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.

Let’s look at this mess through the myopic lens of the Associated Press, those straight-laced bastard stepsons of the old-school press who still somehow think facts matter. They’re screaming about Trump purging the military brass — top generals chopped like rotten meat, the Pentagon axing 8% of its civilian grunts, starting with 5,400 “non-essentials” next week. Chaos? Sure, but it’s chaos with a grin: calculated, the dealer slipping you a mickey while you’re busy counting your chips. Reuters chimes in with its own fever dream: Trump’s White House barring reporters from the Oval Office over some lunatic spat about calling the Gulf of Mexico the “Gulf of America.” The man’s rewriting geography, God help us, and the press is too busy tripping over its own cut-off legs to find a seat at the table. The Resistance? They’re still haggling over hashtags while the bulldozers roll.

This is the genius of Trump 2.0: keep the enemy so dizzy they can’t find their own asses with a map and a flashlight — meanwhile, he’s popping Adderall like it’s Pez, the West Wing now a speed-soaked carnival straight out of Rolling Stone’s fevered pages. The Democrat party cogs still haven’t got past the shock of losing, almost as if they can’t see they did it to themselves with Tammany’s Ghost meets Gaza’s Revenge — the old bloated machine crushed under its own weight while the Midwest’s fury slit their throats wide open. Now, with that speed-freak chaos spinning wild, the Liberals, the Never-Trumpers, the sanctimonious talking heads are reeling, chasing shadows and eating their own when they should be rallying together for the next fight.

So what’s it to be, rebels without a clue? While Trump’s juiced-up circus keeps ‘em dizzy, is it Ukraine? Elon Musk’s federal worker purge? The Gulf of Freaking America? Pick a hill, you pack of jokers, and watch it crumble under the weight of the next insane headline. Macron’s in town with The Donald, and Reuters says they’re bickering over Ukraine — Trump wants a quick ceasefire, Macron’s playing the long game. The resistance wants to care, but they’re too busy clutching pearls over Musk’s rapid-fire guillotine. It’s a kaleidoscope of madness, and nobody’s got the guts to focus the lens.

Hunter’s rotting in the grave, gnashing mescaline-soaked teeth, but the old Gonzo playbook still howls: don’t fall for it. You don’t fight chaos with chaos — you ride it, surf it, let it carry you to the high ground. The Resistance is flailing, picking fights they can’t win, dying on hills that don’t matter. Supreme Court slaps down Trump’s bid to fire a whistleblower chief? AP thinks it’s a win, but you all know it’s a sideshow. USAID gutted, 1,600 jobs torched — another hill, another body count. Stop it, you idiots! Forget the flop; Trump’s playing 52 pick-up with flamethrowers, cackling as the cards burn, while you’re clawing at the shit-end of the stick, fuck-drunk on your own panic.

Here’s the twist, the razor-edged truth Hunter’d scream from the rooftops if he weren’t worm-food: only a damned fool picks a hill to die on. This game’s not about martyrdom — it’s about survival, about picking a hill for them to die on. Trump’s enemies keep charging into the meat grinder, waving their banners of righteousness, while he cackles and moves the battlefield, riding that Adderall high.

So don’t defend the CDC’s honor or the Gulf of Mexico’s name; those are born losers. Instead, set a trap. Let him overreach, let the firings pile up, let the lawsuits stack like cordwood. Reuters says the feds are facing Musk’s deadline to justify their jobs — good. Let the bureaucracy choke on its own entrails, let the headlines turn into a circus of incompetence. That’s how you find your hill, you self-cannibalizing bastards, the one where Trump’s own lunacy trips over its shoelaces and lands face-first in the muck. Patton said it best: “No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his.” Trump 2.0 thrives on your outrage: starve it, redirect it, turn the chaos back on itself.

Choose your hill wisely, but make damn sure it’s the one they’ll break their necks trying to climb.

And if you’re a Trump fan who somehow sat out this whole insane rant? Wait a while. He’ll come for you too.

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Whenever a ghostly hand takes the trouble to deposit another inspired (but by who? or what?!) rant on the dusty old Underwood at the Sports Desk, we don’t wait on the niceties but instead print it right away. All due apologies to the good Doctor, who may be gone but is definitely still with us today.

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