The Oompa Loompa Informant & The Cult of Make Believe
Republicans would rather sell full-on fairy tales than face Trump's Epstein truth
Mike Johnson thinks you’re an idiot. That’s the only explanation for the freak show he trotted out this week, standing there with his Sunday-school smirk plastered on a face that looks like melted candle wax stretched over a volleyball, announcing to the country that Donald Trump—yes, that Donald Trump—was secretly an FBI informant in the Jeffrey Epstein case. Wrap your head around that flaming pile of horseshit. Trump, the guy who’s spent years shrieking that the FBI is a “deep state Gestapo,” now moonlighting as their star informant? Trump, who called the Epstein files a Democrat hoax, suddenly the noble whistleblower who brought down a child sex-trafficking ring? It’s not just dumb—it’s brain-scraping, tooth-grinding, migraine-inducing dumb. The kind of dumb that should come with a Surgeon General’s warning.
And then, within 24 hours—poof. Gone. Johnson’s office scrambled out with a “clarification,” Beltway code for we lied through our fucking teeth and hoped nobody would notice. Suddenly, Trump wasn’t an informant—he was just “helpful,” according to something a victims’ lawyer once said in 2009. Helpful. That’s what they downgraded it to. Going from “informant” to “helpful” is like going from “he won the Pulitzer” to “he once read a Buzzfeed listicle.” But the Washington Post headline didn’t say “Mike Johnson lied.” It said he “backed off.” Backed off? No. He didn’t “back off.” He face-planted in his own bullshit and left a grease stain on the carpet. Call it what it is: a fucking lie.
And he lied for this guy. Donald Trump didn’t just know Epstein; he swam in his cesspool. The photos, the parties, the birthday letter that reads like it was dictated by syphilis in a sequined dress. He wished Ghislaine Maxwell “well” from the White House press room and then quietly had her transferred from a real maximum-security prison to the federal equivalent of a bougie YMCA with a nightly bed check. That’s not a man “helping the FBI.” That’s a man protecting predators
A man protecting himself.
Meanwhile, Republicans have been busy building their Disneyland version of Trump. A wholesome patriarch! A Christian warrior! A patriot saint sent by God! Give me a fucking break. The real Trump is a thrice-married compulsive adulterer, a convicted felon who’s cheated on every wife, bragged on tape about grabbing women “by the pussy,” and has been credibly accused of sexual assault by at least 26 women. Two of those assaults allegedly happened at the U.S. Open—the very stage he slithered back onto yesterday, his reputation drifting through the crowd like a bad odor no one could quite escape.
He oozed into Arthur Ashe Stadium like a bloated walk of shame in one of his trademark tarp-like suits—never tailored, never dignified, just a sagging, ill-fitting drape meant to disguise whatever busted machinery is clanking inside that dumpster fire of a body to keep the shit show upright. A spray-tanned Oompa Loompa nobody invited, plopped next to the championship trophy as if he were there to present it, flanked by the exact type of blondes who have accused him of assault at that very event. It was obscene theater—a predator dressed like a collapsed patio awning, basking in unearned spotlight. If irony had a kill switch, Arthur Ashe Stadium would’ve gone dark mid-match.
He wasn’t there to celebrate tennis. He was there to remind the world that the Republican Party has sanctified a man who should be nowhere near young women, trophies, or a public stage.
This is the same man already found liable for sexual abuse in a court of law. The same man who sent hush money to a porn star. The same man who once bragged he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose voters—and let’s be honest, he could probably sexually assault someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose them either. And yet Republicans parade him around as a “devoted patriarch.” They’ve taken a compulsive cheater, porn-paying, unrepentant predator sleaze machine and Photoshopped him into a Norman Rockwell painting. It’s not just whitewashing—it’s insane-washing. It’s mass delusion in cake makeup.
Mike Johnson showed up at that press gaggle the other day like Trump’s perpetual hype man in a Brooks Brothers suit, clutching his Bible energy without the Bible itself. He wasn’t literally holding one, but he might as well have been—that book is his security blanket, his stage prop, his one-man branding strategy. The guy’s face looks like a wax figure that got left out in July, sagging and shiny in all the wrong places. His grin is stiff, fake, plastic—like a mannequin salvaged from a second-hand Men’s Wearhouse window. His voice is nasal and whiny, forever trapped between “youth pastor trying to sound hip” and “middle-school hall monitor who just caught you chewing gum.” He doesn’t project leadership; he projects subservience. He’s not the Speaker of the House—he’s Trump’s human flesh-colored sock puppet. Watching him speak feels like stumbling into a Tim Burton casting call: pale, uncanny, vaguely grotesque. He has the unsettling look of the last face you’d see while lying on the cold bathroom tile in some Oklahoma panhandle motel, whispering “shh, don’t worry, it’ll be over soon” before harvesting your organs, tossing them in an Igloo cooler, and driving them across state lines in a conversion van to deliver to some Texas oil tycoon’s dying son who he’s madly in love with and would do anything for. That’s the vibe he carries into politics: not authority, not integrity, but the cheap menace of a man whose entire existence is built around doing the dirty work for someone else.
And that’s the point. He humiliated himself because he wanted to. He wanted to please his orange overlord. He wanted to throw himself on the grenade, even if the grenade was fake and made out of papier-mâché. He wanted to spit Trump’s alibi into a camera and dared America to call him on it. That’s what contempt looks like. That’s what rot looks like.
And that rot doesn’t stop with Johnson. This is the Republican Party in 2025: inventing fairy tales, torching their own credibility, and lying in ways so cartoonishly stupid it would be funny if it weren’t covering up rape and trafficking. They think if they scream “Democrat hoax” and wave enough Bibles, you’ll forget Trump wished a child trafficker well. That he quietly and inexplicably moved her to a Club Fed. That you’ll forget he marinated in Epstein’s orbit for decades. That you’ll forget he’s been accused of sexual assault more times than most men have been accused of speeding. That you’ll forget he was at the goddamn U.S. Open yesterday, looking like a deflated mascot at a kid’s birthday party, still playing king while his enablers gaslight the country.
But we haven’t forgotten. We won’t forget. Because this isn’t just about one grotesque lie from Mike Johnson—it’s about every grotesque lie stacked on top of it. It’s about a party that has erased reality and replaced it with a cartoon version of Trump that never existed. Their Trump is a hero, a savior, a saint. The real Trump is the living embodiment of the seven deadly sins: wrath, greed, lust, sloth, envy, pride, and gluttony, wrapped in cheap fabric and bronzer. And Republicans have made it their mission to defend him, protect him, and run cover for him—no matter how many lives are trampled, no matter how many victims are erased.
The Epstein survivors deserve accountability. They deserve justice. They deserve to live in a country where their pain isn’t erased to protect a bloated con man dressed like a collapsed patio awning. They deserve a system that doesn’t turn their trauma into a punchline or a bargaining chip. And what do they get instead? A Republican Party that has chosen, again and again, to sanctify a predator and spit on his victims. Every fake scandal, every F-16 flyover, every autopen meltdown, every manufactured alibi is not just a lie — it’s another wound carved into the record of what these girls endured. It is a message, screamed from the podiums and pulpits of this broken party: your abuser matters more than you. Your rapist’s reputation is worth more than your life. And that truth is unbearable. Because some of those girls never told anyone. Some never made it out. Some live with scars so deep they’ll never heal, waking up night after night to the sound of footsteps that aren’t there. And when Mike Johnson lies, when Donald Trump smirks, when Republicans invent another fairy tale to shield their king, those girls are silenced all over again. That is the crime we are living inside. That is the shame of a nation that would rather worship a predator than face what he’s done.
If we let them bury this, if we let them normalize this grotesque protection racket, then we’re not just failing the survivors.
We are telling them their lives never mattered at all.
