“Peep Show Gone Wrong: Chicks, Mail Trucks, and Postal Madness”

Ladies and gentlemen, gather round — I’ve got a story for you. It’s got birds, bureaucracy, and a big ol’ box of what the hell happened?!

Picture this: 12,000 baby chicks — fluffy, peeping, tiny balls of potential omelets — shipped out from a hatchery in Pennsylvania. “Bon voyage, little fluffers! You’re off to farms across America!” Then… silence. Cue ominous music.

Three days later — not one, not two, three — somebody at the U.S. Postal Service goes, “Hey, what’s that chirping in the back of the truck?” SURPRISE! It’s 12,000 chicks — now down by a horrifying 4,000 due to starvation, heat, and good ol’ postal neglect.

No food, no water, no tiny fans going bzzz — just a box of feathery survivors goin’, “Is this Amazon Prime or a horror movie?”

And the Postal Service? They say, “Oh, this kind of thing… rarely happens.” Oh, rarely?! That’s like saying, “Your parachute usually works.”

The hatchery, Freedom Ranger (sounds like a chicken with a badge and a gun), says, “Not our fault! Can’t take them back — biosecurity, darling!” Which is code for, “No refunds on dead birds.”

Meanwhile, the surviving 8,000 chicks were taken to a Delaware shelter, where workers are now trying to adopt them out like, “Would you like one chick, or 400? They come in bulk. Great with toast.”

Only a few hundred have been adopted. That means thousands are still looking for a home. Cue Sarah McLachlan singing “In the Arms of the Angel”… but with chickens.

And let’s talk about PETA — they’ve been saying for years, “Don’t ship live animals like they’re junk mail!” But the USPS has been doing it for over a century, folks! That’s right — 100 years of “Neither snow nor rain nor dead poultry…”

Look — this ain’t just about chickens. It’s about empathy. It’s about how we treat life — even the little peeping kind. Because if we’re okay losing 4,000 baby birds in a truck and calling it “a rare issue,” we might wanna check our collective soul. Or at least open the damn truck once in a while.

So here’s to the surviving chicks. May they find homes, love, and hopefully never see the inside of a mail truck again.

Good night, God bless, and for heaven’s sake — someone buy those birds a fan and a juice box.

There are moments in American life when you look around and realize the circus tent has collapsed. The elephants are dead, the clowns are armed, and the ringmaster is selling autographed gallows on eBay. We are living through that moment now — and nothing underscores it more grotesquely than the five-million-dollar payout to the family of Ashli Babbitt.

Yes, five million U.S. tax dollars, handed to the estate of a woman who died while breaking into the House of Representatives during a live insurrection. She wasn’t pushed. She wasn’t caught in the crossfire. She was at the front, climbing through broken glass toward a locked room filled with lawmakers who were quite literally hiding from people who wanted to hang the Vice President of the United States.

And for this, she is a martyr. A symbol. A golden calf carved out of the foam and rage of the MAGA movement. She is hailed by a former president, venerated by online mouth-breathers, and now — thanks to our spooked, spineless institutions — rewarded with a multimillion-dollar government check.

This is where we are.

This is who we are.

Because this story isn’t just about Babbitt. It’s about us — the American people — and the ugly, snarling, selfie-twitching animals so many of us have become.

THE GREAT UNGLUING

We used to have disagreements in this country. We had debates, elections, protest songs, op-eds, and dueling cable news channels with smug anchors in expensive ties. It was ridiculous — sure — but it was a system. Now? Now we live in two entirely separate realities with nothing but a shared Amazon Prime account between us.

In one reality, Ashli Babbitt is what she was: a radicalized woman charging into the seat of government as part of a mob — a mob that beat cops, smashed windows, smeared feces on the wall, and hunted human beings through marble halls like it was some warped colonial foxhunt. A mob that screamed “Hang Mike Pence” while waving flags that said “Jesus is My Savior, Trump is My President.”

In the other reality — the one piped into millions of living rooms through Facebook memes and dollar-store documentaries — she is Joan of Arc in a Trump hat. A patriot. A victim of tyranny. A sacred symbol of the movement. They put her face on flags, murals, T-shirts. Trump himself said, “She was innocently standing there.” Standing. As if she were window shopping at Target and not climbing into the last line of defense between democracy and a gallows crew.

They don’t believe the video. They don’t believe the police. They don’t believe anything that doesn’t come with a watermark from “Patriot Eagle Alert” or “@GodGunsFreedom1488.” They believe Trump — a man whose relationship with the truth is like a fish’s relationship with a bicycle.

And now, these delusions come with a price tag. Five million dollars’ worth.

INSTITUTIONAL COWARDICE

The Justice Department didn’t lose this case. They settled. Preemptively. Quietly. Without the mess of a trial, without cross-examination, without facts laid bare. Why? Because a trial would have been a public bonfire. MAGA world would’ve turned it into a crusade, a holy war, a media circus with gold-plated gallows and slogans printed by the metric ton. The feds blinked. They threw money at the problem. They paid off the ghost.

Meanwhile, Capitol Police Chief Tom Manger issued a lukewarm condemnation of the settlement. He said it sends a “chilling message.” He’s wrong. It sends a clear message: If your ideology is loud enough, and your delusion firm enough, and your lawyer armed with enough right-wing cash, you too can rewrite your place in history and get a check in the mail.

This country used to revere sacrifice. Now we revere grievance. We reward rage. We hand out trophies for defiance and checks for destruction. This isn’t justice — it’s hush money in a powdered wig.

WHO’S REALLY GETTING PAID?

Let’s talk numbers. There are over 1,500 people charged in connection with January 6. That’s not a protest — it’s a military-age mob with matching T-shirts. Many of them are in prison. Some got pardons. Some are running for Congress. Some are now selling merch with slogans like “Political Prisoner” and “Free the J6 Patriots” — as if they were caught planting tulips and not bear spray.

And the movement rolls on. Trump, the once-and-future chaos merchant, has made it clear: if he returns, the mob comes with him. He has already promised to pardon every last one. He called the insurrectionists “hostages.” He called Ashli Babbitt “a really good person.” This is not fringe anymore. This is policy.

And while the rest of us are choking on overpriced eggs and drowning in student debt, our tax dollars are being siphoned off to pay for the sins of people who think democracy is something you can smash through with a flagpole.

THE UGLY ONES

Look around. Listen carefully. The ugly ones are winning. The ones who cheer when people suffer. The ones who see violence as righteousness. The ones who call the truth a conspiracy and the mob “tourists.” They’re loud. They’re organized. And they’ve figured out how to weaponize grievance into currency.

They don’t want justice. They want spectacle. They want martyrdom. They want to see their faces on bumper stickers and their lies repeated on cable news. And now they want cash settlements, too.

Ashli Babbitt’s story should have been a cautionary tale — a tragic consequence of brainwashing and blind faith. Instead, it’s a payday.

What does it say about a country that rewards people for attacking it?

What does it say about a culture that canonizes delusion and bankrupts decency?

What does it say about us?

I’ll tell you what it says:

We are not the shining city on the hill anymore.

We’re the flaming double-wide at the edge of the swamp, and the porch light’s broken.

“You Bet Your IRS”
Billy Long goes from selling imaginary tax credits to running the IRS. Next up: Harpo for Secretary of Silence.

President Trump, a man who’s had more bankruptcies than birthdays, wants to put Billy Long, a former congressman from Missouri, in charge of the IRS. That’s like putting a pyromaniac in charge of Smokey Bear. It’s not a tax plan — it’s a fire sale!

Billy’s qualifications for this job? Oh, top-notch! He’s got no background in tax law, but he did take a three-day course from something called “Excel Empire.” I don’t know if that’s a tax school or a mattress store — but either way, I wouldn’t trust it to calculate a tip, let alone run the nation’s tax agency.

And get this — after Congress, Billy spent his time working with companies that promised folks giant IRS refunds using something called a “tribal tax credit.” Sounds noble, right? Very spiritual. Only one little problem: the IRS says that credit doesn’t exist. Poof! Gone! Like my last toupee in a wind tunnel.

He also pushed something called the employee retention credit, which turned into a fraud free-for-all faster than you can say “audit.” He worked with a company called Lifetime Advisors. Lifetime! That’s how long it’ll take to untangle the paperwork. They took 20% of every refund they helped file. That’s not a fee — that’s a heist with a paper trail!

Now the IRS, the agency he’s about to run, is saying people who promote these credits could face criminal penalties. But don’t worry — they haven’t arrested him yet. They’re probably still trying to finish reading his financial disclosure, which reads like a ransom note written in crayon.

Oh, and after Trump picked him for the job, guess who started donating to his old Senate campaign? That’s right — the same companies pushing these sketchy credits! Billy took the donations and immediately paid himself back. That’s not fundraising — that’s robbing Peter to pay Paul, and then charging Paul interest.

Billy used to sponsor bills to abolish the IRS, and now he wants to run it. That’s like saying he doesn’t want to shut down the piano industry — it just doesn’t play.

Look, I’m no tax expert. I don’t even like counting past 21 unless I’m playing blackjack. But if this is who’s running the IRS, I’ve got only one piece of advice: hide your receipts, marry your accountant, and start a religion. Apparently, that’s still tax-exempt for now.

And as for me? I intend to file under “comedian, disillusioned,” claim a deduction for emotional distress, and pray the only audit I get is from my piano teacher.

If that doesn’t work, I’ll just claim the tribal tax credit. Tell anyone who asks I’m 1/16th sarcasm.

“So This Guy Walks Into a Cockpit… And Nobody’s Flying the Plane”

Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you a story that will make you want to take a Greyhound next time you visit Europe. So there’s this Lufthansa flight—Frankfurt to Seville. Nice and simple, right? Germans in the front, Spaniards in the back, everyone enjoying a pretzel and pretending they don’t hate each other’s driving.

About halfway through the flight, the captain—you know, the guy with all the stripes and the pilot voice that sounds like he’s narrating a funeral—decides nature’s calling. And when nature calls at 35,000 feet, you answer quickly. You don’t wait, you don’t negotiate. It’s you, the door, and a very tiny bathroom where you can barely sneeze without triggering the smoke alarm.

So the captain steps out, probably thinking, “What could possibly go wrong in eight minutes?” Well, let me tell you—everything.

He comes back, goes to open the cockpit door, and guess what? Locked. Not just locked—dead, bolted, Fort Knox, “you’re-not-getting-in-here-without-a-battering-ram” locked. He punches in the code once. Nothing. Twice. Nada. Five times! He’s punching buttons like he’s trying to get an espresso from a vending machine in Queens. Still nothing!

So now he’s outside the cockpit, knocking like it’s his mother-in-law’s condo in Boca. Meanwhile, the co-pilot—38 years old, in perfect health—is inside, completely unconscious! Not drunk, napping, or watching a movie—just out cold! This guy’s flying a $100 million aircraft, and his brain decides, “You know what? Let’s take five.”

The flight attendant gets involved. She’s on the intercom going, “Hans? You okay in there?” Silence. She’s probably thinking, “Did he fall asleep? Did he choke on a strudel? What is this, an Agatha Christie novel?”

Ten minutes go by. Ten! That’s not a delay—that’s a trial separation!

Finally, the co-pilot wakes up, opens the door, and he’s pale, sweating, and walking like he just saw the ghost of Amelia Earhart. Turns out, he’s got some neurological condition that causes seizures. Lovely! Like flying wasn’t already exciting enough—we’ve got mystery medical episodes now!

To his credit, the captain says, “That’s it, we’re landing this thing.” Diverts to Madrid. Boom. Crisis averted.

Now, what do the investigators recommend? You ready for this? They say, “Maybe airlines should rethink having just one pilot alone in the cockpit.”

You think?! That’s like saying, “Maybe the Titanic shouldn’t have skipped lifeboat practice.” Maybe the Hindenburg shouldn’t have used fireworks for mood lighting. Maybe—just maybe—someone should’ve thought of this before 200 people were 35,000 feet up with nobody driving the bus!

I’m telling you, folks—you don’t need a boarding pass these days. You need a will and a Xanax.

Dear Americans—

Oklahoma Turns the Blackboard Into a Billboard for Bunkum

By J. P. Fox
Staff Philosopher, Skeptic, and Occasional Malcontent

⸻

BALTIMORE— The latest dispatches from the territories beyond the Mississippi bring news so singular in its absurdity that one’s first instinct is to dismiss it as an elaborate jest. But no—my sources are cruelly sober. The public officials of Oklahoma, in their infinite innocence or boundless ambition, have ordained that schoolchildren now study not history, but hallucination.

I refer, of course, to the state’s freshly minted academic “standards,” under which the 2020 presidential election—settled by court, count, and common sense—is to be re-litigated in the minds of adolescents. These young scholars, just now mastering the Monroe Doctrine and the miseries of Reconstruction, will henceforth be required to hunt for imaginary “discrepancies” in an election more thoroughly audited than a banker’s ledger.

Among the curiosities now enshrined as educational gospel: pupils must scrutinize the “halting” of vote counts in battleground cities, the sinister mechanics of mail-in ballots, and the ominous phenomenon of “batch dumps.” It is all very thrilling, if one’s idea of scholarship derives from the wailings of tavern cranks and the pamphlets of professional patriots.

The maestro of this charade is one Ryan Walters, the state superintendent, whose vision for public instruction seems lifted from a tent revival rather than a teacher’s lounge. Mr. Walters, in the finest tradition of pedagogical autocracy, unveiled these changes mere hours before a board vote, assuring his colleagues—falsely, it appears—that delay would spell doom. The standards passed, of course. In Oklahoma, bluster has the gravity of law.

What followed was legislative theater of the lowest order. Some Republican senators made a show of concern—not for the content, mind you, but for the process. The standards, they said, came too fast. They did not say they came from the fevered precincts of delusion.

These gentlemen are brave enough to challenge a calendar, but not a lie.

Even the local educators, poor souls, were reduced to spectators. Their months of deliberation were discarded like an empty cigarette tin, replaced by the handiwork of national ideologues—gentlemen from Washington think tanks and the darker corners of the wireless who Mr. Walters invited to define what an Oklahoman child should know. That these scholars could not find Tulsa on a map did not disqualify them from dictating its curriculum.

The justification offered, naturally, is “critical thinking”—that noble pursuit which, in this instance, means asking students to evaluate baseless suspicions as if they were rival theorems. This is not education, dear reader, but catechism. It trains not the mind, but the reflex. The reflex to distrust, to doubt, to believe that ballots are suspicious, facts are flexible, and every election is but a prelude to betrayal.

One trembles to think of what’s next. Shall biology classes begin with a debate on whether frogs are truly amphibians, or merely misunderstood reptiles? Will geography lessons cast doubt on the roundness of the Earth?

And so, in the year of our Lord 1925—no, pardon me, 2025—we find ourselves staring not into the radiant dawn of enlightenment, but into the dull twilight of nonsense.

Yours in high dudgeon,

J.P.D.F.

The Evening Clarion

Now it happens that on a bright Saturday afternoon in the great state of New Jersey, where the trains sometimes run and sometimes do not, a gathering of high-level citizens takes place in the interest of putting an end to what you might call a most inconvenient situation — namely, a strike by the gents who drive said trains.

This strike is the first such occurrence in four decades, which is to say a long time between drinks, and it brings no small amount of grief to the average commuter who is just trying to get to work without having to take out a loan for a cab ride or learn to fly.

At approximately one o’clock post meridian, the top boss of New Jersey Transit, a citizen named Kris Kolluri known for his calm demeanor and sharply pressed trousers, enters into dialogue with the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers and Trainmen. This Brotherhood is a union, like a club, only with more rules and less dancing.

Now, these two sides sit in a room, perhaps with pitchers of cold water and sandwiches of a modest nature, and they chew over the matter at hand, which is the contract that is currently as empty as a racetrack on a rainy Tuesday. They chew it over for some hours, during which time voices are perhaps raised but not so much as to disturb the wallpaper.

After a while, they agree to call it a day and try again tomorrow, which is a Sunday and thus a holy day, except for those who find holiness in sleeping late. The National Mediation Board, which is a gang of federal peacemakers with very neat briefcases, is expected to attend that session, which means somebody in Washington is paying attention.

Mr. Kolluri, who is no stranger to the art of saying something while giving away nothing, issues a statement. He says the conversation is “constructive,” which is what you say when nobody throws a chair but also nobody signs on the dotted line. He assures the public that talks will resume and that all parties are hopeful, though the hope in question is the size of a paperclip.

Earlier that day, at the Broad Street station in Newark — a locale not known for its tranquility on a weekend — Mr. Kolluri tells the press that he is very much interested in getting the trains running again, and that this matter of pay is the sticking point. The engineers, it seems, would like to be paid in a fashion similar to their cousins over at Amtrak, Metro-North, and the Long Island Railroad, who are not shy about collecting a check.

However, Mr. Kolluri claims his agency is not a bottomless sack of gold, and that any arrangement too generous might leave the next governor of New Jersey with an ulcer and a budget held together by chewing gum.

Meanwhile, the union, represented by a spokesman with the weary air of a man who’s been to one too many meetings, expresses gladness to be back at the table, though nobody is bringing cake. They are hopeful that the Sunday session might produce results, though this hope is also of the delicate variety.

Now, it is worth noting that when the strike begins, it is precisely 12:01 a.m. on Friday, and the trains cease to move, which is not ideal for the many citizens who rely on them for such tasks as going to the office or escaping New Jersey.

There are buses, yes, but the buses are few, and the people are many. Though the agency says the first day of the strike goes off without too many citizens fainting from frustration, this is a matter of some debate among the public, especially those who arrive at work two hours late and look like they’ve been chased through a hedge.

As of now, the agency advises all who can stay home on Monday to do so, which is the kind of advice many people dream of receiving on any given workday, strike or no.

And so we wait, dear reader, to see whether the trains of New Jersey shall roll again under the guidance of well-compensated engineers, or whether the state shall descend further into the noble chaos of shared rides, long walks, and the ever-popular art of staying put.

Let’s talk about Bruce Springsteen. The Boss. You remember him—he’s that guy who writes songs about working-class struggle while drinking wine with millionaires. Yeah, that guy. So he goes to England—because of course, the revolution’s always safer from overseas—and he says some unflattering things about Donald Trump.

Now here’s where it gets fun: Trump hears about it and goes on this Truth Social tirade. He calls Bruce a “prune.” Not a has-been, not washed-up—a prune. That’s not an insult, that’s something your grandma takes to loosen her bowels.

You called him a dried-out prune, but coming from a man who tans like a yam and tweets like a parrot with a grudge, that’s rich—richer than your hair color.

Then Trump says Bruce “should keep his mouth shut until he gets back to the country.” Oh good! Now patriotism comes with a return ticket to Vaudeville McCarthyism.

And Trump—this cat, he goes off. Calls him a jerk, a prune, atrophied! That’s not a statement. That’s a bingo card of ego rage. He’s not mad Bruce is un-American, he’s mad Bruce didn’t do his bit in the skit. He missed the cue. And citizenship now, baby, it’s all a skit. It’s got blocking, lights, a two-act structure, and the lead’s gotta be loud, orange, and allergic to introspection.

This isn’t politics anymore, folks. It’s Las Vegas on C-SPAN.

It’s got costume changes, musical numbers, and a warm-up act named “Ron DeSantis.” You wanna be a good citizen now? Don’t vote. Applaud.

Citizenship? In my day, it meant voting and apple pie. Now it’s catchphrases and curtain calls! Ya don’t need a Constitution—you need a script doctor and a two-drink minimum!

We’re not a country anymore. We’re a residency in Atlantic City.

One nation, under the spotlight, divided by cue cards.

You know what’s ironic? We’re the only country in the world where free speech is protected and yet everyone’s constantly yelling, “SHUT UP!”

So here we are: The former president beefing with the Boss.

And the punchline? We’re all extras in the sitcom called America.

No script. No union. And definitely—no refunds.

Right then. Gather ‘round for another tale from the electric clown car circus — this time starring Waymo, Alphabet’s fleet of self-driving taxis, which are so clever they’ve decided that gates, chains, and stationary objects are apparently optional extras.

According to filings with the NHTSA — America’s favorite bureaucratic wet blanket — Waymo had to quietly shuffle out a software recall late last year. Why? Because their whizz-bang, “we don’t need human drivers anymore” robotaxis were playing demolition derby with parking lot chains, boom gates, and the sort of objects that haven’t moved since the Eisenhower administration. There were at least seven of these little love taps reported, and let’s be honest, if the cars can’t tell the difference between a driveway and a drawbridge, we’re all doomed.

Of course, there were no injuries, because the only thing these cars managed to harm was common sense. Still, Waymo updated the software for 1,200 of its robotaxis — presumably teaching them that steel gates are not holograms. And yes, because we live in a world where cars update themselves like iPhones, that apparently counts as fixing something.

Fast-forward to now: Waymo has 1,500 of these things buzzing around places like Austin, Phoenix, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. Yes, cities already congested and confusing enough without adding 1,500 silent electric butlers driving around with the combined awareness of a goldfish in a snowstorm.

But wait, it gets better. During the government’s ongoing “evaluation” — which is code for “please stop hitting things” — Waymo fessed up to nine more incidents. The most absurd? In June 2024, one of these digital chauffeurs decided that a telephone pole was a suggestion, not an obstacle. And earlier that year? Two robotaxis independently ploughed into the same pickup truck — one being towed at the time, no less. You can’t make this up.

Now, back in my day, a car was something you drove — with pedals, gears, noise, and the ever-looming threat of death if you didn’t pay attention. These Waymo pods, on the other hand, are like mobile spreadsheets: silently making decisions based on algorithms that apparently think metal poles are virtual reality.

If this is the future of motoring, I’ll be in the garage. With a V12. And a key.

To the Right Honourable Robert F. Kennedy Jr.,

Secretary of Health and Human Services,

District of Columbia, by way of the Styx.

Sir,

With a heart bewildered by both awe and dismay, I take up my pen—a trembling reed upon the septic tide of our shared American tragedy—to address your recent Dionysian wade into the yeasty waters of Rock Creek. What Promethean confidence-or more rightly, what Oedipal blindness—possessed you to immerse yourself and, God preserve them, your progeny, in that fetid broth which the National Park Service, no less than a modern Sibyl, had marked “unfit for man or beast”?

Have you mistaken the bubbling effluence of our failing infrastructure for the Castalian spring? Or do you, in some Rousseauian madness, believe the best baptism for your grandchildren lies not in clean living nor purified science, but in a sewer blessed by ancestral delusion?

Ye gods of reason! Was not our age already confounded by microbes unleashed, by water fouled, by air thick with the flatulence of negligence? And now you, the anointed steward of the nation’s health, cavort like Pan amid the reeds, trailing guileless children behind you into waters blooming with E. coli and democratic absurdity.

Had Nero fiddled while Rome burned, you, sir, would have belly-flopped into the Tiber and declared it tonic.

The body politic, already diseased, finds no cure in this murky spectacle—only a deeper infection of trust, a rash of ridicule spreading across our common skin.

We look to our guardians not for martyrdom by bacteria, but for policy, protection, and potable clarity.

There are public acts that cleanse the soul. This was not among them.

Remove, sir, your laurels of lunacy, and recall your post, lest the gods mistake your folly for leadership.

With ironic health,

An Undisinfected Citizen

—written with vinegar and fainting patience

In a discovery worthy of a second-rate political melodrama or a forgotten dispatch from a dust-choked embassy file, the Argentine Supreme Court has, quite accidentally, stumbled upon a trove of Nazi-era ephemera—no fewer than eighty-three crates of it—reposing undisturbed in its own basement like a ghastly souvenir from the age of moral ruin.

The boxes arrived in June of 1941 aboard the Japanese vessel Nan-a-Maru, dispatched with all the tact and subtlety of a diplomatic middle finger by the German embassy in Tokyo. The official explanation, offered with that peculiar mixture of self-importance and implausibility known only to minor consular staff, was that the crates contained personal belongings—perhaps a few Wagner scores, some Homburg hats, or an occasional bust of the Führer.

One could be forgiven, on first viewing, for mistaking this aircraft for the fever dream of a Gulf potentate with a Liberace fetish and no taste for subtlety. The so-called “gift” from the royal family of Qatar—ostensibly a Boeing 747-8, but more accurately a $400 million airborne Versailles for a man who confuses grandeur with greatness—is less a plane than a monument to the aesthetic bankruptcy of late-stage American spectacle.

That it is destined, in some grotesque ballet of legal acrobatics and geopolitical ego-stroking, to serve first as Air Force One and then as the permanent property of the Trump Presidential Library is a joke so on-the-nose one can almost hear Jonathan Swift sighing in admiration. Here is the ceremonial barge not of a president, but of an emperor in exile, trussed in gold-leaf delusion and flying high above constitutional norms.

Flossi—a beige miniature poodle with a regal posture and a nose for power—has made Washington, D.C., her home for the last eight months. While most dogs content themselves with sticks and tennis balls, Flossi preferred policy briefings and monument walks. Her days were spent trotting past the Capitol, tail high, ears perked, as if assessing the legislative mood. She’d bark twice at the Supreme Court (a subtle commentary on indecision) and pause at the Lincoln Memorial for long, contemplative stares, as though communing with history.

Tourists mistook her for a cleverly disguised diplomat’s companion. Reporters whispered that she’d been seen in the West Wing. Somewhere in Foggy Bottom, a foreign minister had once scratched her behind the ears and called her “Madame Ambassador.”

But even Flossi, with her impeccable manners and polished fur, began to tire of the suits, the slow-moving motorcades, and the endless debates about budget ceilings. Though loyal to the ideals of civic engagement, her heart began to yearn for something different: a place with rhythm, verticality, and just a dash of chaos.

Now, as her chauffeur-driven pickup truck pulled away from the illuminated dome of the Capitol, Flossi turned her gaze northward. New York City awaited.

Her paws tapped excitedly on the leather seats as the skyline came into view. The Empire State Building glowed like a beacon of possibility. The Statue of Liberty raised her torch as if to say, “Come, Flossi, the city is yours.”

Flossi had plans. She would stroll Fifth Avenue in oversized sunglasses, breakfast in Central Park (always a croissant), and attend avant-garde theatre in SoHo. She might take a guest lecturer role at NYU’s Department of Urban Canine Studies or be spotted front row at Fashion Week, curled neatly on a Balenciaga tote.

But beyond the glamour and grit, Flossi was on a mission: to understand the heartbeat of a city that never sleeps. D.C. had taught her structure; New York would teach her improvisation. She wasn’t running from the capital—she was graduating from it.

As the city lights reflected in her dark, intelligent eyes, Flossi let out a single, anticipatory bark. New York didn’t know it yet, but it was about to meet its newest cultural critic, charm ambassador, and unexpected heroine: Flossi, the poodle with a passport—and a point of view.

Ah, yes, nothing says “Powering the Great American Comeback” like pulling the plug on climate protection and energy efficiency. The Trump administration, in a display of inspired 19th-century thinking, is reportedly preparing to eliminate two key Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) divisions that, until now, were quietly toiling away trying to prevent the planet from becoming a pizza oven.

First on the chopping block: the climate change division and the climate protection partnership division, both buried within the EPA’s Office of Air and Radiation (which, let’s be honest, is sounding more ironic by the minute). These departments have had the audacity to focus on trivial matters like greenhouse gases, methane emissions, and—you know—basic planetary survival.

And what else is going extinct? Only the Energy Star program, that pesky, bipartisan, consumer-friendly initiative started under George H. W. Bush (back when Republicans still believed in thermostats). The same program that helps Americans find energy-efficient appliances and shave billions off their utility bills. How offensive!

Apparently, saving households $40 billion annually on just a $32 million federal investment is too socialist a return. After all, why should a government help its citizens not set fire to their electric bills?

But don’t worry—EPA officials assure us that this isn’t a gutting of essential environmental infrastructure. No, no. These are “organizational improvements,” clearly. Because when you’re out of ideas, throw in buzzwords like “streamlining” or “restructuring” and hope nobody notices the smoke.

To be fair, the staff won’t all be fired immediately. The EPA is first offering a classy round of “deferred resignations”—also known as “get out or we’ll push you out later.” The exact number of pink slips remains a mystery, perhaps stashed somewhere in the methane clouds over Texas.

And lest you worry that these actions are scientifically unsound, fear not: the Trump EPA is also rolling back over a dozen Biden-era pollution rules and rethinking a foundational scientific finding that says climate pollution is bad. Because if science says something inconvenient, just vote it off the island.

So yes, in summary: climate programs? Axed. Energy efficiency? Buh-bye. Logic? Unplugged. But hey—at least we’ve got our “Great American Comeback.” Just don’t forget to pack sunscreen, a gas mask, and a diesel generator.

Well, folks, air travel in America has once again achieved a new level of chaos — this time at the illustrious disaster zone otherwise known as Newark Liberty International Airport.

United Airlines just announced it’s cancelling 35 daily round-trip flights, not because of weather, terrorism, or angry geese, but because air traffic controllers walked off the job after their equipment broke.

Again.

Yes, the radar and radios failed, and the people in charge of keeping airplanes from colliding midair understandably said, “You know what? No.”

Some apparently took trauma leave, which, if you’ve seen the inside of a Newark control tower during peak hours, honestly sounds like the most sensible decision anyone’s made in aviation this year.

United CEO Scott Kirby — a man whose job is to sell optimism while strapped to a flaming jet engine of logistics failure — issued a grave statement on United’s website that basically read: “This airport is a joke, and we can’t keep pretending it’s not.”

“Newark airport cannot handle the number of planes scheduled to operate there,” he lamented, as if that’s a shocking new development and not a known fact to literally every single passenger who’s ever attempted to leave New Jersey by air.

Let’s recap: the tech broke, controllers bailed, flights were diverted, delays stacked up, thousands of passengers were stranded, and the FAA is standing around like it just dropped its flashlight in a cave.

Meanwhile, the FAA, in its trademark leadership style of “oops, guess we’ll slow things down until it’s someone else’s problem,” has occasionally restricted traffic to Newark while continuing to pretend there’s no staffing crisis.

A rep for the National Air Traffic Controllers Association — that’s the union representing these overworked, under-equipped sky shepherds — declined to comment, probably because they’re too busy panic-refreshing Indeed.com.

And what’s United’s big fix?

They want the government to reclassify Newark as a Level 3 slot-controlled airport, which is a fancy way of saying: “Can someone please stop us from scheduling 300 flights a day through a glorified parking lot with radios from 1997?”

Let’s be clear: United already operates a mind-numbing 328 flights a day from Newark, which was somehow the 14th-busiest airport in the country last year — though definitely #1 in existential despair per square foot.

This debacle comes just as United plans to add five new international flights from the very same mess of a hub — which is like putting more clowns in a flaming circus tent and hoping no one notices.

But fear not: Kirby says he had a nice chat with Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy, and they’re all very confident that the Trump administration’s plan to invest in FAA tech and infrastructure will solve this — which is adorable, because you’d think maybe reliable radar would’ve been a priority sometime between Twitter rants and flag-hugging photo ops.

Also worth noting: these cuts happen to coincide with United realizing that maybe, just maybe, air travel demand is tanking, and that the words “possible recession” might finally be catching up to the stock price fairy tale.

So there you have it.

Planes are grounded.

Towers are empty.

Controllers are out. And the nation’s skies are once again a tragicomic opera of incompetence, corporate greed, and broken radios.

Other than that, everything is fine.

In a bold new chapter of “Are You Even Kidding Right Now,” President Donald Trump has decided that Michael Waltz — the same guy who accidentally added a journalist to a top-secret Signal group chat about a military strike — should now be America’s voice to the United Nations.

Yes, that Michael Waltz. The one who effectively said “Oops, didn’t mean to include the press in our war plans.” The one under intense scrutiny for turning secure communications into a glorified WhatsApp disaster. That guy? He’s now going to explain U.S. diplomacy to the world.

Naturally, Trump broke the news in a statement posted to his own bespoke social media echo chamber, where irony goes to die:

“From his time in uniform on the battlefield, in Congress and, as my National Security Advisor, Mike Waltz has worked hard to put our Nation’s Interests first.”

Apparently, forwarding national security secrets to a reporter now qualifies as “putting our Nation’s Interests first.” Who knew?

But don’t worry — while Waltz packs for Turtle Bay, Secretary of State Marco Rubio will be moonlighting as interim National Security Adviser, because hey, what’s a little nuclear diplomacy between golf rounds? This administration is nothing if not committed to stacking critical roles like a Jenga tower made of ego and chaos.

Trump ended his post with the usual action-movie tagline:

“Together, we will continue to fight tirelessly to Make America, and the World, SAFE AGAIN.”

Ah yes — by appointing the guy who leaked strike plans to a journalist and the senator whose foreign policy plan is mostly aggressive shrugging.

In response to his totally-not-a-reward-for-failing appointment, Waltz tweeted:

“I’m deeply honored to continue my service to President Trump and our great nation.”

Because nothing says honor like almost triggering a diplomatic incident by clicking the wrong contact.

Of course, Waltz still needs to face Senate confirmation, where one can only hope someone — maybe even one with a backbone — will ask the obvious:

“How do you plan to navigate high-level diplomacy when Signal still baffles you?”

But if recent history is any guide, expect a few grandstanding speeches, a couple performative grumbles, and then a 51-49 vote to send the man who thought Signal was a group text party to go chat with Russia, China, and the rest of the world.

Because in America 2025, failing upward is the new patriotism.

If you were under the comforting illusion that your pre-packaged meat products weren’t actively trying to murder you in your own fridge, allow us to introduce this week’s dystopian deli special.

On April 29, the Food Safety and Inspection Service (FSIS) announced that Smith Packing, LLC, based in Utica, New York—a city not previously known for weaponized lunch meat—is recalling a cool 18,792 pounds of ready-to-eat sausage and sliced meats because, oops, they were seasoned with way too much sodium nitrite, a chemical best known for making red blood cells forget how to make oxygen.

Yes, that sodium nitrite — the “oh-it’s-fine-in-small-doses” yellowish-white powder often used to preserve and flavor meat. Unfortunately, when you dump in too much, it becomes the culinary equivalent of sprinkling your ham with carbon monoxide and a kiss from the Grim Reaper. At very high levels, it can literally kill you. But sure, tell us again how “flavor-enhancing” it is.

So, how did this all come to light? Well, consumers started noticing something was… off. As in: “Why does my sausage taste like a battery?” and “Why does this bologna look like it’s been embalmed?”

To their credit, Smith Packing eventually told FSIS, “Hey, about that meat we’ve been shipping out for two months… we might’ve overdone the nitrite. Like, a lot.”

According to the recall, the possibly-lethal lunch meat was produced between February 19 and April 24, 2025 — which, if you’re keeping track, is over two months of sausages marinating in potential health violations. The products were shipped all over New York State, including to institutions and retail locations. Because if there’s one place that doesn’t need a surprise respiratory collapse, it’s a school cafeteria.

And this wasn’t just one brand or one sausage gone rogue. The recall list reads like a piratical picnic menu:

• As-Salaam Beef Breakfast Sausage

• Honest John Polish Sausage (insert ironic snort here)

• Smith Packing Export Bologna

• Beefland USA Regular Beef Sausage (as if “Beefland USA” doesn’t already sound ominous)

• As-Salaam Hot Roasted Chicken Sausage Garlic (because if the nitrites don’t knock you out, the garlic might)

We asked GM… wait, no, sorry, we asked Smith Packing what went wrong here. Their response? Basically, a corporate shrug wrapped in PR plastic:

“In coordination with the USDA, Smith agreed to a recall… Approximately 90% of the product never left the warehouse.”

Translation: “Only about 10% of the death sausage made it to your kitchen, so like… relax?”

And while most of it may be off the shelves now, the FSIS issued their usual plea for Americans to dig into their refrigerators and freezers, because apparently this is our problem now.

If you’ve got any of the suspect meat, do not eat it, serve it, microwave it, or even look at it funny. Just throw it away or return it, and maybe take a moment to reflect on the fact that we’re still poisoning meat in 2025 like it’s the 1870s and Upton Sinclair hasn’t even been born yet.

Bon appétit, America.

GM Recalls 600,000 Trucks, Decides Engines Shouldn’t Randomly Explode

After issuing a recall for nearly 600,000 full-size trucks and SUVs because their engines tend to self-destruct spontaneously, General Motors is bravely stepping up to the plate with a bold, inspiring repair strategy:

“We’ll take a look and… well, we’ll see.”

That’s not satire — that’s actually what’s happening. According to GM’s recall documents, potentially defective engines will be “inspected” and then “either repaired or replaced.” That’s corporate speak for:

“We’ll shake the Magic 8 Ball and let you know if your $80,000 SUV qualifies for basic mechanical functionality.”

On April 24, GM issued its largest recall of the year, targeting a hearty 597,630 full-size trucks and SUVs from 2021 through 2024. The usual suspects: Chevy Silverado, Suburban, Tahoe, GMC Sierra, Yukon, and of course, the Cadillac Escalade, for when you want your luxury vehicle to come with a free game of “Will it Start Today?”

At the heart of this recall is the much-hyped 6.2-liter V8, an engine that can generate 420 horsepower — or, if it feels moody, zero, as it suddenly fails without warning. And we’re not talking about the occasional lemon. According to GM, there are 28,102 field complaints. Over 14,000 of those involve what’s known in polite recall language as a “loss of propulsion.” In regular English, that means:

“The engine blew up. Real good.”

And let’s not pretend this problem just popped up like a stray check engine light. GM has now completed four — yes, four — investigations in three years.

• One in early 2022

• Another in 2023

• A third wrapped up in July 2024

• And a final one launched in January 2025, after which someone finally said, “You know what? Maybe we should do something about this.”

These investigations revealed a modest 28,102 field complaints, with 14,332 of them listed as “loss of propulsion,” which is recall-ese for “your engine did blow up real good.”

And the best part? GM closed some of these investigations without action. Just let that sink in:

• Customers: “My engine failed and I nearly died.”

• GM: “Interesting. Let’s put that in a folder.”

• Customers: “It happened again.”

• GM: “Let’s open a new folder.”

One might think, after a century of building vehicles and enough engineering PhDs to populate a minor sci-fi convention, the concept of “make engine go, not explode” would be pretty well sorted out. This is crankshaft and connecting rod failure, aka the internal organs of your engine deciding to go full Jackson Pollock under the hood.

But fear not! GM says they’re working on “special diagnostic tools” to test for bearing damage. Yes — they’re still developing the tools now, in 2025, after shipping over half a million vehicles with potentially defective engines.

Because who wouldn’t want to beta test their engine scanner after the recall?

So, what changed between Investigation #3 and #4?

Good question. We asked GM directly. Their response?

“The safety and satisfaction of our customers are the highest priorities for the entire GM team…”

Translation:

“We’d rather not answer that, but here’s a generic word smoothie.”

What really happened? The NHTSA — that’s the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration for those not fluent in bureaucratic acronyms — got tired of watching GM investigate itself into a coma and opened its own investigation. And miraculously, that’s when GM suddenly remembered how to issue a recall.

And just in case your engine miraculously passes the Mystery Meat Inspection, GM has a backup solution:

They’ll swap out the oil.

That’s right — if the engine seems okay, they’ll ditch the factory-recommended 0W-20 oil and top you off with thicker 0W-40, hoping that maybe more viscous sludge will hold things together like emotional duct tape.

It’s the mechanical equivalent of saying:

“Your roof’s probably fine. We’ll just use thicker paint.”

Let’s recap this masterclass in corporate accountability:

• Multiple years of complaints ignored ✅

• Four investigations later, recall finally happens ✅

• Engines burst into flames ✅ Yes — actual fires. Flames. Burny things. The kind you hope to see in a fireplace, not under your Cadillac Escalade while picking up groceries.

• Repair strategy? “Look at it, maybe fix it, probably just add thicker oil” ✅✅✅

But hey, at least they’re doing all of this in the name of “customer satisfaction and safety.”

Nothing says “we’ve got your back” like rolling the dice on catastrophic engine failure and sending you off with an oil change.

It really makes you wonder:

If Ford can build an F-150 that can power your house, why can’t GM build a Silverado that can make it to Costco without bursting into flames?

PLANE OVERBOARD:
$60 Million Navy Jet Falls Off Aircraft Carrier. Seriously.

In a story that sounds more like a deleted scene from Top Gun: The Bloopers, a $60 million F/A-18 Super Hornet was lost at sea after falling off the USS Harry S. Truman during towing operations inside the hangar bay. Yes, you read that right — the jet fell off the aircraft carrier and is now sitting somewhere at the bottom of the Red Sea.

According to the Navy, the carrier made a hard evasive turn to avoid incoming fire from Yemen’s Houthi rebels, who claim to have launched missiles and drones at the ship. That sharp maneuver apparently caused the tow crew to lose control of the aircraft, sending both the jet and its tow tractor overboard like very expensive bathtub toys.

One sailor, who was in the cockpit as per standard towing procedure, jumped out just in time. He sustained only minor injuries. All other personnel are accounted for.

“The aircraft and tow tractor were lost overboard,” the Navy said with impressive understatement, adding that an investigation is underway.

Former Navy captain Carl Schuster explained that carriers under attack often perform “zig-zag” maneuvers — alternating sharp 30- to 40-degree turns — to throw off incoming missiles. It’s a bit like driving a semi-truck like it’s a sports car. These turns can cause the massive 100,000-ton ship to lean dramatically, which, in this case, apparently turned the hangar into a slip ’n slide.

So to recap: A U.S. warship dodged a missile, banked hard, and in the process accidentally launched one of its own fighter jets into the sea — no enemy fire required. An F/A-18 is gone, and no, they don’t float.

NYC’s First Tape Fair Proves Walkmans Are Cool Again (Seriously)

This Sunday, Bushwick’s Selva gallery hosts the first-ever NYC Tape Fair, where more than a dozen vendors will sling vintage VHS tapes, cassette albums, and enough analog nostalgia to short-circuit a Spotify server.

Why now? Because, apparently, tapes are back. Big names like Taylor Swift and Charli XCX moved tens of thousands of cassette copies last year, according to Luminate — proving there’s no sound Gen Z won’t put on magnetic ribbon.

Ted Schmiedeler, 21, former station director at Columbia’s WKCR, is hyped. “When I listen to a cassette, I can’t skip songs. I’m stuck — and that’s good,” he said, proudly admitting he bought his Walkman on eBay like a true vintage warrior.

For under $20, fair co-founder Anthony Morton promises you can score some “amazing stuff” — or at least own a piece of America’s glittery, glitchy VHS past. Morton’s bringing backup too: the Found Footage Festival gang (veterans of The Onion and The Late Show) will be selling off duplicate weirdness from their trove of videos-that-should-not-exist.

Alongside indie stores like Paradise of Replica and Captured Tracks, the fair will also feature Brooklyn’s newly rebooted Night Owl Video and some deep crate-divers with tapes older than TikTok itself.

Tapes, Schmiedeler insists, are more than a fad. They’re survival tools. WKCR still spins rare cassettes on shows like “Raag Aur Taal,” because a lot of world music simply never made it to the internet — and, honestly, it sounds better without Spotify’s “Recommended for You” guessing badly.

Prediction: Tapes will become the next aesthetic flex. Walkmans dangling from belt loops will replace iPhones. Schmiedeler’s advice?

“Get in early.”

Because nothing says cutting-edge rebellion quite like rewinding by hand with a pencil.

1. Pope Clement I (died c. 99 AD)

Where buried: Originally buried in Crimea!

He was supposedly martyred by being tied to an anchor and thrown into the sea. Early Christians recovered his body and buried it there. His relics were later moved to Rome centuries later.

2. Pope Gregory V (died 999)

Where buried: St. Peter’s Basilica, but originally, he was temporarily buried elsewhere because of political chaos in Rome. His remains were later moved when stability returned.

3. Pope Sylvester II (died 1003)

Where buried: Archbasilica of St. John Lateran in Rome, not St. Peter’s.

He was a brilliant scholar and wanted to be buried at the official Cathedral of the Pope — St. John Lateran — rather than St. Peter’s.

4. Pope Clement II (died 1047)

Where buried: Bamberg Cathedral, Germany!

He was the only Pope ever buried north of the Alps. He died while traveling in Germany and was buried there according to his wish. His tomb is still in Bamberg today.

5. Pope Pius VII (died 1823)

Where buried:
Initially buried in the Vatican, but he spent many years imprisoned by Napoleon in France, and there were fears he might die and be buried in exile — which would have been extremely controversial. (He made it back in time.)

6. Pope John Paul I (died 1978)

Where buried:
Buried deep underground in a very simple tomb in the Vatican Grottoes, as he requested. His reign was so short (only 33 days!) that his wishes for a very humble funeral were honored, in contrast to the usual grandeur.