Wait… That Wasn’t a Joke?

Weekly Whiplash

Good morning, citizens of the Free World™—where the only thing freer than our speech is the moral compass of our elected officials.

I was planning to write a lighthearted piece today about spring cleaning or the joy of oatmeal, but then I opened my phone and saw a meme that slapped me awake harder than a tax bill in April. It read like the start of a bad bar joke:

“A felon, a billionaire, an alcoholic, multiple sexual predators, a puppy killer, a Russian spy, and a heroin addict with part of his brain eaten by a worm walk into Congress…”

And I thought—wow, what edgy satire! But then came the punchline:

“Oh shit, it’s not a joke.”

Now listen. I’ve read a lot of dystopian fiction in my day, but even George Orwell would’ve tossed this plot line out for being too implausible. A brain parasite? A puppy killer? What are we, the political arm of a Netflix docuseries called “Red, White & W.T.F.”?

Let’s break this down, shall we?

We’ve got a felon, which is honestly starting to feel like a prerequisite for public office. “Have you ever committed a crime?” “Only if you count insider trading and a little light sedition.” “Fantastic—you’re overqualified! Here’s a gavel and a podcast deal.”

Then there’s the billionaire, which is a cute way of saying “person whose money lives in the Cayman Islands and whose empathy died in 1997.” Billionaires don’t lead; they buy the stage and write the script. And we all get cast as “tax-paying extras who don’t get craft services.”

The alcoholic? Well, God bless ‘em. Who wouldn’t need a stiff drink to show up to work knowing you’re in charge of the country and can’t even figure out how to operate a Zoom call? Cheers to functional dysfunction.

Sexual predators—plural, because why stop at one? America doesn’t do anything halfway, baby. You want one creep in power? Here, have five! You get a lawsuit! And you get a lawsuit! We’re Oprah-ing lawsuits over here, and somehow people still want to run for office like it’s a community theater gig.

Then comes the puppy killer. I didn’t even know that was an archetype in modern politics. What’s next? Toddler punter? Kitten arsonist? Truly, we’ve stopped scraping the bottom of the barrel and have begun digging underneath it for sport.

Oh, and of course there’s a Russian spy. Just one, because even espionage respects budget constraints these days. But no worries—she’s not alone. She’s got the full support of half of Congress, a YouTube conspiracy influencer, and a Facebook group of Boomers with American flag profile pics.

Next up, the heroin addict with brain damage caused by a worm. You know, because nothing says national security like an elected official whose cerebrum has been converted into worm chow. Say what you will, but that worm probably has more strategic insight than the last five cabinet appointees combined.

And this, dear readers, is the dream team allegedly steering the ship of state. We’re not just off course—we’ve thrown the compass overboard and are now taking GPS directions from a Magic 8-Ball.

But hey, maybe I’m being too harsh. After all, America is the land of second chances. And third. And 482nd. As long as you’re white, rich, and male, you can do anything—commit fraud, lie under oath, punch a bald eagle—and still end up on a committee overseeing moral conduct.

Here’s what really gets me, though: the shrug. The national shoulder shrug. People read something like this, mutter “yikes,” and then go right back to watching reruns of The Office while our democracy quietly implodes in the background.

Well not me, dammit.

I’m here to scream into the void with sarcastic fury until someone hands me a fire extinguisher and a voter registration form.

Because this isn’t a joke. It’s a cautionary tale written in real time by people who spell Constitution with a “K” and think ethics are just “the vibes you bring to a hearing.”

So yeah, this week’s lesson is short and simple:

Stay mad. Stay informed. And for the love of whatever god you pray to, don’t sit out the next election just because the candidates make you feel like you’re choosing between food poisoning and spontaneous combustion.

America may be led by a mad lib of miscreants right now, but we still have the power to vote, protest, donate, and write increasingly sarcastic newsletters. Which I, for one, will continue doing until either the worm resigns or I die from irony overload.

On that note, happy Saturday or whatever day it is in this funhouse timeline.

May your coffee be strong and your elected officials less criminal than present ones.

Julie Bolejack, MBA

Want me to turn this into a PDF or an email-friendly version too?