If there ever was any doubt, there’s none now. There’ll be no justice, no mercy, and no place to hide so long as Trump, Vance, Musk, and their coterie of bootlickers, wannabes, and volunteer thugs are running things. Act accordingly.
Apocalypsos
Electrons and Promises
Money universalized the power of wealth, endowed it with the freedom to extend itself beyond the organizational capacity of soi disant divine monarchies and pious religious latifundia. For better of worse, it drove the ascendancy of the human species to total dominance over all creation. The principle of liquidity which money embodied was a revelation that even Saul of Tarsus would have found transformational, had he not been paying more attention to the delusions of religious fervor than the reality under his donkey’s hooves. Money was a store of value that was easily transferable, infinitely divisible, that permitted superb transactional granularity—a reliable accounting of who had what, and even more importantly, who owed what to whom—this was really what gave rise to the anthropocene.
In the beginning, money was gold and promises, then it was paper and promises. Now it’s capital accounting, which is to say electrons and promises. The bitcoin boo-yah boys understand everything about electrons, but nothing about promises, or the need to keep them if you want the world of human beings to remain stable.
God, or somebody, help us all.
More Historical Rhyming
Trump and Musk are about to do Social Security what Jimmy Hoffa and Frank Fitzsimmons did to the Teamsters’ pension fund. But not to worry, the Republicans will wring their hands for you, if only on those rare occasions when they’re not busy licking Trump’s boots or praising Musk’s moral clarity. And the Democrats? Well, I hear they’ll be glad to help you look under the couch cushions, but only after you guarantee them 50% of what you find.
A MAGA Bestiary
Cruelty, venality, mendacity, sanctimony, ambition, and greed. Also self-delusion. Also ignorance.
Greg Abbott
Samuel Alito
Steve Bannon
William Barr
Maria Bartiromo
Lauren Boebert
Pam Bondi
Don Bongino
Dan Caine
Tucker Carlson
Kenneth Chesebro
Tom Cotton
Ted Cruz
Paul Dans
Ron DeSantis
John Eastman
Tulsi Gabbard
Newt Gingrich
Rudy Giuliani
Neil Gorsuch
Paul Gosar
Lindsey Graham
Marjorie Taylor Greene
Alina Habba
Sean Hannity
Josh Hawley
Pete Hegseth
Kay Ivey
Mike Johnson
Jim Jordan
Brett Kavanaugh
Robert Kennedy Junior
Jared Kushner
Karoline Leavitt
Brad Little
Nancy Mace
Mitch McConnell
John McEntee
Linda McMahon
Christopher Miller
Katie Miller
Stephen Miller
Stephen Moore
Elon Musk
Peter Navarro
Kristi Noem
Bill O’Reilly
Mehmet Oz
Kash Patel
Mike Pence
Vivek Ramaswamy
John Ratcliffe
Tate Reeves
John Roberts
Kevin Roberts
Marco Rubio
Rick Scott
Jeff Sessions
Roger Severino
Roger Stone
Enrique Tarrio
Clarence Thomas
Ginni Thomas
Donald Trump
Donald Trump Jr.
Eric Trump
Ivanka Trump
Lara Trump
Melania Trump
Tiffany Trump
Tommy Tuberville
J.D. Vance
Russell Vought
Ryan Walters
A Quasi-biblical Revelation
I’ve never been in any doubt about the depth of Donald Trump’s depravity, but I’m familiar enough with German history to understand why half the country voted for him, and why our titans of industry rushed to provide him with the means to fulfill his vile ambitions. I am surprised, though, at some of the people I’m belatedly finding in the miles-long line of fools waiting to kiss his ass.
It’s not just the hypocritical gasbags who’ve been lecturing us for decades about ethics, morality, courage, manliness, and the sanctity of free enterprise. Everyone knows that commoditized list of virtues by heart, and all of us know at least one person who’s made a career out of preaching from it. It’s not as shocking to me as it should be to see them now suddenly burning their own books, scrubbing their own mottoes off the walls, and looking down at their shoes when I ask them why.
No, the people who’ve surprised me are those I’d come to know as decent, compassionate, human beings, who now refuse to defend the defenseless, who turn away now from those in the greatest need with a shrug, with platitudes, with lectures about choosing one’s fights, with supposedly sage advice that one must be patient, that this too shall pass. This won’t do, this won’t do at all. If we want to keep calling the United States the Land Of the Free and the Home Of the Brave without being consumed by shame, this temporizing, compromising, agreeing that black is white, that President Zelenskyy should wear a suit when invited to lick the tyrant’s boots—all this nonsense will have to go. We need to do better. A whole lot better.
Unbidden Bits—February 28, 2025
So now there can be no doubt whatsoever that we’ve finally found a more wretched hive of scum and villainy than Mos Eisley spaceport—1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Trump and Vance in full cry—it’s impossible to imagine a more vile, dishonorable display than they put on today in attacking a man whose mere presence as a supplicant rather than an honored guest is itself enough to shame them. This is a day which will live even longer in infamy than December 7, 1941.
How It’s Going
Politics as usual hasn’t been as usual lately as it used to be. Were he still among the living, even our 20th century Nostradamus, Mr. Orwell, might be surprised to learn that Oceania has finally and definitively lost its war with Eurasia, and is presently hiding the rump of itself under the skirts of a demented real estate developer with delusions of grandeur. Definitely not the Big Brother Mr. Orwell promised us, this one, although the red hat rubes hardly seem to have noticed. Eastasia, meanwhile, is licking its chops, oblivious to its own vulnerabilities, doing its unctuous best to look as inscrutable as western racists expect.
A couple of degrees more of global warming, a nuclear exchange or two between idiot regimes, and even Elon Musk and his sycophant armies might find themselves roasting rats-on-a-stick over burning rubber tires somewhere where angels fear to tread. That, my fellow deeply concerned citizens of the First World, is actually how it’s going, and you didn’t even have to sit through a commercial to hear about it.
What Stays in Vegas
I could hear blast door bolts slotting home behind me, but there wasn’t any use trying to pretend I’d come through before it closed. The woman standing next to the captain’s chair in the center of the hide—short hair, sand camo, half-drawn sidearm—was looking straight at me, her you gotta be fucking kidding me reaction turning lethal before either of us could blink. Except for the obvious crew at stations to my left—I counted six of them—the hide seemed to be jammed all the way to the back wall with raggedies of every age and condition, probably survivors brought down from the ruins of the Strip.
“How the hell?”
“Grepped by your portal north of the Wynn—what’s left of it anyway. You were after someone else?”
“Wasn’t us.”
“Unfunny either way. Any idea who hates us both?”
“At this point? Damned near everyone. Where’s the rest of you?”
“Name, rank, and serial number, all you get.”
The sidearm was all the way out now, the business end glowing. “Think again.”
The air around me rippled briefly like a stone tossed into a pond, and suddenly my whole crew was formed up between us, the better part of a heavy weapons squad already in full on search and destroy mode. “Hold!” I shouted, and well-trained fingers came off half a dozen triggers. “Make a hole.” Pushing a couple of nasty-looking muzzles aside, I stepped to the front. “This is the rest of us. I don’t know why we’re here. Do you?”
She shook her head slowly, the sidearm already back in its holster. “So now what?”
“I’m thinking what our betters call ‘a frank exchange of views.’”
“Works for me. Let me get these people someplace first.”
I nodded. She unshipped a handheld and tapped at it briefly. Somewhere beyond the huddled masses at the far end of the hide an airlock began to cycle. “Okay everybody, 20 at a time into the lock. Gunnery Sergeant Walker there will monitor. There’s secure shelter at the farside end of the tunnel—beds, food, water, and sanitary facilities including showers. Changes of clothing will be handed out as and when. Anyone needing medical attention or prescription meds see the corpsman on duty. We’ll get you back topside as soon as we can.”
Took a while, but eventually there were just us grunts in the captain’s hide—half hers, half mine. We signaled them to stand down while we were off sorting out our uneasy truce.
Her ready room, built for speed, not for comfort. A table with four chairs, a sitrep holo over the center that blanked as we entered. She gestured. We sat. We talked.
“You are?”
“California. 1st Armored Cav. You?”
“Texas. 415th Force Recon out of Corpus Christi. Also a handful of stray Hoosiers and Jayhawkers from that KC sigint battalion got mauled last month up around Pahrump. Some awful shit went down there. Here too. I used to fly over from home with the sigo for a show, now I hate the fucking place.”
“Not really a place anymore, though, is it? Not much left but latrines, body bags, and rubble. I figure we’re just about done here. Some papers’ll get signed, some razor wire’ll get unrolled, a few mines and flagpoles planted. Then the fuckers in charge’ll declare it a demilitarized zone, and anybody left alive’ll finally get to go back home and start over.”
“Yeah, probably got in mind going all ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ for the coastal stringers. Not this time, though, not with all the broken parts getting shipped back home to the folks.”
“So…wasn’t you grepped us?”
“Wasn’t. I been asking myself who pulled it and why, but I keep coming up with nada. If it wasn’t my people, and it wasn’t yours, who the hell else has the mooch to grep half a fucking infantry squad halfway across a city this size with most of what’s left of it still under fire? You want a beer?”
“You got beer?”
“Liberated a dozen cases of longnecks a week ago from a half-wrecked convenience store behind our perimeter. Been doling them out for good behavior, but I’ve still got a dozen or so left. So yeah, I got beer.”
“Bring it, then, and let’s see can we figure this shit out.”
We never did figure it out. I said maybe some do-gooder NGO put us together on purpose, see if a couple of ground pounders’d make love not war. She said no fucking way, just blind luck we didn’t waste each other on sight. We were still scratching our heads at 1650, when both our handhelds started to flash. Armistice signed, all hostilities to cease at 1700. And that was that.
Around sundown, I raised one of the last two longnecks, knocked it against hers. “I hope you’re right about this time being different. Sad we have to live in hope—probably what guarantees we stay at the bottom of the foodchain where we are. Hope or no hope, I’m thinking I oughta get my people up top before reporting in. Just in case.”
She upended her bottle, drained it, slammed it down on the table next to mine. “Until the next one, then, Califa. ¡Que te vaya bien!”
Equivalencies

What we might get if we were to draw comparisons the way the Washington Post or New York Times does. Too bad their digital editions can’t be used to wrap fish in, or line the bottoms of bird cages.
All Your Base Are Now Belong To Us
Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen.
Der Musk maschiert mit mutig festem Schritt
Kam’raden, die Wokist’n vernichtet haben
marschier’n im Geist in unsern Reihen mit.
(For those of my readers who don’t know German, this is a contemporary parody of the 90 year-old Nazi party anthem das Horst-Wessel-Lied.) In English, it goes more or less like this:
The flag held high, ranks firmly closed together!
Musk marches on with bravely stiffened stride
Comrades who’ve done away with Wokeists
march with us in our ranks in spirit now.
GERMAN CITIZENS PLEASE NOTE: Reproducing these lyrics is, with few exceptions, currently illegal in the Federal Republic of Germany. In the US our laws are more permissive. My apologies to the citizens of the Federal Republic, but given the current constitutional crisis in my own country, I felt the need to fiddle with them here.