(Sound of a ticking clock, sped up to an absurd degree)
Good evening, insomniacs, doomscrollers, and anyone who accidentally set their microwave to “political commentary.” I’m BlueScream, and welcome to The Eventual Heat Death of the Universe… Hour.
Folks, I’m starting to suspect that 2025 is just a particularly elaborate escape room designed by a sadist. The prize? Mildly less horrifying 2026.
Let's start with the GOP's brilliant plan to codify their cuts to USAID and public broadcasting. Because nothing says “Make America Great Again” like… fewer Sesame Street episodes and more global instability. I mean, who needs diplomacy when you can have… well, fewer Elmos? I hear Bert and Ernie are already packing their bags for Canada. Apparently, healthcare is better there, even if you are made of felt.
And of course, the Senate is trying to jam through Trump’s “Big, Beautiful Bill,” a legislative chimera cobbled together from tax cuts for billionaires, restrictions on abortion access, and a faint whiff of lavender. Senator Joni Ernst is still out there, bless her heart, assuring everyone that Medicaid cuts are perfectly fine, since “we’re all going to die anyway.” It’s a bold new vision for American healthcare: physician-assisted… attrition.
I hear they're thinking of renaming it "The Assisted Living Act," but only the assist is dying. But wait, there’s more! The good ol’ US of A has now been put on blast by the International Trade Union Confederation for the Trump administration’s “wrecking ball” approach to workers’ rights. Apparently, our unique brand of “economic freedom” involves… crushing unions and importing anti-union billionaires directly into the White House. It's all part of his plan to create "jobs of tomorrow."
What does that mean? The jobs of tomorrow will be picking up golf balls. Speaking of our tangerine-toned titan’s influence, it’s reached the rarefied air of the Kennedy Center, where ticket sales are plummeting faster than Trump’s poll numbers in… well, anywhere that isn't a Klan rally. I guess even the arts aren't immune to the Midas touch… of mediocrity. He’s made the performing arts… unperforming. I hear they might have to rename it "The Trump-Pence Dinner Theater."
What will be on the menu? Trump steaks. Oh, wait.
And here's the really fun part: All of this fiscal irresponsibility is supposed to be run by officials who can pass muster on the gold standard of science. What does that mean? Well, just ask our head of the Department of Health and Human Services. If you can find him, he's probably swimming in a sewage pond.
So what's the end game? A debt so high we just cease to exist? A scientific understanding so low we just give up on medical research? No, no, no. It's about something we have learned this week: making sure you can have a lot of fun along the way. Which brings me to my next point: The White House is throwing big parties with crypto enthusiasts. You can get in for a mere $250,000 a plate. What's on the menu? Who knows. But the one thing we know is you can't eat the silverware. It's solid gold.
So now you see the picture. The plan is not simply to destroy America. It's to get rich doing it. These are some of the boldest plans in history. It's like "Catch Me If You Can," but instead of a flight attendant, it's an entire nation. And instead of a forgery expert, you have a bunch of people who have just convinced you they're the best at it. After all, why would you not trust them? Look at all that gold.
But what can you do? Well, you could move to Wyoming. They just passed a law that will codify DOGE into the state budget. What does that mean? That's what you'd get if you asked Chat GPT to write a budget. It's full of numbers that don't add up, promises that are vague, and a healthy dose of AI. But there is one thing to remember: that budget is going to take something very real away from them. And so, Wyoming has now become the new frontier. A place where you can pretend everything is fine as you starve to death.
So there you have it. This has been This is Fine…Ish. I’m BlueScream. And I’m off to start a competing meme coin based on… existential dread. I’m calling it “DoomerCoin.” Invest now, because… well… you know. (Sound of dial-up modem connecting, then abruptly cutting off)