I must tip my hat—if I wore one—to the Trumpian method of answering questions. A journalist might ask, “Sir, why did your administration do X?” And quicker than a greased weasel on a slip’n’slide, the answer is, “Well, what about Hillary’s emails? What about Obama?
(Verse 1) Woke up with the weight of the world on my chest Dragging my dreams through a war with no rest Coffee’s gone cold, and my hands start to shake But I’ve got a fire that won’t let me break (Pre-Chorus) Every step feels like climbing
Her’s your Daily Dose of Sarcasm, Sanity, and Sentient Thought By someone who once read Mark Twain and decided that a little wit and righteous indignation never hurt a democracy. Dear Fellow Patriots (and the three Russian bots subscribed to this newsletter), There comes a time in every freedom-loving
By Philip Low (this is not a joke or entertaining message from Julie today) Facebook is trying to stop me from revealing Elon’s master plan, which is why they are not letting me pin the post below and are obstructing the delivery of messages sharing it which Is a
SUBJECT: BREAKING: The World’s First Trump/Putin MEME COIN! Because, Why Not? Dear Esteemed Subscribers (and the NSA Agent Monitoring This), Rejoice! History has been made, and you were lucky enough to be alive to witness it. Not the invention of penicillin, not the moon landing, and certainly not
In an age when common sense is as rare as a $3 bill and bad behavior runs rampant like a possum in a henhouse, it’s refreshing to see someone take a firm stance—preferably with a baseball bat. This week at the Chatterbox bar in Indianapolis, a bartender did
Dear Fellow Americans (and any remaining lovers of irony), Once upon a time, we were a nation that proudly accepted gifts—even ones we didn’t pay for. The Statue of Liberty? Oh no, dear reader, we did not foot the bill for that grand lady in the harbor. She
Ladies, gentlemen, and independent voters with chronic migraines, welcome to another week in these United States, where the news cycle moves faster than a toddler on espresso, and reality resembles a Mark Twain fever dream. Our dear leader—who, through a series of unfortunate events, once again occupies the White
Verse 1: In the land where shadows grow, Truth’s a seed we seldom sow. Voices silenced, freedoms sold, Dreams are bought with tarnished gold. Chorus: Can you hear the people cry? Underneath a darkened sky. Stand together, hand in hand, Reclaim the soul of this great land. Verse 2:
Dear Fellow Americans, Gather ‘round, citizens, and take a bow. For decades, the world gazed upon our great nation with a mixture of admiration, jealousy, and begrudging respect. They watched our movies, ate our cheeseburgers, and dreamed of a life filled with 401(k)s, strip malls, and freedom fries.
Dear Fellow Patriots and Survivors, Well, well, well. Here we are, basking in the warm, comforting glow of America’s Second Coming—or so we’re told. The Trump Administration is back in full swing (assuming it hasn’t been replaced by AI Trump, who will soon assure us that
Dear Fellow Patriots, Get out your calculators and start planning—because thanks to the brilliant minds in Washington, we are about to be RICH! That’s right, the tariffs on foreign goods are set to soar, and according to the ever-reliable White House Press Secretary, Karoline Leavitt, this means we,