We never even noticed the demise of the glossy magazine. One day they were just gone, missing from waiting room tables everywhere as though they’d never been, with only empty racks and dusty outlines to mark their passing.
By and large they’re quite unmourned, it’s sad to say. It’s tough to miss the sort of writing one only reads while killing time waiting for a haircut, articles you can put down unfinished without regret.
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Buckle up, buttercup. This one’s going to be a ride.
My friends keep telling me that I should be more upset about Trump. I say: since when does panic help? We’re a month into Armageddon and I feel fine. Canned goods, artillery, and stockpiled toilet paper ease the anxiety some — and there’s a lot to ease, God knows. If it’s this or the fiscal cliff, we’re all screwed anyway.
The Trump Speed Circus is back in town, and it’s a howling beast of a thing: raw, unfiltered, DOGE tearing through Washington like a Cocaine Bear meet-cute. The air’s thick with confusion, a swirling fog of half-baked policies and wild-eyed firings that’s got the so-called Resistance stumbling around like drunks at a funeral. You can smell the panic, taste the disarray. It’s February 25, 2025, and the machine’s spinning so fast it’s throwing sparks — nobody knows where to plant their flag.
Friends, hear me. That’s the whole damn point.
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The Not Fake News 