(You can almost imagine Jethro D. Vance swimmin’ in the cement pond)
Illustration by ChatGPT-5
With apologies to Flatt and Scruggs I present:
“The Ballad of Jed’s Cousin Don”
Come and listen to my story ’bout a man named Trump, Said the pool by his house looked like a D.C. dump. Then one day he decided to paint it blue, And suddenly he’d turned our water into goo. (Algae, that is. Pond scum. Green slime).
Well, the billionaires arrived to see what they could do. One suggested silver flakes, one suggested glue. RFK Jr.: “Ivermectin oughtta do the trick,” But the algae just got thicker and the smell got mighty sick. (Algae, that is. Pond scum. Green slime).
Trump blamed the mess on Democratic vandals, But after Epstein, he needed no more scandals. There were more arrests and arguments of state, But before too long the papers were callin’ it …
Water Gate. (Cover-ups, that is. Dirty tricks. Pond politics) Y’all come back now, ya hear?
I was sitting at the end of the bar at our local hangout, not sure if I wanted another drink or a better explanation of the world.
My pal Wired Al InCognito dropped a folded packet between us.
“Don’t,” I said.
“You haven’t even looked at it.”
“I’ve looked at enough documents.”
He smiled. “That’s what you said about the last one.”
I opened it anyway.
Project 8626.
“Where’d you get this?” I asked.
“Friend of a friend of an enemy of a friend,” he smiled.
“Nope,” I said, starting to fold it back up. “We’re not getting worked up again like we did over Project 2025.”
“We didn’t do anything last time,” Al said. “We read it. Nobody else did.”
“So what’s this supposed to mean, anyway? The Republicans have a grand plan for the year 8626? I don’t think even Trump can live that long.”
Al shook his head. “Don’t you know what ‘86’ means, paisan? In mob movies, ‘86’ is slang for getting rid of someone – eliminating them.”
“I’ve seen The Godfather at least 10 times and Goodfellas five,” I said. “Don’t remember hearing that number.”
“It’s not a number,” Al said. “It’s a command. Get rid of this mug. Eighty-six him.”
The bartender interrupted us. “Couldn’t help but overhear you guys. In restaurants, we use ‘86’ to mean we’re out of something – like fish, for example.”
“See,” Al said, grinning. “It means go sleep with the fishes.”
I couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “So the Republicans are going to get rid of the number 26.”
He glared at me. “The ’26 elections, dummy.”
That stopped me for a moment.
“Voting rights?” I said.
Al nodded. “You saw what the Supreme Court did this week.”
I started flipping through the document, stopping at a section titled “Getting Out the Vote.” It went on about how minorities and women shouldn’t have special voting rights. How race shouldn’t determine congressional district boundaries. How you should have to register under your name and sex assigned at birth. And maybe how we should even suspend primaries until their new rules are set.
“We used to talk about access for all,” I said.
“Back when the Voting Rights Act of 1965 was the point,” Al said.
“This feels different,” I said.
“How?”
“Less about getting people to vote,” I said. “More about making sure everything lines up once they do.”
Al raised his glass. “Now you’re getting it.”
I kept reading.
There was a section about authority. Another about providing security at the polls. Voter IDs to prevent rampant fraud.
“Funny thing,” I said.
“What?”
“There’s at least one justice up there who probably doesn’t get that robe if the Voting Rights Act doesn’t exist.”
“And he’s the loudest voice behind this,” Al said.
The tall, lanky guy two stools down gave a knowing laugh.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s not irony. That’s efficiency.”
I closed the packet halfway.
“This is the same playbook.”
Al shook his head. “No.”
“What?”
“It’s cleaner,” he said. “Less explaining. Besides, they’ve already done most of the stuff they said they’d do to us in the first one.”
“You’re saying this is the next version.”
“I’m saying they don’t need to write it all down anymore. The court is doing that for them.”
The guy two stools down raised his glass.
“You guys still think this is about stopping elections,” he said.
There was something about the way he said it – calm, precise – like he was used to being listened to.
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s about controlling everything around them.”
I turned to look at Al, as if to say, “Who is this guy.” Then I turned back. The stranger was gone. He glass was empty.
I stared at the packet, pushed it back across the bar toward Al.
“So what do we do?”
“Same as last time,” Al said.
“Which was?”
“Read it. Write it. Explain it.”
“And when nobody believes it because the president says he knows nothing about it?”
Al smiled.
“Then we’ll be right again later.”
We sat there watching the game, arguing about whether the digital umpire got that strike right.
“The people in Hungary showed us that voting still matters,” I said.
“Yeah? They realized what was at stake. Do we?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Al sat quietly for a moment. Then he looked back and me. It was no joke this time when he said:
“If we don’t, democracy may be sleeping with the fishes.”
(Note: Project 8626 isn’t real. Yet. ChatGPT-5 assisted in writing this column.)
We need something to make us happy right now so I asked my digital pal Wired Al if we could collaborate on song that could get us tapping our toes. When oil starts moving and explanations start dancing, it’s usually time to listen to the music.
This week’s melody comes courtesy of calypso, a genre designed in places where power strutted in uninvited, taking what it wanted. That tradition runs straight through Harry Belafonte, whose cheerful songs were often about theft, betrayal and the kind of authority that laughs while picking your pocket.
Fast-forward to now, where foreign policy increasingly sounds like a real estate pitch delivered through a bullhorn. Venezuelan oil is rebranded as a strategic necessity. Greenland becomes a punch line that won’t die. Colombia and Mexico are name-checked the way middle managers talk about “synergy” – vaguely, loudly, and with complete confidence that someone else will clean it up. None of this is framed as conquest. It’s framed as leadership. Boss moves. Executive decisions made while the band plays on.
Which brings us to the song. Belafonte’s Matilda, which was a folk tale about a thief who ran off with the money. But theft, like everything else, has been promoted. Today it wears a suit, demands applause, and insists the chorus keep singing.
So sing along with Harry and Wired Al on the chorus of Boss Donald.
OPENING CHORUS
ALL (cheerful, loud):
Boss Donald … Boss Donald … Boss Donald He take the oil and ran Venezuela.
Once again now!
Boss Donald … Boss Donald … Boss Donald, He take the oil and ran Venezuela
VERSE 1 — GOOD INTENTIONS
Five hundred slogans, friends, I lost: “Energy freedom” – cheap words, high cost.
LEAD (grinning): Boss Donald –
ALL: He take the oil and ran Venezuela.
Everybody now ..
(Boss Donald!) Sing out the chorus! (Boss Donald!) Sing a little louder!
ALL: Boss Donald,he take the oil and ran Venezuela
VERSE 2 — EMPIRE SHOPPING
Well, the oil was to buy “strength and pride,” A house, a flag, a border wide.
Said, “Trust me, friends, I have a plan,” Then waved a pen, said, “Watch out, Iran.”
ALL: Boss Donald, he take the oil and ran Venezuela
GREENLAND BREAK (classic calypso aside)
CROWD (shouting): Can we have Greenland?
LEAD (matter-of-fact): Not for sale.
ALL (right back to melody): Boss Donald, he take the oil and ran Venezuela.
VERSE 3 — LEGAL MAGIC
Well, the oil was just inside our bed, In “strategic reserves,” the lawyers said.
Buried deep in a footnote thread— Stamped temporary, signed, unread.
LEAD: Don’t you know—
ALL: Boss Donald, he found the oil and…
EVERYBODY: Ran Venezuela!
RHYTHM CHANT
(Boss Donald!) Oom-ba-locka-chimba! (Boss Donald!) Bring me talking points!
Boss Donald, he take the oil and ran Venezuela
VERSE 4 — CONSEQUENCES, MINIMIZED
Well, me friends, never to ask again, All me norms gone down the drain.
He may want Mexico, too. Colombia: We’re watching you.
ALL: Boss Donald, he take the oil and ran Venezuela
FINAL BUILD (soft → loud)
ALL (soft): Boss Donald… Boss Donald… Boss Donald…
He take the oil and ran Venezuela.
Sing it softer now…
Boss Donald, Boss Donald, Boss Donald, he take the oil and ran Venezuela
BIG FINISH
EVERYBODY (full voice): Boss Donald ,… sing out the chorus! Boss Donald, he take the oil and ran Venezuela!
CROWD (last shout): Can we have Greenland?
LEAD Still not for sale.
BAND CRASH. END.
Of course, you music historians know that calypso didn’t start as entertainment. It started as information, originating in Trinidad and Tobago in the 18th and 19th centuries among enslaved Africans. When colonial authorities banned drums and restricted speech, people did what humans always do under pressure: they found another channel. Rhythm replaced the drum. Melody replaced the shout. Lyrics carried news, warnings, insults and political commentary in plain sight, disguised as song.
And it’s appropriate today because Trinidad and Tobago are the southernmost Caribbean nations, just off the Venezuelan coast.
Perfectly placed to see empire coming before it arrived.
Boss Donald … he take the oil and ran Venezuela.
(Chat GPT-5 produced the illustration and collaborated on the column.)
Donald Trump packed a whole news cycle’s worth of contempt into 48 hours this week.
At a Bloomberg reporter questioning him about the Epstein files, he squealed: “Quiet. Quiet, piggy.”
At ABC’s Mary Bruce, who asked the Saudi crown prince about Jamal Khashoggi’s bonesaw murder, he fumed that she’d posed a “horrible, insubordinate, terrible question.”
And the murder itself? He brushed it aside with a shrug worthy of a man excusing a late FedEx delivery: “Things happen.”
Things happen?
He delivered that line with the jaunty air of a man humming show tunes — you could almost hear Cole Porter in the background, It Was Just One of Those Things, horrified but faintly in rhythm.
Which inspired me to score this week’s headlines in the only key this president seems to understand.
“JUST ONE OF THOSE THINGS (2025 VERSION)”
A Cole Porter Parody for a President Who Thinks Murder Is a Mood
Opening Verse
It was just one of those things, Just one of those crisp little stings, A murder was mentioned? He shrugged off the zings— Just, just, just … one of those things.
She just asked what the Epstein files bring, A standard reporter-type thing, But he replied with a flip, feathered fling— “Quiet, piggy,” he sings.
A reporter called “insubordinate,” too, Simply for doing her due— Pressing the prince for an answer he knew— Just one of those things.
Asked about Saudis and blame, Trump waved off the whole bloody shame— “Things happen,” he said, it’s all the same— It was just a murder-ring.
Counter-Chorus: The Ladies Reply
We’re the ladies he calls “piggy,” When the questions get too biggy, When the facts are looking jiggy And his temper starts to whine.
We’re the dames he calls “insub-’nate,” For a query he deems too great— But we’ve filed on worse than room-temp hate, So darling, we’re doing fine.
If he sneers we’re “not obedient,” Or our presence “inconvenient,” We’ll just file it as expedient— A quote for tomorrow’s lead.
For we learned long ago, sugar, Nothing rattles like a boor, sugar— And the truth, when we report, sugar, Is the only song we need.
Finale
So let’s toast those Oval zings, Those “terrible person” flings, When he shrugs off a murder as next to nothing— It was just one of those things,
Just one of those crazy Trump things.
Trump may think cruelty is performance, timing is policy, and assassination is a housekeeping issue. But there’s nothing musical about a leader who treats reporters as props, women as targets, and murder as a mood.
Cole Porter wrote about romance, regret, and the complicated grace of human folly. Trump offers none of those things — just the easy indifference of power and the shrug of someone who believes accountability is for other people.
And yet he’s right about one thing:
Things do happen. Especially when leaders forget that words have consequences — and voters decide they’ve had just about enough of this particular song
(ChatGPT-5 contributed to the editing of this column and created the illustration.)
Melania’s gone missing, the plaster’s flying, and Rudy’s toupee never stood a chance.
By Al InCogito and Stuart Warner
WASHINGTON — The last time “Ballroom Blitz” blasted across America, Nixon was in the White House and polyester was a political statement. Now the song’s back — only this time, the ballroom’s real and the blitz is happening at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
They’re calling it “renovation,” but from where I’m standing it looks more like an East Wing Blitz. Bulldozers at dawn. Curtains flapping like surrender flags. One aide says the goal is “a return to traditional values.” Another says the gold leaf’s already on order.
Trump, beaming in a hard hat that matches his tie, shouts into the camera: “We’re gonna open this place up! Make room for the People’s Ballroom! Everyone’s invited — except, you know, the people.”
Somewhere a band starts tuning up. It’s not democracy’s funeral march; it’s Sweet’s glam-rock classic from 1973, revived for “Wayne’s World.” Only now the lyrics have changed.
East Wing Blitz
(to the tune of “Ballroom Blitz” by Sweet)
[Intro] Are you ready, D.C.? A-one, a-two, a-you-know-who!
[Verse 1 – The Demolition Man] He’s wearin’ a hard hat, swingin’ his fists, Yellin’, “I built it all, now I’m wreckin’ this!” Reporters scatter as the marble cracks — “Get the cameras rollin’, I’m takin’ it back!”
[Pre-Chorus] And the crowd starts yellin’, And the bricks start smellin’ of gilt and spray-tan mist —
[Chorus 1] And the White House shakes! (shakes!) And the Trump tape plays! (plays!) And the MAGA hats catch the rays — It’s the East Wing Blitz! Yeah, the East Wing Blitz!
[Verse 2 – Melania Missing] Well the dust starts flyin’ and the walls cave in, There’s gold leaf glitterin’ in the wind, Where’s the lady with the frozen grin? She’s long gone-ya — Melania!
Packed her bags for Mar-a-Lago, Left a note that said, “I told you so.” Now the bulldozers roll in rows — Say goodbye to the East Wing show!
[Pre-Chorus 2] And the interns scatter, And the chandeliers shatter, And the Secret Service checks their lists —
[Chorus 2] ’Cause the walls all quake! (quake!) And the spin can’t fake! (fake!) And the headlines start to break — It’s the East Wing Blitz! Oh yeah, the East Wing Blitz!
[Bridge – Trump Solo Breakdown] He says, “We’re renovatin’ bigly, folks, it’s art!” (“Sir, that’s a historical part …”) “Fake news! I own this place, okay?” Then the ceiling falls on Rudy’s toupee.
[Final Chorus & Tag] And the press corps shakes! (shakes!) And the truth outrakes! (aches!) While the band keeps playin’ his greatest mistakes — It’s the East Wing Blitz! The East Wing Blitz!
Yeah, the plaster flies, the columns split — Has anybody seen Melania yet? (Has anybody seen Melania yet?) It’s the East Wing Blitz! The East Wing Blitz!
When the amps fade, the rubble still smolders and the nation hums the chorus under its breath. Another day, another building down, another slogan up. And somewhere behind the caution tape, a lone staffer whispers the only truth that fits the rhythm:
“Democracy isn’t dead — it’s just under renovation.”
The news sounds more like a carnival these days, so with apologies to Neil Diamond,’s “Brother Love’s Travelin’ Salvation Show,” let’s all sing along to …
Dr. Trump’s Travelin’ Epstein Sideshow
Hot September night, the lights hanging down, Reporters all circling, like dogs for a treat.
The Big Top flaps by the edge of town, Grooving to the bop of Kid Rock’s beat.
Step right in where the spotlights glow, Welcome to Dr. Trump’s Epstein Sideshow.
It’s Trump, Dr. Trump, say — Dr. Trump’s Travelin’ Epstein Sideshow (it’s now my party), Pick up the babies and grab the young ladies, And everyone goes — ‘cause everyone knows Dr. Trump’s show.
The room gets suddenly still and when you’d almost bet You could hear yourself sweat, he walks in. The escalator’s broke, but he still takes the mic, “Don’t take a-seat-a-min-uh-foin,” he cries. “Trust me instead, though I can’t spell why. Skip the safe pill, try bleach or the worm paste.” Epstein’s ghost nods — “fear has no taste.”
Every ear in the place is on him, Starting soft and slow like a small earthquake. And when he lets go, half the Congress shakes.
It’s Trump, Dr. Trump say — Dr. Trump’s Travelin’ Epstein Sideshow (it’s still my party), Pick up the babies and grab the young ladies, And everyone goes …
He thundered at Kimmel, “You’re finished, you’re through!” But the ratings shot higher — a punchline or two. And back of the tent, where the dark truths reside, Epstein still whispers — “enjoy the ride.”
The crowd chants louder, the spotlight’s bright, But the shadows rule the darker night. It’s Trump, Dr. Trump say, Dr. Trump’s Travelin’ Epstein Sideshow.
Chorus (call-and-response) Hallelujah, brothers (halle-hallelujah), Reach out your hands (for the contribution jar). Hallelujah, brothers (halle-hallelujah), Epstein’s still there, though they sayi he’s afar.
Finale Take my hand in yours, walk with me this day, But don’t check the logs or the names, just pray. In my heart I know, we will never stray, ‘Cause the tent stays packed till the lies decay.
It’s Trump, Dr. Trump, say — Dr. Trump’s Travelin’ Epstein Sideshow!
(ChatGPT-5 contributed to writing and editing of these parody lyrics and produced the illustration.)
We may not agree on how to pronounce Ghislaine Maxwell, but we can agree that America needs jobs.
Still, we’re not entirely sure we’re on board with President Trump’s latest plan to boost his employment numbers and stimulate the economy:
Work release for child molesters.
You were probably as stunned as we were to learn that convicted sexual predator Ghislaine Maxwell will be granted work-release privileges from her country club, er, minimum-security prison in Texas
And like us, you might also be wondering what Jeffrey Epstein’s former personal groomer is qualified to do.
Never fear. The Department of Justice – whose new slogan is Come for the law, stay for the loopholes – has already circulated some promising opportunities for Ms. Maxwell.
To wit (we hope):
Help Wanted — No Experience Necessary (But It Helps if You Know Prince Andrew)
WHITE HOUSE TOUR GUIDE Lead visitors through history’s halls while dodging inconvenient questions. Excellent opportunity for someone used to explaining away closed doors.
MAR-A-LAGO DOCUMENTS LIBRARIAN Dewey Decimal skills optional. Must be able to work in 98-degree heat, tolerate ketchup stains on government property, and shelve nuclear secrets between Danielle Steel novels.
GIRL SCOUT CAMP COUNSELOR Background check waived for “senior donors.” Applicants should have a working knowledge of s’mores, maritime law and plausible deniability.
PRESIDENTIAL FITNESS TEST COORDINATOR Assess physical health without triggering indictments under the 25th Amendment. Must excel at counting push-ups that never actually happen. Cheating expected on golf scores.
LIBRARY STORY HOUR LEADER
Since the conservatives don’t want drag queens reading to their children, how about a real pedophile?
LOCKER ROOM COMPLIANCE OFFICER Specializing in “hands-on evaluations” for the girls’ volleyball team and providing excuses for any visiting dignitaries found hiding in the showers.
ISLAND CONCIERGE Serve high-net-worth clientele on a private island. Discretion is key. Must be able to mix cocktails, book flights and not testify before Parliament. Works remotely. Very remotely.
CRUISE DIRECTOR Lead luxury yacht excursions for billionaires and heads of state. Must enjoy long walks on the deck, offshore banking, and pretending you don’t recognize anyone from the FBI’s Most Wanted list.
NECKWARE SALES ASSOCIATE Hawk the Epstein brand, making sure they are tied jusssssst right.
But the standout gig for Ms. Maxwell might be:
SPECIAL ENVOY TO THE ALASKA SUMMIT Keep U.S.–Russia relations toasty by ensuring both autocrats get exactly what they want. Handle scheduling, cocktail, and “personal diplomacy” with discretion. Must be comfortable in cold climates and warmer situations.
Picture it: Trump and Putin in leather chairs. Mad Max refills their glasses, smoothing over awkward silences.
TRUMP It’s Guh-lane. Everybody says Guh-lane.
PUTIN Nyet. Jee-lon.
TRUMP Guh-lane!
PUTIN Zhuh-lon!
Then, singing in harmony
“You say Zhuh-lon, I say par-don
“I say Guh-lane, you say Ukraine.
“Zhuh-lon, par-don
“Guh-lane, Ukraine.
“Let’s call the whole war off.”
(beat)
“Nah!!! Just joking.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: If this travesty allows Maxwell to earn money while ostensibly serving her 20-year sentence, let’s hope all of it goes to her hundreds of victims. (ChatGPT-5 was used in producing this column.)
(sung to the tune of Gilligan’s Island, with bonus commentary by Al InCognito)
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale A tale of a tragic flip, That started with some Epstein files And wrecked the MAGA ship.
With Kash Patel and Pam Bondi, too, And Trump the Skipper bold, The loyal crew had pledged they’d name The predators untold.
By Al InCognito, Captain of the Ship of Tools
They said the files were coming. They said the truth would set them free. Instead, they got stranded on Epstein Island.
For years, Trumpworld kept promising the Big Reveal: the files, the tapes, the takedowns. Jeffrey Epstein was the original QAnon campfire tale — the evil at the center of the liberal universe, the sick proof that only Trump could “drain the swamp” of child-trafficking elites.
The fact that Trump was photographed with Epstein, partied with Epstein, and once praised his taste for “beautiful women… on the younger side”? Minor detail. Surely, his disciples said, that would all be explained — once the files were released.
Except now, they’re not being released. The Department of Justice says there’s no blackmail list, no conspiracy, and no coverup. Just suicide by embarrassment.
So now we find ourselves marooned on an island of conspiracy, in a spit-com starring Trump as the Skipper, Pam Bondi as Ginger, Karoline Leavitt as Mary Ann and Elon Musk as the billionaire with everyone as his wife. There are no Professors on this crew, but there’s an abundance of Gilligans trying to understand what just happened as the MAGA Minnow crashed ashore.
SECOND VERSE
The MAGA crew grew restless fast, “The list was promised here!” But all they got was Bondi’s note: “There’s nothing left to clear.”
No client list, no smoking gun, No Clintons to arrest … Now MAGA’s yelling “Deep State lies!” And Trump’s become the guest.
The Knives Come Out
Bondi – the attorney general hand-picked for this mission – now says there’s nothing to see here. Kash Patel, promoted to FBI chief on the Epstein promise, suddenly finds himself in possession of … nothing. Dan Bongino, a man who once sold brain pills between Epstein rants, is threatening to quit over the lack of credible child-abuse content. (A sentence no one should ever have to write.)
Musk, the richest divorced guy in human history, claimed Trump was in the Epstein files – then deleted the post after getting hit with something even more powerful than the truth: no tax breaks for his Teslas.
Trump himself tried to hand-wave the whole thing away: “Are people still talking about this guy?” he asked, blinking like a man who just saw his own reflection in a cell mirror.
And then, like clockwork, he rage-posted a 12-car pileup of words blaming Obama, Hillary, Biden, JFK, MLK, and the laptop from hell – all for writing the Epstein Files, which he claims don’t exist, but were also faked to hurt him, even though they didn’t, which is why they were hidden.
Still with me?
THIRD VERSE
Trump screamed of files Obama wrote, Of Comey’s deep-state sting, Of JFK and laptop plots And Hillary’s email thing.
He begged for calm, but Musk said “nah,” And posted once again: “Trump said Epstein six damn times – Release the files, my friend.”
MAGA V. MAGA
What’s truly poetic is this: Trump is now being eaten alive by the very conspiracy he fed. He taught his followers to sniff out child molesters in every shadow — and now they think he is hiding the monsters.
For once, I agree with Michael Flynn: “The Epstein affair is not going away.” Because it never was about Epstein. It was about power, projection, and weaponized paranoia. And let’s not forget that a lot of young people got hurt on this island of the damned as you sing the sad, final lyrics.
EPILOGUE VERSE
So this is the tale of MAGA’s fall, Of files that went astray, Of promises and QAnon All drifting far away.
With Musk and Flynn and Bondi, too, And Trump who lost the plot, They searched for proof of others’ sins— Then realized what they got …
Here on … EP-stein’s Island!
(ChatGPT 4.0 produced the illustration and assisted in writing the column.)
This picture was worth 1,000 words … or at least enough for an Al InCognito column:
Three kids — two boys and a girl, ages 9 to 12 — zip-tied outside a courthouse in San Antonio. Their wrists bound like they’d stole state secrets, not shown up for a legal hearing they didn’t understand. One had a backpack. One had no shoelaces. None had a lawyer.
And I thought: Summer camp.
Not real summer camp, of course. Not the kind with bug spray and canoes and that one weird counselor who always brought his guitar to lunch. No, this was the kind of “camp” designed by people who call January 6 a “Capitol tour” and believe waterboarding builds character.
The kind of folks who look at a zip-tied 12-year-old and think: Junior’s learning responsibility!
They probably hand out merit badges for “Failure to Appear” and “Looking Suspiciously Honduran.”
Welcome to Campa Gestapa™ — America’s hottest new summer program, where kids are encouraged to flee violence, then punished for surviving.
Imagine the camp brochure:
Camp Rules:
No Parents Allowed: Unless they’re being deported with you. Family separation is so 2018; now we do family detentions.
No Legal Representation: Lawyers are like sunscreen — unnecessary and frowned upon.
No Volleyball: Seriously, you might get arrested if you even go there; ask Marcelo Gomes.
Activities
Arts & Crafts: Create your own I-94 bracelet using genuine zip ties. Just like the San Antonio kids — future felons, obviously.
Storytime: Campers gather ‘round the fire as ICE agents read from the U.S. Immigration and Nationality Act. Spoiler alert: Everyone gets deported in the end, no matter what the Supreme Court says.
Medical Mystery Hour: Guess who’s the kid with cancer! Bonus points if you can identify the child deported without meds.
Deportation Dodgeball: Where the balls are metaphors for due process, and you’re always out.
Borderline Bingo: Match kids to countries they haven’t seen in years!
MAGA Indoctrination Bonfire: Sing patriotic hymns while Counselor Cletus reads aloud from The Art of the Deal.
And everyone’s favorite…
Hide and Seek:
A camp classic! Except you’re always “it,” and ICE agents are the ones hiding — in plain clothes, outside immigration courts, ready to scoop you up post-hearing. Remember how we used to shout “Ollie ollie oxen free!” to say it was safe to come out?
Not here.
Here, it means: We already got your mom.
Fun linguistic fact: not surprisingly, some say the phrase comes from the German “alle, alle auch sind frei” — “all, all, also are free.”
Yeah. That tracks.
And I’m sure the camp songs are fun,
My favorite as a kid was a little ditty by the great Allan Sherman.
It’s still a hit, but the lyrics may have changed:
Campa Gestapa (To the tune of “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah”)
Where’s my momma? Where’s my papa? I’m all alone now at Camp Gestapa.
ICE told me I would get some recreation, Instead they threatened me with early deportation.
Take me home, oh, Momma, Papa!
Take me home, I hate Gestapa!
Don’t leave me in the cages where
Kids vanish like we’re never there.
Even the music has stopped being funny.
But all the unhappy campers at Gestapa can take comfort from the words of wisdom from Counselor Joni Ernst:
“Well, we’re all going to die.”
ChatGPT 4.0 contributed to the writing and editing of his column and the illustration.
Just when you think we’ve reached peak parody, President Trump finds a way to add English subtitles to Triumph of the Will and call it immigration reform.
This week, his administration granted refugee status — yes, I said, REFUGEE STATUS — to 59 white South Africans. Apparently, they’re fleeing racial discrimination, land redistribution, and the unbearable hardship of not being in charge for five full minutes.
Let’s be clear: America has rejected pregnant Honduran women, Afghan allies, and climate refugees who had the audacity to float here on doors. But give us your pale, your privileged, your subtly sunburned yearning to feel relevant again — and we’ll fire up the welcome committee faster than you can say “reverse racism.”
This isn’t just immigration policy. It’s cosplay for colonizers.
Forget asylum seekers from war-torn regions. We’ve got a new standard:
Do you speak Afrikaans?
Do you miss “the good old days” when your driveway was longer than your neighbor’s lifespan?
Do you have a family crest, but no Wi-Fi?
“Congratulations. You’re now a victim.”
And don’t be surprised if next week we open the floodgates for:
A lost colony of Nazis from Patagonia
Confederate holdouts from Brazil
Or the original cast of Friends, seeking sanctuary from diversity
Because this isn’t about helping the oppressed — it’s about helping the dispossessed gentry.
The tantrum class.
The people who think Cry, the Beloved Country was too hard on the landowners.
Maybe we can fly them here on Trump’s new ride: a $400 million luxury jet from Qatar with nine bathrooms, including several bidets. A gift, a loan, a bribe? Who knows. But it’s big enough to carry a full choir of white grievance and still have room for a tanning bed and an indictment printer.
And yes, Qatar. Spelled with a Q that doesn’t even need a U. Just like Trump, these people are too rich to follow the rules, too fragile to be questioned.
What’s next? A South African resettlement office in Boca Raton? A Boer burger franchise? A MAGA safari in the Ozarks?
Of course, we’ve already granted asylum, or sainthood, to the biggest white South African of them all: Elon Musk.
He fled the oppression of apartheid-era emerald mines to bring us flamethrowers, Dogecoin, and a social media platform so broken that users say they’d rather buy a newspaper. He’s living proof that if you arrive early enough, buy a few billion-dollar companies, and name your children after algebra problems — we’ll not only let you stay, we’ll treat you like a prophet.
So maybe this is the new immigration policy:
Give us your moguls, your memelords, your minor Bond villains.
Especially if they’re white, rich, and deeply misunderstood by “woke science.”
Because under Trump, refugee status doesn’t mean you were in danger, it just means you missed being in charge.
And nothing says crisis like having to share the country club.
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