I love having parties and hosting out-of-town guests. Not just for the human interaction—I mean, that part’s great, too—but because I invariably get at least thirteen projects knocked off my home improvement list [that have been there for a year] in preparation of the festivities. Fresh mulch? Done. Fluffy new guest towels? Check. Baseboards? You could eat off them.

Donald Trump seems to be feeling some of that pre-company panic, effectively running around the capital plumping every metaphorical pillow in site. And like any good host throwing a massive Fourth of July bash, he has decided the priority is… the pool.

The internet is divided on the details—with the exception of a single shared, burning question: who’s the bikini-clad babe next to him in the rendering?

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You’ve probably heard by now that longtime Trump ally Rudy Giuliani was hospitalized with pneumonia on Sunday and is reportedly in critical but stable condition. You may also have heard that nearly a full week before the 80-year-old former NYC mayor even had a tickle in his throat, late night rabble-rouser Jimmy Kimmel made a joke about Rudy’s proximity to death. If you’ve spent any time on social media in the last 24 hours, you know exactly where this is going.

The barb was, by any measure, both unremarkable and unfunny. Kimmel has made far better efforts. He’s also dropped one-liners that should have come with a chalk outline. That’s the nature of doing a monologue five nights a week for twenty years—sometimes you’re on fire, sometimes you’re phoning it in, and sometimes you make a death joke about an elderly man who will, six days later, end up seriously ill in the ICU.

This is called a coincidence. I know we’re all emotionally scarred from COVID, but they do still occur in the wild. I promise.

It all started when Kimmel made another totally different offensive joke during a preemptive spoof of the White House Correspondents’ Dinner speech. “Our First Lady Melania is here,” Kimmel quipped. “Look at her, so beautiful. Mrs. Trump, you have a glow like an expectant widow.” In another twist of especially unfortunate timing for Kimmel, the supposed punchline landed two days before a third assassination attempt on Melania’s husband.

That one didn’t just miss the mark—it sprinted past it, tripped, and took out a few bystanders. It was an objectively awful thing to say to/about a woman whose husband had—at the time—already survived two assassination attempts. But free speech doesn’t come with a feelings filter or its own HR department. As long as it’s not violent or defamatory, it’s free to be as unbecoming, crass, or tone-deaf as it likes. That part is baked right into the Constitution.

Kimmel later said the widow remark was obviously a swipe at the first couple’s age difference. The Trumps weren’t laughing. Melania condemned the jab as “hateful and violent rhetoric;” Trump dubbed it a “despicable call to violence” and demanded that Disney/ABC fire him immediately. (In what was surely another coincidence, the FCC ordered a review of all ABC station licenses within days.) Meanwhile, Giuliani took to his podcast to call Kimmel “one of the most distasteful human beings in this country” and “an incompetent jackass.”

And then everybody sort of forgot about it and moved on.

Hahahahaha just kidding. That’s when Kimmel doubled down.

“So last night, America’s mayor, Rudy Giuliani, rose from the grave to weigh in on the ongoing drama involving me,” Kimmel said during the April 28 episode of Jimmy Kimmel Live! “I have to say, it’s confusing to be called an incompetent jackass by a man who accidentally held a press conference outside a dildo store, who doesn’t seem to have any understanding of when videos are running and when they aren’t, and has a gallon of squid ink dribbling off the top of his head.”

Was it nice? No. Was it amusing? Only if your bar for hilarity hovers somewhere around plastic dog poop. Was it fair? Largely yes. Because if the rule is “humor becomes unacceptable if something bad happens later,” then no joke is safe—just temporarily pending.

I say this as someone who finds Kimmel about as entertaining as an ingrown toenail and who has not forgotten the comic’s inflammatory comments in the wake of Charlie Kirk’s assassination. When Kimmel was put on immediate suspension for those remarks, I said this:

“I’ll point out for my progressive friends that the First Amendment ensures that the government can’t lock you up for saying something they don’t like; it does not promise you there won’t be societal, financial, or professional consequences for being a schmuck (see: Tiger Woods, Lance Armstrong, Roseanne Barr, Kanye West, et al.).”

You can etch those words into my gravestone.

There’s a difference, though, between holding someone accountable for what they say and demanding retribution for something that was mostly benign when it was said. (And to be clear, there wasn’t a single breathless news headline or X post about the Giuliani dig until he was hospitalized.) One is free speech working exactly as intended; the other is frankly a bit unhinged. And the backlash against Kimmel right now is firmly in the second category. The man mocks people for a living. Sometimes the universe has terrible timing. These things can coexist.

Here’s the part that might not win me any popularity contests: Kimmel is allowed to make the jokes. All of them. Even the tasteless ones. Even the ones about people we like, people who are sick or might be next month or next year, people whose only crime was being famous while Kimmel had five minutes to fill. That is precisely what free speech means. It does not mean “you may spew forth with any utterances I personally find acceptable.” Like it or not, it means “words that make me want to punch someone in the throat get to exist.”

Because the alternative—deciding which jokes are permitted based on whether the subject is currently under medical care, in power, or on “our side”—is a slippery slope. When we cheer for the government to come down hard on speech we hate, we’re handing someone else the keys to a car we may very much want to drive someday. And the people who get to decide what’s too offensive are never permanently our people. That’s not hypothetical. It’s history.

Former FBI Director James Comey recently posted a picture of some seashells arranged in a pattern that was about as ambiguous as a middle finger at a funeral. The post should have been met with an eyeroll—not a grand jury. But the DOJ actually indicted him over it, which is absurd and embarrassing for this administration, in my opinion. To clarify, I wasn’t a fan of the post. I thought it was classless and petty and obviously meant to trigger Trump and his supporters. (Well done, sir!) But I do love me some First Amendment, which means I believe Comey gets to post his little shell photos, Kimmel gets to make his little grave jokes, and we get to think both of them are tacky asshats and say so loudly and then move on with our lives.

What we don’t get to do is time-travel back to last week to declare a perfectly mediocre wisecrack sinister in light of brand new circumstances. It would be like calling your bookie to cancel a losing bet after the game is already over. That’s not really how these things work.

Get well soon, Rudy. I hope you’re back at the mic calling Kimmel a jackass soon. Because he is one, and you have every right—literally—to say so.

LMK what you think in the comments! I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to my death your right to say it. :)

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P.S. The first official Jenna’s Side Subscriber Meet-up has been scheduled! Join my free Subscriber Directory so you can find other cool folks in your area.

The issue is… who gets to be the judge of that?

Starting in 2027, new cars will be required—as in mandated, by the federal government—to include technology that monitors whether you are fit to drive. (It’s buried in the breezy, 2,500-page 2021 Infrastructure Act that surely all Americans have read in its entirety.) Relying on this dystopian gadgetry, if the Almighty Automotive Oz decides that you are not firing on all cylinders, it will quickly render your car inoperable.

If it sounds like a kill switch for your car, that’s because it’s a kill switch for your car. That your car—with the government’s help—controls.

The system won’t use a breathalyzer, which would at least have the dignity of measuring something real. It will rely on infrared sensors and cameras that continuously monitor your pupil size, head movements, eye movements, and various “behaviors consistent with impairment.” Which is a very technical way of saying the nanny state is coming in hot—and it’s going to be buried in your dashboard.

Here’s a partial list of things that can also affect your pupil size, head movements, and eye movements that have nothing to do with alcohol: fatigue, stress, certain medications, bright sunlight, a migraine, crying, allergies, going into labor, getting a frantic call from your kid, and the particular expression most of us make when we are trying to merge onto a highway while someone in a Kia is doing eighty in the slow lane. Your car will not know the difference. Your car will not confirm, question, or seek a second opinion. Your car will simply decide.

And if it decides wrong? If your mother has fallen and needs you, if your house is on fire, if your dog was just spotted dodging cars on the highway? Well. Hopefully you have a neighbor you like. Because according to automotive experts, there is currently no clear answer to the question of how you get out of what is being called, with chilling accuracy, “kill switch jail.”

The bigger issue isn’t your F-150 temporarily refusing to fire up. The kill switch is almost beside the point. Because while you were probably focused on the part where your vehicle can vote you off the island, you may have missed the bit where it’s also building a file on you. The infrared cameras, the behavioral monitoring, the driving data—it doesn’t stay in the vehicle. It goes to the cloud. (If your current car has a touchscreen, a companion app, remote start, or built-in navigation, this is already happening, BTW.) And from the cloud, per the terms of service you agreed to when you bought the car—the ones no one in the history of time has ever actually read in their entirety—it gets sold. To companies that build what is being called, with a straight face, an automotive “risk score” on individual drivers. Which then gets sold to your insurance company.

In other words, your car is a spy. A snitchy, disloyal spy—the automotive equivalent of the older sister who timed how long you were on the phone and reported back to mom, or the babysitter who told your parents you didn’t go to bed until eleven even though you’d made a very reasonable case for staying up. You wash it. You wax it. You work overtime to afford the monthly payments. And all the while it’s just sitting there, the picture of innocence, compiling evidence that may or may not be used against you in a court of law.

In China, they’d call it what it is: part of the social credit system. Here, we’re calling it “making the roads safer,” because American politicians have learned that if you give authoritarian infrastructure a vague—or emotional—enough name, half the country will not only comply but will show up to volunteer. The Infrastructure Investment and Jobs Act. The HALT Drunk Driving Act—named for a Michigan family killed by a drunk driver. Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Students Against Destructive Decisions. Road safety! Saving lives! It’s for the children! You have a problem with that? What kind of monster are you?

Republicans in Congress had a problem with it—an overwhelming majority voted against funding the program. Their efforts failed thanks to fifty-seven RINOs who voted with Democrats to keep the cameras coming. The mandate survived. Nobody had to explain themselves. And here we are.

I’ll reiterate, nobody is against safe roads. Nobody should be put at risk by exhausted, drunk, or distracted drivers. That’s the whole trick—you bake the surveillance into something impossible to argue with, and by the time anyone reads the fine print, the sensors are already embedded in the steering wheels.

Your behavior, continuously monitored. Your data, scored. Your ability to operate your own vehicle, subject to approval. What you pay for insurance, determined by a report card your car has been quietly keeping since the day you drove it off the lot.

There are other weapons in the anti-drunk-driving arsenal. Better driver education. Mandatory viewing of the kind of footage that makes you never want to get behind the wheel again—sober or otherwise. Harsher punishments for first-time DUI offenses. Ignition interlocks for people who’ve actually been convicted of driving while intoxicated—which already exist and have proven to work. Sobriety checkpoints in high-risk areas. Hell, I’d even vote for government subsidized Uber rides at closing time. Any of these would be a fine place to start. Instead we’re harvesting everyone’s biometrics and calling it “for the greater good.”

Remind me where I’ve heard that before?

There’s some good news in all of this. For one thing, the technology doesn’t exist—at least, not in a form accurate enough to employ, something the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration admitted in a February 2026 report to Congress. I know, you’ve seen the viral videos. Ford wants to scan your irises, GM wants to judge how you walk to your car, and Toyota has been working on sensors to detect alcohol in your sweat since 2007. But none of it has passed federal muster. Because of that, the NHTSA actually missed the implementation deadline—gotta love reliable bureaucratic inefficiency!—leaving us with the government officially requiring technology that hasn’t been remotely perfected yet.

Also, the mandate only applies to new vehicles, which means nobody is coming for your 2019 Tahoe. Yet. But here's the thing about a rule that applies to every new car sold in America starting next year: you don't have to retrofit anything. You just have to wait. Every year, more unmonitored cars will age out of existence and more compliant ones will roll off the lot. The surveillance state isn't in a hurry. It has a fifteen-year plan and infinite patience, and it is perfectly content to let you drive your old car into the ground while it waits for you to need a new one.

For now, at least, enjoy not having Big Brother along for the ride.

Feeling tipsy? *DO NOT DRIVE*

Seeing Dr. Anthony Stephen Fauci in an orange jumpsuit and ankle shackles is at the tippy top of my list.

It turns out, the fat lady is still adjusting her mic. According to people who understand things like “statutes of limitations,” the Justice Department still has approximately two weeks to indict the little weasel before the clock runs out forever—and Congress is begging them to do it.

For those of you just tuning in: earlier this week, Fauci’s former adviser Dr. David Morens—a man whose name precisely zero people knew before Tuesday—was indicted on charges related to allegedly covering up the origins of COVID-19. Obstruction, falsification of records, the whole criminal catalogue. He faces up to 51 years in prison, which is a lot of years for an almost octogenarian.

People said Morens was a fall guy—that he's the expendable one, the aide who takes the arrow so the man who handed him the bow walks away clean. It's a reasonable theory. Fauci has, after all, been walking away clean his entire career.

But here’s the thing. Morens might just be the prelude. The warm-up act. The opening band. We’re ready for the headliner, Lord. Give us Tony & The Indictments!

Because while the rest of America was locked inside making sourdough and watching Tiger King, while children sat alone in front of laptops doing “school,” while small businesses boarded up their windows forever, while people died alone without their families because of rules that Dr. Fauci himself apparently made up—the man was assuring Congress, with the confidence of a toddler in a Batman cape, that he was absolutely not funding or conducting risky experiments to make already bad viruses worse.

“Senator Paul, with all due respect, you are entirely and completely incorrect, that the NIH has not ever and does not now fund gain-of-function research in the Wuhan Institute,” Fauci told Senator Rand Paul at a Senate hearing in May 2021, a statement that—if you cancel out the double negatives—sounds less like a denial and more like a cloaked confession.

Spoiler: Senator Paul was not entirely and completely incorrect. He wasn’t even a tiny bit off base. What the NIH was doing, according to the agency’s own principal deputy director Lawrence Tabak—who woke up one day in 2024 and chose chaos—was textbook gain-of-function research. “If you’re speaking about the generic term,” Tabak told Congress, “yes, we did.”

He did. He said that.

And now here we are! With a ticking clock! And a guy auditioning for a permanent role as Attorney General looking to make his mark and seriously considering going after the man who literally wished for a pandemic! It’s all I can do not to dust off a spot on my mantle for the mugshot.

I have lit a candle. I have said a novena. I have dropped to my knees and made wildly unrealistic promises in exchange for my wish being granted.

I understand there are complications. There’s the matter of Biden’s auto-pen pardon—issued for “any offenses” going back to 2014, which is the legal equivalent of your mom writing your teacher a note that says “please excuse my daughter from any misdeeds she’s committed since the third grade; she’s had a rough week.” Senator Rand Paul, bless his eternal persistence, thinks “Lock him up” is more than a fun rally chant. I choose to believe him because I once finished an entire tube of ChapStick without losing it, so I know miracles are real.

Here’s how that would actually work, for those of you who, like me, require adult supervision when reading legal documents: the way you test one of these sweeping, preemptive, auto-pen pardons is not by arguing about it on social media. It’s by charging the person first and then letting a court sort it out. Seriously. That’s the plan.

The Justice Department could theoretically bring charges, Fauci’s legal team would immediately scream “but the pardon!” and then a judge would get to decide whether a decade-long, blanket “anything you might have done” hall pass—possibly signed by a machine—is, in fact, a legally-binding instrument or just a very official-looking permission slip.

Senator Paul put it plainly: “You would have to indict somebody who’s been pardoned. And I think it’s worth a challenge.” His questions are not small ones. Is the pardon power so broad that a president can essentially write “whatever he did, we’re good” and have that hold up in federal court? Does it matter whether Biden even knew that he was signing something—or that his staff was signing something for him? Paul’s working theory is that these things do matter, bigly, and that the only way to get the answers is to haul the whole mess in front of a judge and make someone explain it with a court reporter present.

There’s also the question of timing. The pardon covers a specific window—back to 2014—but if anything happened outside of that, or if prosecutors frame certain actions as part of an ongoing conspiracy, suddenly you’re in fresh territory. Different charges. Different clock. Same orange jumpsuit, theoretically.

Fauci’s possible indictment isn’t the only pandemic news blowing up the internet at the moment. After a deep dive into what officials knew about COVID vaccine adverse events—and when—Senator Ron Johnson’s Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations released a damning report this week. The committee discovered that way back in 2021, FDA officials were offered a superior method for detecting injuries—one specifically designed to catch what the older, clunkier VAERS analysis was missing—and they chose not to use it. You read that correctly.

A senior FDA scientist named Dr. Ana Szarfman did the math nobody wanted done and discovered the existing method was hiding evidence of harm including Bell's palsy, pulmonary embolism, cardiac death (NBD!) and more. Despite heroic, repeated attempts to share her findings and methodology with FDA leadership, the response was not “wow, thank you, we’ll look into this immediately!” It was: kindly keep your annoying reports to yourself. (I know, you’re shocked.) Dr. Peter Marks, who ran the FDA’s vaccine division, warned a colleague that Szarfman’s updated algorithm might “create erroneous conflicts that feed in to anti-vaccination rhetoric.”

Their solution? Ordering Dr. Szarfman to stop creating and sharing the new info. A literal cease and desist.

Let that marinate for a moment. The scientists were finding the signals. The officials were suppressing them. And the reason given, in writing, was essentially: this information is politically inconvenient.

Whether the man who was the public face of the entire federal COVID apparatus was aware that his colleagues were burying safety signals is a question someone should probably ask him. Under oath.

Two weeks to flatten the curve Fauci. Tick tock. Can I get a Hail Mary?

p.s. My Subscriber Directory is live! It’s not perfect (for some reason, you can’t search for state or zip code in the search bar—only name, city, keyword, etc.—which is pitifully lame), but folks are already finding each other! Hot tip: You can use your browser’s find feature (mine is control + F) to look for a state or part of a zip code, which is handy. And I’m so glad I added that “a little bit about me” box—y’all are equal parts fascinating and badass! Finally, I’ve noticed that some of your @handles don’t hyperlink to your Substack profiles, which sort of defeats the purpose of connection. This happens when you leave the “Substack URL” field blank. Your Substack URL is where it redirects when anyone clicks your name in Substack (usually substack.com/@yourname). I don’t have the ability to edit profiles, but you can always delete your existing one (copy your “about” info first!) and then create a new one with the link to your profile if you’d like. :)

I promised you guys I’d try to figure out how to create a subscriber directory… and I *think* I did it. It took me 3,294 tries [actual figure] and I am eleventy thousand percent positive there will be glitches, issues, and possibly (but hopefully not), a need to start over from scratch. But if you’re up for being part of the beta launch, check it out. Sign up. Search it. Let me know how it works… or if it doesn’t.

NOTES: For privacy and safety reasons, I did not include fields for home address, phone, or email. (I did put city/state/country/zip code, however, so you should be able to find folks in your area.) If you want to connect with someone, click on their @handle and it should take you to their Substack home page, where you can reach out via DM.

It’s hard for me to test the functionality because as of this minute, there are exactly two members—me and my very patient and supportive husband WHO BY THE WAY EXACTLY 26 YEARS AGO TODAY stood on a cliff and promised to love me for the rest of ever—or at least until one of us was finally able to rest in peace.
(You know, because we can’t hear the other one snoring anymore.)

Happy anniversary, baby—I got you on my miiiiiind ♫♪♩♬♭.

If there’s one thing Donald Trump isn’t, it’s modest. He’s called himself “a very stable genius,” “more presidential than anybody other than the great Abe Lincoln,” and “an extraordinarily brilliant person—as everyone knows.” He loves his moniker more than a suburban dad loves his leaf blower. He wanted Dulles Airport and Penn Station renamed after him. There’s been Trump Tower. Trump Steaks. Trump Vodka (“Success, Distilled,” which feels like satire but wasn’t). Trump University (RIP). Trump: The Game (all proceeds donated to charity though!). Bottled water. Hotels. Neckties. Golf courses. Donald Trump, The Fragrance (smells like… ego).

If there were a way to brand oxygen, we’d all be breathing Trump Air™.

And yet somehow, people are absolutely flabbergasted that POTUS is plastering his mug on the inside cover of a new, limited-edition U.S. passport.

“No sitting president has ever done this,” carped Democratic California Congressman Mike Levin. “Coins, park passes, battleships, and now your passport. The man cannot find a surface he will not slap his name or face on. This is not patriotism. It is vanity.”

It’s the mock-shock that gets me.

According to the press, we are one commemorative stamp away from a full monarchy. But let’s zoom out for a second and assess the actual threat level here.

This is a passport. Not all passports. Some passports. Passports issued to mark the United States’ 250th anniversary (something our Very Patriotic President is ESPECIALLY KEEN ON). Passports that you can choose to get—or not. Containing… a picture. On the inside. That you will see approximately once every two to ten years while mildly panicking about whether your shampoo is TSA-compliant.

That’s it. That’s the whole situation. And still—still!—we’re doing the full “this is a deeply concerning threat to democracy” dance.

“The passport redesign is the latest example of the president or his allies pushing to put his name, image or signature on institutions in Washington and across the country,” tsked The New York Times. “This year’s National Parks passes display his face alongside George Washington’s, and some of his administration’s initiatives, such as Trump savings accounts for children and TrumpRx, where Americans can buy prescription drugs directly, are named after him.”

“Trump loves putting his name on things!” the panic factory cries. That’s not a revelation—it’s his entire personality. It’s his brand, his business model, and probably his love language.

I know, I know. Most presidents wait until they leave office—or die—and then let other people suggest naming buildings, bridges, highways, hospitals, clinics, libraries, museums, institutions, theaters, and random university wings after them. But saying “Trump is not most presidents” is like saying “Lia Thomas is not most female swimmers.” Congrats on picking up on that. Really. Maybe you’ll get a shot at performing at the rescheduled White House Correspondents’ Dinner.

A conspiracy theorist might speculate that the president’s eponym addiction isn’t delusional; it’s deliberate. That perhaps the goal is to gently discourage a certain segment of the population from traveling internationally, visiting our nation’s most spectacular parks, purchasing commemorative coins, buying discounted prescription drugs, hitting top-notch links, sipping “super premium” spirits, or staying in luxury hotels. Why force anyone to boycott your resorts, your golf courses, your neckties, or your vodka, when you can simply make participation feel morally incompatible with their existence?

I’ll reiterate, the retooled artwork is an option. A free upgrade for the fan club. If Trump had merely authorized a “special 250th anniversary passport design” featuring a bald eagle and some fireworks, no one would even know about it. But the man is savvy enough to know that if he Mount Rushmores that thing, the media will pounce. If “How to Get Immediate, Free Advertising” isn’t a chapter in The Art of the Deal… it should be. The only way he could have trumped his own ingenuity would’ve been to charge a premium and funnel the proceeds into his gilded ballroom.

The unintentionally hilarious twist in the “we’re basically a monarchy now” crisis came when—basically the same day the passport refresh dropped—the UK’s Daily Mail enlisted some genealogists to trace Trump’s family tree. Imagine their surprise when their digging revealed that he is actually King Charles’s cousin. Sorry, very distant cousin. The New York Times would like that noted.

But actually.

In what Yahoo breathlessly dubbed “bombshell research” (and The New York Times more or less described as “you and half of Britain, congratulations”), it turns out the two men share a common ancestor, the third Earl of Lennox, who was a great-grandson of King James II of Scotland—a connection that makes them [*checks notes*] 15th cousins. Practically twins.

“Many of the present-day residents of the U.K. and the diaspora all over the world will be descended from medieval kings and queens,” the Times was quick to add. “You could be talking about millions. Over the centuries many royal descendants will have reproduced with those of lower social status, spreading their genes.”

Trump, as one might imagine, is delighted by the discovery of his royal bloodline and shared the news—along with his lifelong dream of living in Buckingham Palace—on Truth Social (URL: trumpstruth.org, obviously).

TRUMP: “They said no kings. I said, actually, I’m related to the king. Very good genes. Beautiful bloodline. Just tremendous. People say it’s one of the best.”

Now that Trump can claim to be royal-adjacent, there’s only one thing left to brand: United States currency. Because if there’s one place monarchs consistently put their faces, it’s money. I would not be surprised if POTUS released $45 bills (and $47… and maybe even $48 just to troll folks) with his kisser stamped on the front and “Donald Bucks™” across the top in gold. We’d be the first country on earth with a currency whose “face value” is… subjective.

What do you think about POTUS putting his puss on everything from trading cards and T-shirts to park passes and passports? LMK in the comments!

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Swing by the NO TAX ON TIPS jar!

During the pandemic, every sunrise seemed to arrive with a new term to learn: Asynchronous learning. Comorbidities. Contact tracing. Cytokine storm. Zoonotic spillover. Zoom fatigue. FOIA request. That last one felt almost too good to be true: apparently you could just fill out an official-looking form and the government was legally obligated to comb through the entirety of its records—emails, memos, internal communications, the behind-the-scenes stuff we weren’t necessarily meant to see—black out any spicy bits, and then hand it all over. So convenient. So transparent.

For a minute, it felt like we’d discovered the cheat code. “Oh, you don’t want to answer the question? No problem. We’ll just FOIA it.”

It turns out, the weasels we were hoping to catch with those handy FOIA nets had already found a remarkably effective loophole.

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Approximately a million years ago in college, I minored in French. My final project was to debate capital punishment—in French, I probably don’t need to point out—which meant I spent an entire semester conjugating verbs and arguing about the morality of state-sanctioned murder while trying not to accidentally say something like, “I’d kill for a croissant” on the debate stage.

Back then, the research was pretty clear: la peine capitale was not a proven deterrent. People had very strong feelings about the practice, obviously, but the data didn’t exactly scream, “Yes, this is what’s keeping society from unraveling.” Fast-forward a few decades, and it turns out, that hasn’t really changed. What’s more, the whole “saving money by not having to house a criminal forever” argument was and is a fallacy; it costs far more—we’re talking 2.5 to 5 times, or up to $3 million per case—to execute an inmate than to keep him or her in prison for life.

Nevertheless, some guys with clipboards and security clearance have apparently decided that the issue isn’t whether the death penalty works, but if we’ve been offering enough options. So now, the U.S. Department of Justice has directed federal prisons to expand extermination methods to include firing squads, gas asphyxiation, and electrocution in addition to lethal injection (the go-to protocol since the early ‘90s). It’s good to know that the DOJ has federal law enforcement so aggressively under control they can focus on curating a more expansive catalog of off switches.

In a 48-page report, officials explained the gruesome new execution menu will “strengthen” the death penalty by deterring barbaric crimes, delivering justice, and providing closure. Which might be reassuring if this was a thoughtful, data-driven policy and not the equivalent of inventing a new-and-improved guillotine—now with sharper blades!—and trying to market it as a VIP upgrade.

To be clear, this isn’t exactly a “pick your poison” situation. At the federal level, inmates don’t get handed a laminated menu and asked for their preference—the government decides, usually based on whatever method is legally available and logistically doable. Some states do offer limited options (South Carolina, for example, lets inmates choose between lethal injection, electrocution, or firing squad), which is how we ended up with the deeply unsettling concept of “default settings” for executions. So no, it’s not quite a choose-your-own-adventure—but it’s also not not that.

I understand the argument, at least theoretically. There are crimes so horrific that “life in prison” feels less like justice and more like an extremely expensive timeout. When you’re talking about terrorists, child rapists, serial killers, people who commit acts so brutal they barely register as human, it’s not crazy to think, “No, this person forfeited their right to exist among us.” As the saying goes, well, well, well. If it isn’t the consequences of my own actions.

But this isn’t should the practice exist? It’s how can we make it even more horrific? And what exactly is the point of that? People don’t commit violent, unthinkable crimes after calmly weighing the pros and cons and concluding, “Well, I would bludgeon this family, but I certainly don’t want to be electrocuted.” These are not rational, spreadsheet-driven decisions. They’re impulsive, emotional, and often fueled by desperation, drugs, rage, mental illness, or sheer stupidity. The idea that someone pauses mid-crime to consider the method of execution is perfectly absurd.

Lily-Rose Dawson, the brilliant editor of the Wise Wolf Substack (both of whom I highly recommend following if you don’t already), wrote a powerful post this week about the Epstein files; in it she called for a return to possibly the only punishment that has ever effectively put a dent in crime: public shaming.

“You broke the community’s trust, you stood in the town square in a wooden frame that locked your head and hands in place, and every person who walked past you knew exactly what you had done,” Lily-Rose wrote. “They could say it to your face. They could throw things. The baker whose bread you stole, the woman you harassed, the neighbor you swindled, everyone got to look you in the eyes and name it out loud. And then you went home. No prison sentence costing taxpayers $250,000 per year. No removal from the sight of the people you wronged. You stayed in the community. You had to live with what you did visible on every face that looked at you.”

Trial by town square wasn’t some fringe medieval experiment—it was the system. Stockades, pillories, scarlet letters, public whippings: punishment wasn’t private, it was performed. The goal wasn’t just to penalize the offender, but to make the offense both humiliating and unforgettable—to the person who committed it and to everyone watching. By the 19th century, most Western societies began phasing these practices out in favor of prisons, citing cruelty, inconsistency, and, occasionally, the fact that the crowd seemed to enjoy it a little too much. But for centuries, this was considered not just effective, but essential.

“Shame, it turns out, is neurologically devastating in a way that incarceration simply is not,” Lily-Rose continued. “Prison removes you from the social world. Shame weaponizes it. The human brain is wired to prioritize social standing above almost every other survival need. Humiliation in front of your community triggers the same neurological distress as physical pain. It rewires behavior in ways that years of isolated punishment cannot touch.”

It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. It’s not even in the top two thousand. Because I can tell you this: if decades of research still can’t show that the death penalty reliably inhibits crime, adding more dramatic delivery methods probably isn’t going to tip the scales. It may satisfy something—emotionally, culturally, psychologically, politically—but odds are it’s not making society any safer.

If the real goal is prevention (as opposed to revenge, retribution, or some crazy parade of power), maybe we should be focusing on what actually stops people from doing terrible things in the first place. Spoiler: I’m pretty sure it’s not the difference between a needle and an electric chair.

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1. Trump was going to humiliate the press.

2. The press was going to humiliate Trump.

There was no third hypothetical scenario. No maybe-surprise Kid Rock-Niki Minaj duet, no Iran peace deal announcement, no mid-dinner evacuation order after a lone gunman breaches security—again—before being heroically taken down by Secret Service.

And yet, here we are.

Even before the loud bangs, it was shaping up to be an explosive evening. More than 250 journalists not only planned to boycott the dinner itself, but to be on site to “forcefully demonstrate opposition” to President Trump and “ensure he doesn’t feel welcome.” The Wall Street Journal was set to receive an award for “courage and accountability” for its Epstein birthday card story, the very one Trump is currently suing them over. Karoline Leavitt was literally outside promising “there will be some shots fired tonight”—metaphorically, obviously. In other words, the energy was already somewhere between a Ricky Gervais monologue and the Johnny Depp–Amber Heard trial.

And then someone showed up with an undiagnosed mental disorder (probably), his own weapons arsenal, and a remarkably clear path to potential calamity.

According to reports, 31-year-old Cole Tomas Allen, a teacher from Torrance, California, somehow managed to access a makeshift room near the entrance of the Washington Hilton—where, in a sentence that should make everyone feel incredibly confident about event security, “there was no security”—and emerged armed with a shotgun, handgun, and multiple knives.

Before the attack, Allen apparently drafted a handy manifesto outlining his plan to take violent action against Trump and his administration. In it, he called himself a “Friendly Federal Assassin,” which is creepy in the way the threat of a “warm, inviting home invasion” or a “pleasant mugging” might be.

Outfitted for combat, the hotel guest and friendly assassin began shooting as he sprinted through the lobby toward the ballroom. Officers quickly returned fire. One Secret Service agent was struck—thankfully protected by his vest—before the suspect was tackled and taken into custody alive (despite initial reports to the contrary). Inside the ballroom, shaken attendees filmed dramatic selfies from beneath tables. The entire venue was evacuated, although not before a few freeloaders helped themselves to some booze (I am not making that up). Leaders on both sides immediately condemned the violence. The FBI is investigating.

And just like that, the White House Correspondents’ Dinner—an annual tradition dedicated to the noble art of journalists roasting politicians and politicians pretending to be amused by it—became an impromptu commercial for law enforcement, body armor, and the genius idea (whose was it again?) to build a big, beautiful, bulletproof, unbreachable ballroom.

Trump, for his part, emerged from the situation sounding almost statesmanlike. “Well, that was very unexpected,” he said in the brief post-kerfuffle presser, before praising the speed and professionalism of the Secret Service and public safety officials. When Kaitlan Collins—Trump’s media archenemy—gently asked if there had been any threats beforehand and whether he believed he was the target, Trump replied, “I guess. I mean, these people are crazy. You never know. We had resources everywhere. That was the first line of defense and they got him.” Honestly, it might have been their nicest exchange on record.

And then came the pivot.

Within hours, the narrative had shifted from “tense, politically charged dinner” to heroism. Resolve. Unity. The unwavering, unprecedented support of a fierce and fearless commander-in-chief. Cue the patriotic music.

“You saw the best resolve of American law enforcement because you, Mr. President, inspire them 24/7, 365,” said FBI Director Kash Patel. “You give them the resources that they need and you know they know that you have their back. That is a changing dynamic in this country, and that’s why you saw brave Secret Service agents respond immediately, swiftly, to subdue and take down the suspect and safeguard the lives of thousands of individuals at that hotel.”

“You saw the very best of America tonight. The very best unite us at a time of uncertainty because we have leadership here with the president and vice president that back law enforcement and the men and women I shook hands with today could not have been prouder to show up on scene.”

Meanwhile, somewhere in the background, the original storyline—the press vs. Trump, the boycotts, the lawsuits, the scandals, the awkward awards—quietly packed up its things and slipped out the side door.

Which makes you wonder: Was this even real?

An unsurprising chunk of the internet is side-eyeing the “glitch in the security matrix” story. Iran—as in, the country—dropped a Lego video suggesting the whole thing was a false flag to boost Trump’s polling numbers. Some insist the mayhem was fabricated to deflect from (of course) the Epstein files. Or Trump’s military failures. Wait, it was a Reichstag event staged to seize power. No, it was to rally MAGA. Please. Obviously it was a convenient setup for the new national security infrastructure they’re about to roll out “to keep us all safe.” As always, it could have been any of these, a combo, or none.

Compounding the suspicions is the fact that these “isolated incidents” are starting to stack up. At some point, you run out of ways to describe the same failure as a fluke. When your entire job is to protect arguably one of the most important people on the planet, the assignment isn’t complicated: don’t let anyone get near him. That’s it. Not through an unsecured stairwell, not from a rooftop within spitting distance, not through a gap in the hedges at a place he visits regularly. And yet, somehow, there’s always a gap. If you hired someone to do nothing but lock your front door and every other day that thing was swinging in the breeze, you’d fire them... wouldn’t you?

To be fair, when it mattered most, at least one agent did what you want every single one of them ready to do—threw his entire body between the threat and the target without hesitation. Which is both incredibly reassuring and also slightly concerning that it keeps coming down to that.

Reporters who were actually in the room are deeply offended by any suggestion that they did not just survive a traumatic, life-threatening incident. And judging by nothing more than the look on Melania’s face when gunshots were announced, there was genuine terror in that room. I’m not saying it didn’t happen. A man with multiple weapons showing up at a high-profile political gathering is, unfortunately, not the wildest headline of the week anymore. But if you had sat down ahead of time and asked, “What is the only scenario where Trump wakes up to universally positive press coverage the morning after the White House Correspondents’ Dinner?” the answer, sadly, probably would have involved bullets.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the heroism. I’ll take the unity all day long. It’s just hard (impossible?) not to note the timing. Because as soon as a shooter appeared, the story was no longer about Trump versus the media. It wasn’t about Epstein or boycotts or who embarrassed whom. It was about survival. It was about heroes. It was about the need for secure event sites. It was, essentially, about exactly the things Trump wants it to be about.

Maybe I’m wrong. (Unlike some people, I do not claim to “know” things that nobody on the outside can possibly know; I say what I believe and what I feel, and since I am human and all, every once in a while I turn out to be mistaken.) Maybe the timing was pure coincidence. It happens. Or maybe, in a room full of people whose entire job is to shape narratives, the only way to completely rewrite the script is to blow it up. Literally.

Am I nuts? Is Pollyanna on life support over here? LMK what you think in the comments!

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Which is a shame, because Emily was apparently killing it. Sexy, sun-kissed, and reliably far-right, she posted about immigration, guns, abortion, faith, patriotism—basically the greatest hits playlist of conservative talking points—with the occasional Miller Lite and American flag-bikini pics thrown in for algorithmic good measure. The captions were punchy, the content was consistent, and the business model was bringing in enough bacon to alarm a cardiologist.

Hart was allegedly raking in thousands of dollars a month through a mix of ads, merch, and subscriptions. Her Instagram account alone had 10,000 followers within a month of its launch.

There was just one tiny wrinkle. Emily Hart wasn’t a woman. She wasn’t even a person. She was the AI-generated creation of a 22-year-old dude in India who, by his own admission, came up with the idea while looking for an easy way to make a few bucks online. (“Sam” reportedly requested a pseudonym in interviews “to avoid jeopardizing his medical career and immigration status,” go figure.)

His plan worked swimmingly.

Initially, the future orthopedic surgeon—no, really—was just going to create a generic bikini babe for his scam business. But Google’s Gemini AI regretfully informed him there was way too much competition there, before helpfully suggesting the hot-MAGA niche. It would be a bonanza, Gemini explained, because “the conservative audience (especially older men in the US) often has higher disposable income and is more loyal.”

Sam said that at first, the grift almost seemed “too obvious.” But after successfully building, marketing, and monetizing a fake influencer—and then identifying an audience, tailoring content to it, and getting it to engage and spend—our enterprising creator stepped up to explain why it blew up:

“The MAGA crowd is made up of dumb people—like, super dumb people. And they fall for it,” he told Wired.

By this logic, if you run a popular bar, the people buying your watered-down drinks are the morons. At some point, you have to pick a lane. Either you’re a savvy operator who figured out how to create content people wanted and turn it into income… or you accidentally stumbled into a goldmine of idiots and are now retroactively calling it a social experiment. You don’t really get to be both.

As always, the media response to all of this is what really elevates it. The take is less “guy makes money with AI influencer” and more “we have uncovered a disturbing new vulnerability in the MAGA psyche.” The implication being that this is somehow unique to Trump voters. That conservatives, specifically, are especially susceptible to following an attractive online personality who says things they agree with. As opposed to… everyone else?

Because I hate to break it to anyone still holding onto that theory, but if you created an AI “influencer” on the other side—an angry, blue-haired, septum-ringed activist with an algorithm-approved backstory, a compelling trauma arc, a few viral tears, and a steady stream of progressive takes—you’re telling me that account wouldn’t gain traction? Please. It would have a management team and a brand deal by Thursday.

People follow people they find attractive, people they find relatable, and people who say things they already believe. Stack those three, and you don’t have a scandal—you have a strategy. It has nothing to do with being MAGA and everything to do with being human.

Hilariously, according to literally every report, Hart was a “Top MAGA influencer.” Top… by what metric, exactly? National influence? Cultural impact? The number of guys in the comments typing “Amen” and a fire emoji? Because I have a pretty unhealthy relationship with the internet, and I had never heard of this woman until she was digitally assassinated. Not once. Not in passing. Not in a “Yikes, I bet she’s gonna trigger some libs” way. Nothing. But sure. Top influencer. Let’s go with that.

Also worth noting: Hart’s accounts were flagged and removed for “fraudulent activity.” Which is hilarious, because apparently there’s a line—and Emily Hart crossed it. Sure, you can curate your entire life for content. You can post “candid” moments that required three takes, a ring light, and a lighting assistant named Xander. You can filter your face into a different species, rent a private jet for a photo, stage an engagement, and cry on cue about your fabricated-for-clicks “spiritual journey.” You just can’t be… fake?

Wired says Hart was “one of a slew of AI-generated hot girl MAGA influencers inundating social media,” the majority of which are white, blonde, and work as first responders (vocations that apparently increase the hot factor by several patriotic units). Although most platforms require creators to disclose AI content, the rules are enforced with the discipline of a toddler with a Sharpie.

At this point, it would appear you’re allowed to be 70% illusion, 20% branding, and 10% personality. That’s the sweet spot. That’s authentic enough. But 100% AI-generated? Oh no. That’s fraudulent. That’s where we bring in the authorities.

Good to know.

You have my take… LMK what you think in the comments! :)

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The wrinkle: Kilmer has been dead for more than a year.

Yes, really. (Apparently, the grave isn’t that deep after all.)

In what sounds like the plot of a Black Mirror episode written during a writers’ strike, the late actor “stars” as Father Fintan in the upcoming historical drama—despite never shooting a single scene. Though he was cast when he was actually alive, health issues and production delays kept him from the set; his entire performance has since been reconstructed using archival footage, AI voice tools, and family-provided images.

The words “terrifying” and “disgusting” are working overtime.

To be clear, his children signed off. SAG-AFTRA signed off. The lawyers signed off. The contracts were followed. The boxes were checked. Nevertheless, the audience is preemptively offended.

We’re talking outrage. Hair-on-fire hysteria. Existential dread. Because apparently, the line has finally been crossed. Not when actors were routinely being de-aged into waxy, uncanny mannequins. Not when stunt doubles’ faces were digitally replaced. Not when entire scenes were stitched together in post-production using green screens and lighting tricks and a small army of VFX artists. No, now we’re replacing dead people who once pretended to be other people with… actual pretend people. Obviously, we’ve gone too far.

You have to admit, it’s sort of funny.

This isn’t the first time AI and Tinseltown have locked horns. Last year, the illusion factory lost its lunch over Tilly Norwood, a 100% CGI “actress” who’s already huge in the UK and was, at the time, searching for an agent. The A-list reaction ranged from “Bring it on” to “Good Lord, we’re screwed.” (My own response was, “Oh, boo hoo for the red carpet class. AI is threatening your jobs? Welcome to the party. Leave it to you to be fashionably late.”)

“Hollywood is deeply, deeply concerned about Wi-Fi wizardry taking over human roles,” the collective “he” said—from a driverless car, while promoting a film shot almost entirely on a green screen, his skin digitally smoothed, his stunts performed by someone else, his voice enhanced in post.

But the Val Kilmer story, we’re told, is different. This isn’t about showbiz staples fearing for their roles (yeah right). It’s about respect. About legacy. About the sanctity of performance. Which would land a lot harder if this weren’t an industry that has been recycling, rebooting, reimagining, and resurrecting intellectual property for decades like it’s a competitive sport.

Apparently it’s deeply offensive to “bring back” a dead actor using technology—with the full consent of his family and estate—but perfectly fine to have a random British guy play him in a biopic ten years from now.

That’s respectful. It’s ethical. It’s art.

The irony is almost too perfect. An industry built entirely on illusion is drawing a moral line at illusion.

“What if they cash in on me after I die?” is not the concern, of course. It’s the fact that once you accept that a performance can be recreated, extended, or even originated without a living actor physically standing there delivering lines, the entire premise of the industry starts to wobble a little.

The film’s producer calls it “breaking new ground” and insists that “Val Kilmer influenced this performance.” I suppose that’s one way to put it.

The reality is, this ground has already been officially broken. Studios have been playing Weekend at Bernie’s with their actors for years. They reverse-aged half the industry elite into Botox-on-steroids versions of themselves in The Irishman and Captain Marvel, stitched Paul Walker back into Furious 7 after his death more than a decade ago, and digitally resurrected Peter Cushing in Rogue One like it was a Pixar side project. Adrien Brody even picked up an Oscar after AI gave his Hungarian accent a little glow-up. And somewhere in there, studios were casually licensing Michael Caine’s voice and floating the idea of casting James Dean in a brand-new movie decades after his death.

But this? It’s creepy, weird, and indecent.

The funny part is, in some ways the technology isn’t a threat—it’s a perk. Not for audiences—who have been watching fake things presented as real for decades and probably don’t care whether the performers are people or pixels—but for actors. Oh, you don’t want to leave your family for six months to go shoot in Iceland? No problem—license your likeness. Don’t feel like spending 14 hours a day in a corset under studio lights while someone yells about continuity? Great—your digital twin’s got it. You want to be in three movies at once without ever leaving your house? Congratulations, you just became your own franchise.

Maybe when Hollywood figures out they can actually exploit AI, they’ll stop whining about AI exploiting them.

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In my anthology Yankee Doodle Soup for the Fringy, Tin Foil Hat-Wearing Conspiracy Theorist’s Soul (which you can buy here or get for free with a paid annual subscription, ahem), my BFF Erin Cole wrote an objectively hilarious essay about being a conservative woman thrust back into the dating pool during the pandemic. It was filled with surreptitious language like “loves America,” “low taxes,” and “not into groupthink.” Subtle stuff. Very Da Vinci Code.

“You couldn’t just come out and say, ‘Anti-vax right-winger seeking pureblood homesteader’ in your dating profile,” Erin explained. “There was a whole new language to learn. ‘Traditional values’ meant ‘Whatever you do, do not talk to me about gender-affirming care.’ ‘Loves the outdoors’ meant ‘Lady, it’s just you and me in a yurt somewhere, escaping the matrix and living off the grid.’ You looked for clues like ‘hobbies include hunting, fishing, not talking about climate change, and going to church.’ A quote from Ben Shapiro could make a girl weak in the knees; a sideways whisper of Greta Thunberg meant instant, hard pass. ‘Willing to murder’ got moved from the con to the pro column. ‘Nice guns’ took on a whole new meaning.”

Well, you’re not going to believe this, but HuffPo just dropped a groundbreaking bit of investigative journalism in which a group of Very Online Experts™ have bravely cracked the real MAGA code.

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On Friday, the once-respected rag dropped a hit job on FBI Director Kash Patel that basically paints him as an erratic, paranoid, unhinged mess who gets aggressively hammered so often that his own security detail has had to use SWAT gear to break into his room to make sure he’s alive. The… reporting… featured two dozen unnamed sources, lots of hallway whispers, the whole “people familiar with the matter” starter pack. The implications were far from subtle: this is a guy who shouldn’t be running a mall kiosk—let alone the FBI—and is probably one bad happy hour away from losing his badge.

Patel issued a brief denial before returning to completely ignoring the Epstein files.

Just kidding. There was no “we’re reviewing our options” press release. No “we respectfully disagree” post on X. Instead, he sued the magazine and its reporter, Sarah Fitzpatrick, for a quarter of a billion dollars.

We’re talking a full-on, $250 million defamation lawsuit filed in federal court, accusing The Atlantic of publishing “false and obviously fabricated allegations” after being warned, in writing, that the claims were untrue.

“You want to attack my character? Come at me. Bring it on. I’ll see you in court,” Patel said on Fox News.

That was not a small move. Because defamation, especially for a public figure, is not easy to prove. Patel doesn’t just have to show they got a few details wrong. He has to demonstrate “actual malice,” meaning the publication either knew the assertions were false when they ran them or had serious doubts about their accuracy and published them anyway.

That’s a brutally high bar—because how, exactly, do you prove what someone knew? People lose these cases all the time.

Which means if you file it anyway, you’re not just pushing back—you’re saying, in a court of law, “You didn’t just get it wrong—you knew you were getting it wrong. And I have receipts.”

The Atlantic, for its part, says it stands by the reporting and will “vigorously defend” it. The White House says Patel remains a “critical player.” Everyone is pretty much exactly where you’d expect them to be under the circumstances.

In an admittedly incongruous twist, while addressing The Atlantic’s charges, Patel casually told Maria Bartiromo on Fox News’s Sunday Morning Futures that he has new “evidence” to prove that the 2020 election was rigged against Trump, and that—wait for it—he might just make it available this week.

“We have the information that backs President Trump’s claim,” he said. “I can’t get ahead of the Department of Justice and the president, but President Trump… speaks truthfully when he says that. Stay tuned this week. You might see a thing or two.”

We might. Then again, we might not! You never know, to be honest. But keep an eye out. Just in case.

I’m not saying the timing is incredibly suspicious. I’m just saying the timing is incredibly suspicious. Also, you know what would make the timing infinitely less suspicious? Actual arrests.

So just to recap, we’ve now got three things happening at once:

1. A major media outlet launches a smear campaign built almost entirely on anonymous sourcing.

2. The subject responds by filing a massive defamation lawsuit with a very high legal bar.

3. That same subject then teases a potentially explosive claim about the most disputed election in modern history.

Sure. Patel could be about to drop a nuke on the whole “that election tampering business has been debunked.” It would certainly seem to be a foolish thing to imply if you didn’t have a smoking gun covered in fingerprints tucked into the waistband of your trousers. But then again, how many times have we heard “I promise you, the evidence is coming—and it’s coming soon”?

I stopped counting when the Kraken never showed up.

Patel’s promise could be legit. It could be a deflection. It could be another round of “the files are on my desk and the world is going to implode when we release them [*which we will almost definitely never do, but bless your optimistic, trusting heart anyway].” And frustratingly, we won’t know which one it is unless he proves it, drops it, admits he was full of it, or we all end up in Valhalla and find out on accident.

At this point, the actual truth almost feels secondary to the ritual. The leak. The denial. The lawsuit. The promise of a coming revelation that will finally, definitively settle things once and for all. Everyone knows their lines. Everyone hits their marks. The only thing that changes is who’s cast as the bad guy this week.

Do I hope Patel has the goods he says he does and that consequences will follow? Of course! Am I praying—for optics and party morale as much as anything else—that he’s not, in fact, a one-man bar crawl? Obviously. Would I like to see The Atlantic go down in a biblical pillar-of-fire situation? I dream about it. But wish in one hand and “any day now” in the other, and see which one fills up first.

So… who’s the villain here? Patel? The Atlantic? The election stealers? The election stealer-deniers? Place your bets in the comments.

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CHARLIE BROWN: “I can’t believe it. She must think I’m the most stupid person alive.”

LUCY: “Come on, Charlie Brown. I’ll hold the ball and you’ll kick it.”

CHARLIE BROWN: “Hold it, ha! That’s a laugh. You’ll pull it away and I’ll kill myself!”

[Charlie trusts, Lucy pulls. Lesson: hope is a dangerous hobby]

LUCY: “What you have learned here today, Charlie Brown, will be of immeasurable value to you for many years to come.”

Every. Single. Time. (And yes, he actually said “I’ll kill myself.” I’d forgotten that part.)

After a year of chaos, promises, course corrections, and what looked—at least for a minute—like a genuine attempt to rip the federal health machine down to the studs, the whole MAHA thing is starting to feel like You’re a Sucker, Charlie Brown.

The latest letdown: Trump tapping Erica “Mandate Queen” Schwartz to run the CDC.

“Schwartz led nationwide Covid-19 vaccine deployment and has, with threat and force, mandated almost every major vaccine on civilians and military members, including mandating injection of smallpox, anthrax, and flu vaccines into U.S. Forces, and disciplining those who refused,” wrote attorney Aaron Siri. “This track record alone reflects she lacks the basic ethics and morals to lead the CDC.”

If you had asked MAHA supporters to sketch out their nightmare hire, you’d get Schwartz—or someone exactly like her. And rather than expressing disappointment with the decision, or saying nothing at all which would have at least hinted at disapproval, an increasingly neutered Kennedy applauded it. I mean, it wasn’t gushing or anything, but it was still more endorsement than regret or even resignation.

“Schwartz is currently employed at the universally hated UnitedHealthcare and has a long history of being a diehard pro-vax establishment figure in health,” wrote attorney Tom Renz. “She pushed and promoted vaccines in the military AND she was instrumental in Trump's response to the Covid outbreak.”

“As a reminder, Trump and his team locked us down, pushed masks, told our children it was unsafe to see their grandparents, made up social distancing, and was behind Operation Warp Speed—the biggest public health failure in history. He then gave Fauci a Presidential Commendation for doing it all. Schwartz was a part of it.”

While MAHA licks its wounds and tries to rationalize the latest betrayal, legions of Fauci fanboys and girls are taking history’s most annoying victory lap—complete with built-in pit stops for gloating.

The optics are flawless: Schwartz is a (biological!) woman. She’s Black. She’s a veteran. A physician. A public health lifer with a string of impressive-sounding letters after her name. Naturally, we’re being treated to the very serious argument that this is proof DEI doesn’t exist—because sometimes the most qualified candidate is a Black woman. Get over yourselves. Meanwhile, the other side is weaponizing the exact same set of facts: See? Trump isn’t a racist or a misogynist—look who he just appointed!

Which is all very interesting—and also completely beside the point. We were promised radical transparency. Gold standard science. An overhaul of the vaccine schedule—no, the entire agency. And instead, we got… Fauci in heels.

It feels like a cave. It feels like a sellout. It feels like midterm math. It feels like someone paid attention to some polls, looked at the Senate confirmation reality, and said, “Fine. Give them someone they can live with.”

I refuse to speculate that this is more of that 5D chess—Trump attempting to expose the agenda by putting one of their proponents in the director’s chair. (I’m onto you, Lucy.) I can no longer rule out the possibility that Bobby has been compromised, or threatened, or blackmailed, or simply told “you can have your red dye ban, or you can have literally nothing at all” and the man grudgingly embraced the slightly-less-awful option. I’ll leave it to Optimist-in-Chief Jeff Childers—the only guy I know who can routinely out-Pollyanna me—to sprinkle a metric ton of rose-colored glitter all over this mess for us later this morning.

But.

I can see a tiny, undeniable glimmer of hope at the end of this dark, familiar tunnel: HHS still trumps CDC. Kennedy’s position is Cabinet-level and comes with power to oversee the CDC’s budget, functions, and personnel. The CDC can propose rules, but only the HHS Secretary has the authority to execute and publish those rules in the Federal Register. And only the HHS Secretary or the President can formally declare a Public Health Emergency. In other words, he’s still the boss of her.

Even the MSM realizes this—and they’re being open about how anxious it makes them.

“Experts worry Schwartz’s fate could be similar to that of [her brief predecessor Susan] Monarez: another person who understands how government is supposed to function and has a background in making science-based decisions given a job she isn’t allowed to do,” Stat News wrote.

“Others are worried that with her long history in the military—Schwartz served in the Navy and the Coast Guard—she will follow orders, even if it means putting in place policies that are not backed by science.”

“‘It’s not about her. It’s about what the secretary’s going to do,’ Daniel Jernigan, a former CDC center director who quit in protest of Monarez’s firing, told STAT. ‘She could be terrible, she could be great. But it’s really: What is the secretary going to allow?’”

They’re not popping champagne. They’re crossing their fingers. Will she have any real authority? Will she be allowed to stop the Kennedy crazy train in its tracks? Will she be able to rewind the clock back to those halcyon days of 2019, when Americans trusted the science without having to be told to Trust the Science™? Or is she just a temporary course correction to help Republicans right the ship before November?

If RFK Jr. has been sidelined completely—as many now openly suspect—then so be it. What can we do? That’s the story. But if he hasn’t? If the structure is still in place, if the decision-making still flows the same way, if this is basically about putting a body in the chair—maybe just long enough to get through the midterms—then what, exactly, is Erica Schwartz walking into? A title? An office? An official-looking seat at a table where the menu’s already been decided?

To be fair, you could’ve said the same thing about Kennedy—that he’d just be a figurehead with a pulse in a big office. The difference is, he’s already shown he can move things, even in an openly hostile environment. He’s dragged a bunch of long-ignored issues into the spotlight and completely changed what we’re even allowed to talk about. The question with Schwartz isn’t whether the role has power. It’s whether she’ll be allowed to use it.

I know what some of you (hi, Vee!) are going to say. And I told you already, I’m done trusting Lucy. I just haven’t entirely given up on Charlie Brown yet.

What do you think? Let ‘er rip below!

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P.S. Several subscribers have let me know they’ve been getting friendly little DMs from a fellow reader promoting their own content. I don’t blame anyone for wanting to fish in this pond—it’s a great group, no doubt. Kudos for noticing. But Jenna’s Side isn’t a Tupperware party, and my subscribers are not your downline. And nobody likes getting random, unsolicited sales pitches. Nobody.

If you’re trying to grow your audience, might I humbly suggest… commenting? Engaging? Being funny and interesting in public where people can actually see it and then (hopefully) decide you’re worth a follow? Maybe you could even pony up for a paid subscription and be featured in my Subscriber Spotlight! In my experience, showing people how awesome you are tends to work better than sliding into their inbox to tell them.

Thank you for your attention to this matter!

JENNA L. McCARTHY
PRESIDENT OF JENNA’S SIDE

p.s. who’s gonna be the first to guess what the L stands for? (No cheating!) ;)

IN CASE YOU’RE NEW HERE, Jenna’s Side Subscriber Spotlight is a perk for paid subscribers who have something they’d like to share with the class. Think of it as show-and-tell for grown-ups—except instead of a potato that looks like Danny DeVito or your very first speeding ticket, it’s your business, project, purpose, Substack, side hustle, or genius idea. Upgrade today and get yourself on the list!

I’m not gonna lie: When I started this Subscriber Spotlight, the motive was mostly selfish. I thought/hoped/prayed that offering it would convert a few more subscribers from free to paid (on account of this being my primary source of income and the sucker-upper of at least sixty hours a week of my time). But the unexpected upside—the part I didn’t see coming—is the sheer joy it brings me. Like, actually. Getting to learn about you guys, watching you show up for each other, support each other, cheer each other on… it’s like a weird little internet enclave where everyone actually likes their neighbors. (Fine, except maybe that one weird dude who’s always running his leaf blower and only ever brings crap sandwiches to the potluck—but every ‘hood has one.) I may not have planned that part, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Which brings me to Keith (surname pronounced JAY-ko). He shows up in the comments a lot—never to antagonize, often with a zinger of his own, and almost always with an “LOL” or an “atta-girl” for me. That tells you a lot about a person, I think; that “I will stop and take time out of my day to acknowledge you and let you know that I appreciate what you do.” Not everyone does that. What I’m saying is I liked Keith already, long before he filled out my spotlight questionnaire. But now I like him even more—and I have a feeling you will, too. Enjoy. :)

WHO EVEN ARE YOU?

I’m an aging punk rocker on the senior end of Gen X (b. 1966) who survived college, journalism, politics, marriage, homeownership, parenting, Y2K, Obama, pimple-faced college dropout Facebook “fact” checkers, the Plandemic, and the ingestion of dubious amounts of brain-altering poisons long enough to accidentally land in Hawaii.

I lived in the Greater Los Angeles area (the Valley and Ventura County mostly) until the dreadful pandemic response nudged a girlfriend and me to stay on Maui for a month. That was June 2020. I never went home.

Today I write and edit, help out at my church, and drop truth bombs and pointed, over-caffeinated dispatches in Substack comments sections. I would drop killa memes there, too, but Substack doesn’t allow that with comments (yet).

I like baseball and punk rock a lot, and sometimes tap my past work experience as a news reporter and political aide to educate online readers and commentators. In that vein, I guess you could call me an enlightener. Or serial agitator. Depends on from which angle I’m being judged.

WHAT’S YOUR ELEVATOR PITCH?

After 16 years of failed attempts at recovering from addiction to alcohol and drugs, I wrote a book, Rehab All-Star, about my rehab experiences. The singular goal was to help others avoid all the mistakes I made along the way. Note for some of Jenna’s readers: it’s most definitely *not* PG-13.

I’m now writing a follow-up book, on sober living house experiences — which is rather timely with the President and RFK Jr. recently announcing the Great American Recovery initiative. I have utmost respect for Kennedy in overcoming heroin addiction — I have lost more friends and colleagues to opiates and fentanyl than I can possibly count — and maintaining recovery for over four decades. We couldn’t ask for a better person in that position. Fentanyl is a crisis of epic proportions in the United States.

GIVE US SOME DIRT.

I have a hard time working for paychecks. While most everyone who’s worked with me would say I work hard, deep inside I always question whether such work is our destiny in life. An over-contemplator, if you will. Or, maybe more accurately, a philosophizer. Rebel without a clue. In the end, I always had doubts about the real value of working for money by the hour. In America, these are not traits to make public. Luckily I finally reached an age where I can be truthful about it, along with my addiction struggles. Screw ‘em.

In reality, I’m a nightmare for deep staters and elitist ghouls who expend a lot of energy attacking the livelihood or reputations of those of us who challenge them. I survived the true hells of alcoholism and addiction. They are candy store clerks in comparison.

I have learned that the more money I make, the more trouble I get into. Every time, like clockwork. It took me a very long time to accept the fact that I just need to generate enough income to live, nothing more. I haven’t had a car or driver’s license since 2013, and quite honestly do not miss all the costs involved. One might be surprised to learn how liberating that feels.

NOW YOU GET TO BRAG!

I’m wicked good with baseball statistics. I am nowhere close to being a math wizard — in fact, I capped out in Algebra II-Trig in 11th grade — but I can look at years’ worth of stats and tell you pretty quickly if a player sucks. I wish our brains’ memory capacity could be erased like computer hard drives. I can tell you who won the 1948 World Series, including highlights from key games, but I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. Maybe one day they will invent expanded RAM upgrade chips for human brains.

I also have this bizarre trait that seemingly surfaced in recent years. I can fairly quickly see things broadly, like the bizarre pandemic response, and identify pure, absolute baloney. Biden comes to mind. My first thought was, *elder abuse*. Then he went on and proved it beyond any reasonable doubt! I think by this point my BS Detector has reached Pro+++ Level. Still, algorithms, social media “Keepers of Community Standards,” and DNC talking point writers keep me on my toes.

WHAT’S A HILL YOU’D DIE ON?

A no-doubter: freedom of speech. My father instilled deep into my psyche a lot of very American stances on governance, national spirit, and fighting for your rights. As author Evelyn Beatrice Hall stated, in summarizing Voltaire’s attitude about free speech: “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

SHARE SOMETHING GOOD.

Two things come to mind:

1) The Golden Rule of Luke 6:31, the principle of treating others as you want to be treated yourself; and…
2) Pete Townshend’s lament in The Who’s “Cry If You Want”: “Once it was just innocence, brash ideas and insolence; but you will never get away with the things you say today.”

Remember kids, hope I die before I get old! LingOL!

WHY DO YOU SUPPORT JENNA’S SIDE?

Jenna’s Side provides everything I need to know each morning about matters of import, delivered totally in my language. That is, packed with sarcasm, and backed by just enough facts to get by. Nothing more, nothing less.

In reality, I cannot remember a time when I disagreed with a premise in a Jenna’s Side article. I don’t know how she does it, TBH. But I do know this: laughter releases serotonin, which makes you feel better. Who doesn’t like to feel good first thing every day? They say increasing serotonin activity is similar to the effects of some antidepressants. So… my Jenna subscription costs way less than mood stabilizers or psyche pills. So far, I haven’t discovered any side effects. Plus it’s a constant reminder that with politics and public affairs in America, we should never forget Rule 62 in Alcoholics Anonymous: don’t take yourself so damn seriously.

WHAT IF WE WANT MORE?

My website is KeithJajko.com. For book stuff, either Amazon or the Rehab All-Star Facebook page, and if you like satire, you can see my work on Maui Insight—it’s basically the Babylon Bee just for our island (its Facebook group has been long shadowbanned by the Meta Gods).

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The latest development: yesterday, President Trump announced a new 10-day ceasefire between Israel and Lebanon, complete with all the appropriate diplomatic fanfare including but not limited to “good faith negotiations,” “lasting peace,” and “stability in the region.” It was very official. Very reassuring. 10/10 would support.

Meanwhile, we are already at the midway point of the first ceasefire—the one between the U.S. and Iran that was also announced with great confidence before being almost immediately ignored by, well, everyone involved. While the dropping of bombs may have been paused (*except between Lebanon and Israel; hence the need for ceasefire #2), the U.S. is currently enforcing a full naval blockade of Iranian ports and Iran continues to threaten to re-close the Strait of Hormuz if the U.S. blockade isn’t lifted.

Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth warned Iran yesterday that U.S. forces remain “locked and loaded” if negotiations fail; Iran says they’ve got their “hands on the trigger” should active airstrikes resume. United States Central Command helpfully explained that U.S. forces are making use of the ceasefire downtime by “rearming, retooling, and adapting [their] tactics, techniques and procedures.”

So, super peaceful.

It’s an interesting strategy, introducing a new ceasefire before the previous one has even finished not working. And the messaging somehow makes it even better. On one hand, we’re told peace is not only possible, but imminent. Negotiations are progressing. “Meaningful talks” are being scheduled. The President is “very close” to a deal. He might even pop over to Pakistan this weekend to wrap things up if things go well and his golf schedule permits.

On the other hand, if those talks go sideways? Fighting resumes. Immediately. “To the CAGE leadership and IRGC leadership, we’re watching you,” Hegseth said in a warning to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. “Our capabilities are not the same, our military and yours. Remember, this is not a fair fight.”

I’ve never attended an international peace talk, so I have a hard time picturing how something like that goes down. Trump, Bibi, and some terrorist-militia-ninja dude in a black face mask and goggles are all going to sit down and just… agree to stop fighting? Like, “hand over the strait and you can have your DMZ back,” like a couple of third graders trading toys? And then everyone just trusts that the guy who’s been trying to wipe you off the map is suddenly a man of his word?

Color me skeptical.

U.S.: “I’ll give you my GI Joe for your monster truck, deal?”

HEZBOLLAH: “Deal.”

U.S.: [Hands over GI Joe]

ISRAEL: “And I’ll give you Spider-Man for the rubber snake.”

HEZBOLLAH: “Deal.”

ISRAEL: [Hands over Spider-Man]

U.S. & ISRAEL: “Well?”

HEZBOLLAH [Running out the door with all the toys]: “Psych!”

Which does raise a small, possibly relevant question: what exactly is the ceasefire doing? Because this isn’t a ceasefire in the traditional sense—where both sides stop fighting and attempt to de-escalate. This is more like a ceasefire with extensive fine print:

• Israel can still defend itself at any time

• Israeli troops will stay in “an expanded security zone in Lebanon”

• Hezbollah is expected to… stop being Hezbollah?

• U.S. naval blockades remain fully in place

• Everyone reserves the right to resume hostilities at a moment’s notice

It’s a ceasefire in the same way “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong” is an apology.

The part that really gets me is the casual tone of it all, which reads like a project update. We have bullet points. We have timelines. We have conditional deliverables. We have stakeholders expressing cautious optimism. Somewhere, I assume, there’s a shared Google Doc titled “Middle East Peace (Final_v7).” Meanwhile, the actual numbers—the casualties, the displacement, the scale of destruction—get brushed aside like the rogue ice cube you kick under the refrigerator when no one’s looking.

Which is why the whole thing feels less like a coordinated diplomatic effort and more like a very tense group chat where everyone keeps saying “we should talk” while actively typing “or else.”

Also, things don’t seem to be going all that well so far.

Anyway, that’s where we are: a ceasefire layered on top of a ceasefire, both hovering somewhere between “sort of active” and “mostly aspirational,” while the people sparring continue to prepare for the exact opposite outcome. Peace is on the table. War is still very much on the table. And apparently, so is a weekend trip to Islamabad.

At this point, I assume Ceasefire #3 will drop sometime next week—just in time to stabilize Ceasefire #2 while we continue to evaluate why Ceasefire #1 didn’t quite stick.

Stay tuned.

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Second, this is the single post of the week reserved for generous paid subscribers. If you want in, you can upgrade below. If your budget is already tapped, I get it. Free content will resume tomorrow. Thank you for your support.

Picture it, if you will: An elderly lady* strolls up to the front door of the White House swinging a pair of McDonald’s bags like she’s dropping off a fresh batch of banana bread to her neighbor. Not a side entrance. Not some guardhouse or security checkpoint. The front door. And who answers? The President of the United States, personally, like he just happened to be breezing through the foyer when the Ring went off and thought, “I guess I’ll grab that.”

*The “elderly lady” in question is literally the exact same age as me, and yes, the media referred to her that way no fewer than three dozen times. If anyone needs me, I’ll be soaking my bunions and watching Wheel of Fortune with the volume cranked all the way up.

Probably because the delivery dinosaur gal was wearing an instantly-recognizable red DoorDash T-shirt (that also handily identified her as a harmless grandma), there was no Secret Service shakedown. Not even a “can we help you?” or “ma’am, we’re gonna need you to step away from the residence.” Just a smooth exchange of fries, a sweet $100 tip, and a quick chat about how great Trump’s “No Tax On Tips” initiative is. Oh, and—talk about a miraculous coincidence—camera crews just happened to be on hand to capture the drop-off from every possible angle.

There’s a stunning and scandalous twist to this story, though, and you probably won’t believe it so I hope you are sitting down.

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Sometimes the news cycle doesn’t matter. Sometimes finding the funny is too hard. Sometimes you just need to grieve.

Yesterday we said goodbye to our baby’s baby. Lola was a cat; a beautiful kaleidoscopic tortie-tabby mix, if we’re being technical. But she wasn’t just a cat. She was a delicate thread in the fabric of our family, woven through and around so many moments and memories that it’s honestly impossible to imagine a world without her.

And now we don’t have to just imagine it—somehow we have to live in it.

We should never have even had the privilege of Lola in the first place. She was an impulse purchase; a last-minute scramble nearly two decades ago when life decided to teach my very young daughters a lesson about death that none of us was ready for.

We basically needed a cat that day. Eenie, meenie, miney, Lola.

If you’re a crazy cat person or just enjoy a good cry, here’s that chapter:

Lola filled a hole in our hearts and in our home. For an extraordinarily long time, she wanted only Sasha—which was fine. It was perfect, actually. It was as if she knew. Sasha was her person and her purpose, and we loved her all the more for her single-minded loyalty.

Lola had the softest fur you’ve ever felt and the exact face of Bastet, the iconic Egyptian lioness/goddess. (No, actually though.) She was also scrappy and fearless and guarded the house like a German Shepherd. Woe to the neighborhood tomcat that wandered into our yard.

Social she was not. When company came over, Lola would curl up under the farthest bed. She once slunk into the living room when my brother who lives in the same town was over for dinner. “Did you get a new cat?” he asked. She was fifteen.

It took ten years—maybe it was twelve—before Lola began to warm up to the rest of the family. And by warm up to, I do not mean “went out of her way to cuddle with.” I mean “let us pet her briefly.” Nobody minded. It was understood: she belonged to Sasha.

Then three years ago, Sasha did something unthinkable: she grew up. She graduated high school and moved to New York City and Lola was stuck with me and Joe. She decided, pretty much that first night, that she’d be sleeping with us from now on, specifically directly between our heads, if it wouldn’t be too much bother. By this point, she was old and we were old and everyone was too tired to argue.

Maybe she had simply mellowed. Maybe it was any port in a storm. Whatever the reason, Lola let us in. She snaked around my ankles when I cooked and sat at the edge of the tub when I bathed. She knew the sound of my toothbrush meant bedtime and would assume the position. During the day, she made Joe’s office her own, claiming her spot on the back of the sofa where the sunlight poured in all afternoon. There’s a Lola-sized dent in the cushion that will probably outlive me.

Her decline was gradual until it wasn’t. Even when her eyes had clouded over and it was clear her hearing was nearly gone, she could still jump onto the bed, got excited about catnip, and would announce precisely—and loudly—when she wanted to eat.

And then one day, she didn’t want to eat. Just like that. Hard pass. We tried all the things the internet tells you to try. She wasn’t interested. We pleaded. She refused. We prayed. She slept. We cried. She shrank. Finally, we made the awful call, the one that supposedly makes you a noble, selfless person because you are putting your pet’s comfort and quality of life before your own broken heart, except why don’t they let you do that for people then?

There’s nothing I can say that could do our sweet Lola justice. I’m struggling for words—as if the right string of characters could somehow bring her back to us. I want you to know her, to appreciate her, to mourn her. And maybe, if that’s your thing, say a little prayer for her. She probably would have hated the attention, but if you said it was for Sasha, I bet she’d allow it.

RIP, Lolabug. Our world will never be the same without you.

If we’re playing “he-started-it,” I suppose an ironic finger would be pointing at Pope Leo XIV, who held a weekend vigil calling for peace. In the quick four-minute address, the pontiff denounced the relentless pursuit of power and money, war in general, and what he called “the delusion of omnipotence.” It was run-of-the-mill papal stuff; precisely what you’d expect from the spiritual leader of the Catholic Church and the planet’s premier peacekeeper during a period of intense geopolitical conflict.

And yet.

Trump apparently took that delusion of omnipotence bit personally, responding in a way only a man with an ego that requires its own airspace could: with a lengthy Truth Social post in which he accused the Pope of being—among other things—weak on crime. But, you know, with more ALL CAPS emphasis.

Yes, Trump openly suggested that the Primate of Italy—a man whose entire job description is “encourage folks to be more like Jesus”—needs to up his perp-wrangling game. And “I don’t want a Pope who thinks it’s terrible that America attacked Venezuela”? Really? We are not living in medieval times. These are not the Crusades. The Pope, by the very nature of his position, is sort of obligated to condemn anyone attacking anyone else. That’s not Advanced Theoretical Theology; it’s more like Gospel 101.

Which also raises what I think is a fair question: what exactly was the expectation here? Was Trump waiting for Leo to ring him up with a congratulatory, “Great job with that ‘open-the-effing-strait’ business! ‘I’m gonna bomb the blank out of them’ was also divinely inspired. You’re doing the Lord’s work, Sir,”?

In POTUS’s mind, there seems to be no required separation of church and state. Even if you are the Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, talking about peace means you are automatically “weak on crime.” Criticizing war rhetoric makes you “terrible for foreign policy.” And if you say anything that could be construed as a personal attack, you’re clearly batting for the “Radical Left.”

This, of course, is because Trump looks at everyone and everything through the same lens: you’re either with him—and I’m talking one hundred percent all-in—or you’re against him. Loyal ally or arch-enemy. Chosen member of the inner circle or Mentally Disabled Low-IQ TOTAL LOSER who should really see a Good Psychiatrist. And apparently, that includes Vatican City’s tippy-top dog—a man who, according to Donald Trump, wouldn’t even have the keys to the Popemobile if it weren’t for him!

“Leo should be thankful because, as everyone knows, he was a shocking surprise,” Trump wrote, in case you missed that part. “He wasn’t on any list to be Pope, and was only put there by the Church because he was an American, and they thought that would be the best way to deal with President Donald J. Trump. If I wasn’t in the White House, Leo wouldn’t be in the Vatican.”

Humble, it was not.

Pope Leo responded to the irreverent post by saying he has “no fear of the Trump administration” and vowed to continue to push for world peace. As one might expect.

And just in case the “weak on crime” critique didn’t fully land, Trump followed it up by posting an AI-generated image of himself cosplaying, well, the Son of God. The digital artwork showed Trump performing what appeared to be a hands-on healing, surrounded by adoring followers, the American flag, a bald eagle, the U.S. Capitol, some soldiers, a Top Gun-style fighter jet flyover, the Lincoln Memorial (or possibly the Pantheon), the Statue of Liberty, and—of course—fireworks.

What was the prompt here? “Generate a photo of a ruggedly handsome Trump healing a man Jesus-style and include every single symbol of America you can think of plus an old-timey nurse and lots of random fingers. Make it extra biblical… and don’t forget the pyrotechnics!”

Honestly, the only things missing were a Red Sox jersey and Kid Rock.

When a massive chunk of the mediasphere imploded over the “offensive and blasphemous image,” alert netizens were quick to point out that the post was originally made by special envoy Nick Adams, who posted it over two months ago with the caption “America has been sick for a long time. President Trump is healing this nation.”

POTUS, on the other hand, decided to play dumb. “I thought it was me as a doctor and had to do with Red Cross, which we support… and only the fake news could come up with that one,” he told reporters outside of the Oval Office yesterday (a move the media was quick to mock). Nevertheless, he quietly deleted the post shortly thereafter.

Trump is no stranger to AI-blending his likeness with legendary figures, of course. He’s been a king, a superhero, a Star Wars Jedi, and—in what appears to be his first foray into computer generated sacrilege—Pope Donald I. Would anyone actually be surprised if he did intentionally take it all the way to the top of the holiness pyramid?

The gamut of responses ranged—predictably—from unhinged rage to “who edited the original image to add Satanic symbolism?” to OMG, lighten up, Francis.

If I were giving out Comment of the Day awards, the tallest trophy would go to this dude:

At some point, you have to admire the efficiency of it all. The Holy Father gives a four-minute speech about harmony, and within 48 hours we’re arguing about whether the President of the United States meant to portray himself as the actual Prince of Peace while simultaneously grading the Pope’s crimefighting record.

Is it just me, or is the simulation getting crazier by the day?

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Swing by the collection plate.

Apparently, after umpteen months of Epstein-related accusations, FLOTUS felt compelled to announce that she knew nothing about the man’s nefarious activities, was not his friend, found everything about him repulsive, and that any claims to the contrary—current or forthcoming, presumably—are nothing but filthy, disrespectful, mean-spirited lies.

In her statement, Melania referenced the “fake images and statements” of her and Epstein that have been circulating [actually, she said calculating, but since her English is way better than my Slovenian, I’ll let it slide] on social media for years, and urged media consumers to “be cautious about what we believe.” She called on Congress to give Epstein’s victims their day—public hearings, sworn testimony, the whole bit. Oh, and by the way, Epstein did not introduce her to Trump. They met randomly at a party. Just in case you hear otherwise.

The online reaction was swift and predictable. Half the internet cheered: Yes! More transparency from the Trumps! She’s rallying around Epstein victims! The other half leaned in like it was a Bravo reunion: Ooooh, she knows something ugly is coming. She’s trying to get ahead of it. The First Marriage is toast. Neither response was convincing or could be categorically dismissed. (My personal favorite, though, was that this was Melania trying to deflect from the Iran mess. With Epstein! You honestly can’t make this stuff up.)

Over the weekend, however, another possible explanation for the impromptu appearance exploded across X—and centered around a name most people probably hadn’t heard until five minutes ago: Amanda Ungaro.

If you’ve been blissfully offline, here’s the short version: Ungaro is a Brazilian model who claims to have been close friends with the Trumps. Ungaro moved in the First Couple’s social circle for years through Paolo Zampolli, her romantic partner for nearly two decades and the man often credited with introducing Donald to Melania. At some point, both Ungaro and Zampolli were made ambassadors to the United Nations, representing Grenada and Dominica, respectively. (A reminder that in some corners of global diplomacy, “ambassador” can also mean “guy with a great Rolodex.”)

By Ungaro’s own account, her “friendship” with the Trumps included a New Year’s Eve celebration, a White House Easter children’s party, and a Fourth of July photo-op. You know, events where presumably hundreds of people gathered and to which—if you were an ambassador, for example—you’d almost expect an invitation. But okay. BFFs if you say so.

Ungaro and Zampolli had a child, Giovanni, and eventually split (after she caught him sexting a hooker, as one does). The ensuing custody battle made Kramer vs. Kramer look like Demi and Bruce on a family vacation.

That was way back in 2023. After the relationship imploded, Ungaro promptly moved to Florida, where she met and married a Brazilian doctor, João de Araujo. Fast forward to last year, when—based on “anonymous tips”—Ungaro and her new husband were arrested on more than a dozen felony charges tied to a medical spa the duo were running.

Authorities alleged the spa was illegally offering procedures like Botox, liposuction, and “buttocks fillers”; the charges included unlicensed practice of medicine, grand theft, and organized scheme to defraud. Not only was Araujo not licensed in the U.S., but reportedly Ungaro was also performing procedures unlawfully. (Although she vehemently denies these claims, investigators say they found videos on her phone of her doing precisely that, which is awkward.)

At the time, Ungaro was living in the U.S. on an expired visa. Whoops.

While Ungaro was in jail, officials quickly learned of her noncitizen status. The New York Times implied that Zampolli used the ultimate Trump card, so to speak, to have her detained by immigration as part of his custody pursuit. (Zampolli insists that he called to “ask for an update on her case.” Which could be true in the sense that “we just circumnavigated the moon” is true.)

“Amanda Ungaro was placed in ICE custody and ultimately deported, an outcome that may well have happened regardless of Mr. Zampolli’s meddling,” the Times reported. “But the ICE official’s willingness to spring into action for a Trump ally—even one in a low-level, largely ceremonial role—reflects a recurring theme of the second Trump administration: The levers of the federal government can be pulled to settle a personal score.”

Ungaro was on their radar. She’d already been arrested. The Trump administration has been pursuing deportations harder than Pepé Le Pew hounded Penelope Pussycat. But obviously, her being booted is just another example of good old-fashioned connections at work.

That was last summer. After her arrest, Ungaro spent three and a half months in an immigration detention center before being sent back to Brazil “in her prison uniform, with nothing, not even a cell phone.” Details about how she passed the next five months are scant, but this week, she popped up on X to taunt FLOTUS in a series of increasingly unhinged tweets (that have since been memory-holed completely).

So here we have a woman who went from hobnobbing with the political elite to prison and deportation admitting that she “has nothing left to lose.” She’s hurt (furious? murderous?) that Melania didn’t even use her clout to have Ungaro’s immigration case dismissed, so now she’s going to take legal action, expose everything, tear down the whole corrupt system if it’s the last thing she does!

(Weird that she never thought of outing all of these horrible cretins when she was on the guest list. But anyway.)

True to her word—sort of—Ungaro sat down this week for an interview with Spanish-language newspaper El País from “her penthouse in Rio de Janeiro.” Yes, penniless to penthouse in less time than it takes to grow out bangs. The woman sure knows how to rebound!

The internet promised it was going to be positively presidency-ending.

For context, this is the guy who has been hyping Amanda’s interview as the one that would finally—gloriously and irreversibly—destroy the Mar-a-Lago monarchy:

In reality, the piece was barely even presidency-adjacent. The “bombshell revelations” by the woman threatening to take down the Trumps? Basically that she once flew on Epstein’s plane (not a single Trump was present) and that she is currently “at war” with her ex—two tidbits that have already had their moment online. The not-even-remotely-explosive interview is little more than a recycled account of Ungaro’s dysfunctional relationship and her deportation woes.

“What is unusual in the case of this former model who worked at the United Nations is that, alongside her former partner and the father of her son, businessman Paolo Zampolli, Ungaro had in the past shared evenings with the Trumps at the family’s Mar-a-Lago mansion, including a party to ring in 2022, which she now recalls as one of those ‘incredibly boring six-hour events,’” El País reported.

It couldn’t have been a bigger non-story if it had been passed out to a gaggle of influencers outside the West Wing in a white binder.

The internet, of course, is insisting the interview’s utter lack of presidential scandal is more of the media famously protecting Trump. I guess on account of how they never publish anything unflattering about him? Hahahahaha my unicorn and I are dying.

So once again, we’re back where we were before the latest promise-of-a-bombshell: in that familiar media-loving place where everything Trump does is to pivot attention to literally anything but Epstein. (*Except when Epstein is the pivot. Try to keep up.) He gives a speech? Distraction. Doesn’t give a speech? Detour. His wife gives a speech… about Epstein? Decoy. Starts WWIII? Duh. All I know is that for a supposedly-dead guy, Jeffrey Epstein has an uncanny ability to dominate the news cycle.

What do you think? Diversion? Dud? Detonation? Let me know below. :)

***I couldn’t decide on today’s quiz, so you get TWO! Lucky you(s). :)

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Swing by the bookstore/tip jar!

The latest storyline? No, not not my president. That’s been done. It’s not my country.

Yes, it’s no longer enough to denounce Donald Trump or demand his immediate impeachment and permanent exile; you must declare America the irredeemable supervillain in every global storyline—past, present, and future. You have to march in the streets with a Soros-funded sign, wave literally any flag but the American one, and awkwardly apologize to foreigners for existing. You are required to post somewhere on social media at least once a week, “WE are the assholes. Us! America.” Failure to do so will result in the automatic assumption that you’re a gun-toting, MAGA redneck. Fines may apply.

If you think that’s just a fringe internet take limited to the comment section or the occasional entitled Olympian, allow me to introduce you to the professional version. According to filmmaker Michael Moore, America (with Israel’s help) is trying to wipe out one of the greatest civilizations in human history. We are, in his telling, uniquely violent, singularly evil, and—his words—essentially the terrorists.

Meanwhile, Iran is framed as the noble inheritor of ancient Persian brilliance; the birthplace of civil liberties, math, medicine, music, culture, and art. (Claims that, to be fair, range from largely true to wildly overstated.) But somewhere between “Persia invented algebra” and “modern Iran is a beacon of light,” we’re supposed to ignore the small, inconvenient detail that the people currently running the country are not exactly carrying on Cyrus the Great’s legacy.

“Iran is the cradle of one of the greatest civilizations this planet has ever seen,” Moore writes. “While our ancestors in Europe were still figuring out how to build a hut, the Persians had already written the world’s first declaration of human rights, built a multicultural empire that treated conquered peoples with dignity [emphasis mine], and were doing math and medicine that we wouldn’t catch up to for a thousand years.”

It’s not even subtle: we’re basically the descendants of a bunch of bumbling doofuses, and sure, Iran might invade other countries—but they’re extremely respectful about it. We don’t even have the decency to be courteous in our conquest! So gross.

The reality is, the Islamic Republic Moore is rhapsodizing about is a theocratic regime that jails journalists, silences dissent, enforces religious law, and punishes its own citizens—particularly women—the minute they step out of line. It controls what people can say, what they can see, and—minor footnote—has spent decades funding proxy militias while chanting “Death to America” at official rallies. But sure. Tell me more about their contributions to math.

I’m not saying that the United States is a stellar example of geopolitical virtue. (Please read that sentence again before scrambling to the comments to call me a moron.) I’m not even saying we’re not, generally speaking, despicable. The U.S. has a history of downright indefensible actions—notably where Iran is concerned. But there is a fake-spaceship-size difference between admitting your country is capable of horrific acts and deciding that if we’re the villain, the other side must be the hero. That’s not how this works. Sometimes it’s not villain versus hero—it’s villain versus different villain.

“We’re the bad guys!” Moore insists. “If you didn’t realize that under previous presidents, at least Donald Trump has ripped off the mask and shown you who we really are!”

That kind of America-the-Awful absolutism would be easier to take seriously if it showed up consistently. It doesn’t. I don’t recall this level of existential self-loathing when Obama was droning half the Middle East or when Biden was ordering airstrikes in Syria. Which suggests the issue isn’t the behavior—it’s how loudly and unapologetically it’s being carried out.

Here’s the part the Michael Moores of the world never acknowledge: If Iran is such a glorious place, why are its own citizens constantly risking imprisonment—or worse—to protest it? Why are women tearing off their hijabs in the street, knowing full well they could die for their defiance? Why are journalists silenced, critics imprisoned, and protesters publicly executed?

And perhaps most awkwardly—why are people fleeing places like that to come here, while exactly [*checks notes*] zero Americans are sneaking into Iran on inner tubes under the cover of darkness to escape a spray-tanned tyrant?

It’s honestly the strangest form of moral gymnastics I’ve ever seen.

You don’t have to think America is perfect. No functioning adult does. You don’t even have to believe we’re mostly decent. But if you’re part of the camp who feels criticizing America isn’t enough—you now have to invert reality entirely, where the more despicable a regime is, the more it gets framed as “complex,” “misunderstood,” or my personal favorite, “actually kind of amazing if you think about it”—you’re no longer condemning history, you’re rewriting it.

(Also, if you genuinely think the country that lets you post, protest, rant, and rebrand it as the Voldemort of foreign policy is a greater global menace than the one training its kids to be suicide bombers, feel free to take that opinion on a little field trip. Compare notes. See how it travels.)

I’ll go ahead and point out that America didn’t invent the concept of doing questionable things on the world stage. That’s been a popular international pastime since Napoleon decided Europe would look better under French management. The difference is, we’re the only country expected to both run the world and apologize for it at the same time.

Other nations flex their power and pursue their own interests, and it’s called sovereignty. We do it, and it’s a moral emergency. Meanwhile, plenty of the same countries held up as victims are actively begging for American aid, relief, intervention, or support the minute things go sideways. It turns out being the global superpower is like being the mom on a family vacation: everyone rolls their eyes at you, questions your decisions, and still expects you to have snacks, directions, and a backup plan at all times.

We didn’t start World War I, World War II, the Korean War, or the Gulf War. And yeah, we turned Vietnam into a full-blown disaster—but we didn’t light the match. To be clear, acknowledging that “everyone else does it” doesn’t excuse it. But it does matter when we start pretending that one country is uniquely corrupt in a world where power has always been exercised imperfectly—often brutally—by nearly everyone who has it.

The part that would be funny if it weren’t so wildly detached from reality is that every single person typing “America is evil” is doing so from the comfort of a place where they are actually allowed to say that out loud, repeatedly, with zero fear of a knock on the door.

Try tweeting that from Tehran and see how that works out.

Again, this isn’t a defense of sweeping military meddling. It’s not an AMERICA THE PERFECT bumper sticker in long form. It’s a critique of selective outrage and the moral reframing of reality. I know you’ll LMK what you think in the comments. ;)

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