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There’s a metric fuckton of shit I wish I didn’t have to think about.
But my brain didn’t get the memo.
It hums, it churns, it pokes at things that should probably be left alone. Even when I tell it to shut up, it just smirks like it’s on salary and keeps going. I’ve always been that way, ever since I was a kid. I was that little goblin in class who asked too many questions and answered every answer with “But why?” Teachers hated it. It’s not curiosity; it’s compulsion. I can’t not know. So I end up thinking about things no one should have to think about.
Like, I wish I didn’t have to think about how sausage is made.
Somewhere in human history, some unhinged caveman looked at a pig and thought, “You know what this needs? Let’s grind it up and shove it back inside itself.” That was someone’s idea of progress. And some other lunatic nodded along and said, “Hell yes, Chad, that’s cuisine.” It’s a pork ouroboros, a meaty middle finger to God, and I wish I didn’t have to picture it.
And don’t even get me started on Chicken McNuggets. Whatever the fuck those things are, they’re not chicken. They’re beige, breaded cubes of existential dread, the edible equivalent of a midlife crisis. I don’t want to think about what’s in them. I really, really don’t.
Someone once told me there’s a legally acceptable amount of rat hair in a McNugget. Rat. Fucking. Hair. Somewhere in a government office, a bunch of exhausted bureaucrats sat under migraine-inducing fluorescent lights and debated how many stray rodent follicles the American public could choke down without rioting.
“Two? That’s fine. Three? Gentlemen, we’re playing God now.”
There’s a PowerPoint out there titled Acceptable Levels of Mammal. Someone has a pension because they spent their life counting rodent garnish in Happy Meals.
For me? One hair. That’s my personal apocalypse, but I digress…
Yesterday was Halloween. I meant to publish this last night, but I went to a party and got—let’s call it—enthusiastically festive. I’m writing this through a Category Five hangover, which honestly makes what’s coming even harder to stomach. If you too overindulged in Barolo, bad decisions, or the belief you could still do Thriller without pulling a hamstring, I’m sorry. Misery loves company, and my haunted-house stomach doesn’t want to suffer alone.
Like I said, there’s a metric fuckton of shit I wish I could bleach from my brain.
Microwaved fish. The stench of wet Crocs festering in July. A used Band-Aid drifting toward me in a piss-warm public pool.
But somehow, my mind bypasses all that gourmet nightmare fuel and fixates right on them.
Because really, what kind of concussed, masochistic creature looks at Stephen Miller, tilts her head, and thinks, “Yes. That one. That’s the man for me.”
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Who surveys that translucent haunted-doll energy and decides to saddle up for a lifetime subscription to night terrors?
Who spreads their legs and says, “Make me Rosemary’s Baby, you alabaster crypt keeper.”
I really, really, really don’t want to have to think about that.
And yet, here we fucking are.
If you think their unholy union is revolting, just remember, they didn’t stumble into each other, they bonded over inflicting misery on kids. They got off on the child-separation policy. While toddlers screamed for their parents, this demonic little power couple were sexting each other memos dripping with cruelty. It wasn’t a meet-cute, it was a meet-cruel. Bureaucracy as foreplay, trauma as dirty talk. Their idea of romance is spreadsheets, zip ties, and a PowerPoint titled “Maximizing Childhood Suffering: Q2 Projections.”
What happens between them isn’t sex, it’s a war crime with mood lighting. When they fuck, angels file restraining orders, the Geneva Conventions start drafting new amendments, and even hell’s customer service blocks their number. You can practically hear Satan pounding on the wall, yelling, “Hey, keep it down, you freaks, some of us are trying to run a respectable underworld down here.”
And at the center of this unholy spectacle is her.
She’s always been an enigma in the same way black mold is: toxic, relentless, impossible to get rid of, and somehow multiplying every time you hit it with bleach and a string of curses. Now that she’s clawed her way onto a public platform—because apparently America hasn’t been humiliated enough—I know her far too well.
These days she’s everywhere: seeping into cable news, contaminating podcasts, and probably leaving a greasy smear on Elon Musk’s sex chair.
Katie Miller cares deeply about relevance, because relevance means oxygen. Influence means validation. A platform means someone’s still listening while she spews her special brand of bile into the public bloodstream. She doesn’t crave power to use it; she craves proximity to inhale it. She wants to feel its pulse under her fingernails, to taste it when she talks. It’s not ambition, it’s dependency. If hierarchy came in powder form, she’d cut it into lines and rail it off a government-issued desk.
She wants to be the poster child for bureaucratic cruelty: dead-eyed stare, whiny voice, and a smirk that could curdle oat milk. Every time she opens her mouth, you can hear the Constitution wince like it’s bracing for a colonoscopy. She’s smug, petty, and utterly convinced that oppression is a designer label. For Katie, being an asshole isn’t a flaw, it’s the whole fucking operating system.
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When Cenk Uygur called her and her husband what they are—fucking liars—she didn’t even blink. She went full fascist cosplay. “You better check your citizenship application and hope that everything was legal and correct,” she hissed. “Because you’ll be just like Ilhan Omar.”
That wasn’t a slip. That was a threat.
Katie and Stephen aren’t human, hell, they’re not even in the same phylum. They’re what happens when spite raw-dogs a bottle of drain cleaner. Two ambulatory hate-crimes in discount skin suits, running on espresso, malice, and the last dregs of America’s collective will to live. Cruelty isn’t just their hobby; it’s their fucking cardio. Their kink is making strangers miserable. Their love language is weaponized humiliation. Watching them together is like hearing a root canal try to out-scream a fire alarm—pure, unfiltered agony for anyone within earshot.
Katie once bragged, after visiting the border, “DHS sent me to see the separations to make me more compassionate. It didn’t work.”
Yeah, no shit it didn’t. Compassion fucking flees the room when she walks in like it’s got a goddamn restraining order. Crack open her chest and you’ll find a dried-up Sharpie, a bingo card of other people’s misery, and a crusty IOU for basic human decency. Empathy wouldn’t just die near her; it’d set itself on fire and jump out the fucking window.
They’re not a couple; they’re a haunting. He’s the human equivalent of a DMV line… soul-sucking, endless, and guaranteed to ruin your week. She’s distilled malice in lipstick, the type who’d show up to your birthday party just to read your Amazon order history out loud. Together, they’re the political equivalent of Bloody Mary—say “build the wall” three times into a bathroom mirror, and these two appear behind you, clutching a Bible, a taser, and a Fox News sponsorship deal.
He’s Nazferatu, the ideological vampire draining this country of conscience one executive order and hate speech at a time. She’s the syringe, sliding the poison in with a smile. He builds the cruelty; she brands it. Together they’ve turned governance into a blood sport and empathy into contraband.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are counting quarters for groceries while Dark Hands fattens on the chaos. The prosperity-gospel Jabba the Hutt. The grifter messiah of cheap greed. The guy who preaches thrift to the poor while deep-throating the national treasury like an oyster shooter. He calls it patriotism. She calls it heritage. Everyone else calls it what it is—obscene.
Government has become Dinner Theater for Sociopaths, a Vegas residency called Cruelty! The Musical, starring Steve Bannon in a grease fire and a chorus line of demons tap-dancing on the First Amendment.
And the call? It’s not coming from outside the house—it’s coming straight from the fucking Oval Office, oozing through the vents and belting out a drunken “God Bless America” while the wallpaper curls away in horror. The air reeks of self-tanner, cheap cologne, and that sticky, sour stench of moral decay you can’t wash off, no matter how hard you scrub. Every draft carries the faint, labored wheeze of democracy on its deathbed, flatlining to the thump of Kid Rock and the wet rip of the Constitution being torn up in the next room.
The rot’s gone full nuclear. It’s oozing off the Resolute Desk in greasy orange streaks, seeping through the gold-plated vents like ghost jizz made of canned hair and bullshit. His advisors aren’t whispering, they’re tongue-fucking his earholes with ASMR nightmare porn. “Sign it, Daddy. Ruin the world for us.” Meanwhile, in the corner, democracy’s dry-heaving, popping a cyanide Tic Tac, and frantically Googling “how to fake your own death.”
And that is the horror show.
Forget your sexy nurse costume or that discount vampire cape. The real nightmare is what’s still parked behind that desk: anthropomorphic aspic in a shitty blue suit, the consistency of regret and Miracle Whip, signing executive orders with a crayon and calling it vision.
They’re not running a country; they’re running a haunted hellhouse that reeks of halitosis, hubris, and hate. Every hallway’s a jump scare, every chandelier’s fueled by taxpayer tears and the haunted howls of history teachers. We’re all trapped inside, clutching emotional-support booze while these ghoulish goons hurl horrors like T-shirts at a monster truck rally for maniacs. It’s Halloween every hellish day, and these assholes are the headliners, waving from a float made of shredded statutes and sleaze.
The scariest costume isn’t in your closet, it’s hunched in the Oval Office, grinning for cameras while monsters hiss hot garbage into his ear. A choreographed clusterfuck. The cruelty isn’t a glitch; it’s the goddamn game plan. The evil isn’t accidental; it’s the entire enterprise.
Donald Trump isn’t the architect of anything. He’s the delivery system, the DoorDash of depravity. He’s the cholesterol-clogged fever dream of late-stage capitalism: a lurching tub of expired mayonnaise crammed into a suit that reeks of casino carpet and broken promises. Picture a gelatinous homunculus, stitched together from fast food wrappers and late-night infomercial regrets, wobbling through history like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man after a three-day bender in a gold-plated porta-john.
Every step leaves a slick of melted dignity, ketchup, and half-digested chicken nuggets as he hurls Big Mac boxes stuffed with the Bill of Rights into the crowd like confetti at the orgy of a dying empire. The air stinks of burnt ego, cold grease, and the slow death of shame. Somewhere, a bald eagle’s projectile-vomiting into the nearest flag while Lady Liberty lights a cigarette and stops pretending to care.
And waiting in the wings, grinning like stage parents at a school play from hell, are the Millers, two alabaster parasites who built the cruelty he only knows how to perform. They wrote the script; he just drooled on the cue cards. Every policy, every nightmare, every raid that drags parents out of school drop-off lines and courthouses is their love language made law.
He’s the grotesque puppet, but they’re the hands that learned how to make America flinch.
And that’s the horror story we’re living in.
Not monsters in masks.
Monsters in charge.
