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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