference. Women who insist on facts rather than flattery. In Trump’s world, women who do not bow become enemies. The pattern is unmistakable: if he cannot dominate you, he will attempt to demean you.

Because that’s always been the formula.

Anyone Trump perceives as inferior becomes a target. Reporters. Democrats. Immigrants. Minorities. Political opponents. Independent women. Anyone unwilling to genuflect before the altar of his endless emotional need.

If you continue to actively support this attack on democratic norms, constitutional governance, and basic human decency, then this is no longer some abstract policy disagreement over marginal tax rates or regulatory philosophy. This is moral territory. You are not merely voting differently than I do. You are endorsing conduct that places people I love—and people you should care about—at risk.

My family.
My friends.
My grandchildren.
Your neighbors.

Because this stops being politics when cruelty becomes policy. It stops being ideology when vengeance becomes governance. It stops being patriotism when dissent is recast as treason by a wannabe strongman wrapped in a flag he fundamentally does not understand.

There are days I feel like a man without a country. That’s a painful thing to admit, because I love this country. Deeply. Imperfectly. Fiercely. I believe in its highest aspirations, even while watching its institutions be hollowed out by a malignant narcissist who mistakes domination for leadership and wealth for virtue.

But Trump is still only one chapter in a much larger American reckoning.

The sentence that may explain all of this is brutally simple: “He says the things I’m thinking.”

And if that’s true, then perhaps that is the most terrifying revelation of all.

Who knew tens of millions of Americans were carrying around this much grievance? This much resentment? This much hostility toward fellow citizens? Toward women who refuse submission? Toward minorities demanding equality? Toward expertise? Toward compassion? Toward democracy itself?

Who knew that beneath decades of supposed progress there remained this much emotional dry tinder, waiting for a demagogue with a microphone and no conscience to strike the match?

Maybe we were living in a fool’s paradise.

Now we aren’t.

And so I come back, again and again, to the same exhausting question: What is it going to take?

Because rationally, you would think the answer would be: all of this. The corruption. The cruelty. The constitutional contempt. The performative wars. The assaults on institutions. The degradation of public discourse. The normalization of authoritarian behavior. Surely somewhere in the cumulative weight of the last eighteen months lies the tipping point.

And yet here we are.

As we approach the midterms, I’m trying to remain cautiously optimistic. I have to be. Cynicism is easy; action requires hope. But optimism without honesty is delusion, and the honest truth is that we still have a tremendous amount of ground to cover.

Opposing Trump is not, nor has it ever been, a political decision.
It is a moral one.

Michael Jochum
Author of Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition
Veteran drummer, writer, observer of the absurd, and still foolish enough to believe truth matters.


remember

remember

deja vu

deja vu

indeed

indeed

Delete Fox "News"

Delete Fox "News"

Probably

Probably