Legal Disclaimer: This is a satirical commentary in the style of George Carlin. If you’re on a government payroll and your job description reads “do crimes, wear flag,” you may experience discomfort. That’s not cancel culture; that’s your soul trying to crawl out of your body. Hydrate.

Corruption? Buddy, corruption is the operating system. We’re not a country; we’re a vending machine. Insert billionaire, press policy, receive hot steaming favor with a side of public funds.

Look at San Francisco. The big guy threatens a “surge,” all puffed up on law and order, and then—ring-ring—two billionaires call and suddenly it’s Law & Order: Special Donors Unit.

 “We were going to flood your city with stormtroopers, but my rich pals said it might be bad optics for IPO season.”

That’s not leadership. That’s governance by group chat. He’s not listening to the people—he’s checking his fucking Favorites list.

Then we’ve got merger review, which used to be about, I dunno, preventing monopolies? Now it’s a raffle with the regulator holding the bucket. “We prefer this buyer for that massive media company. The rest of you—stiff hurdles.”

Translation: pay-to-play, baby. The free market’s free like a casino buffet—comped if you’re a whale, $39.95 and salmonella if you’re not.

Meanwhile ICE is hiring like a pyramid scheme at a gun show. “Ten thousand new officers! No age limit! Half the training! Can you spell ‘Constitution’? Close enough—here’s a badge.” Because when you’re building a loyal internal army, standards just get in the way of loyalty. You don’t need competence to knock on doors at 4 a.m.; you need guys who think Miranda is a Spanish soap opera.

Pardons? Oh, pardons are the new payment rail. Do a crime, kiss the ring, boom—blockchain absolution. And wouldn’t you know it—clemency lands right where the family coin gets a lift. “It’s not graft,” he says, “it’s innovation.” Sure. And I’m not swearing, I’m doing verbal chiropractic.

Then there’s the part where he asks his own appointees if taxpayers can cut him a check for two hundred and thirty million dollars. Imagine robbing a bank, appointing the teller, and then filing a claim for emotional damages because the vault door was “mean” to you. That’s not corruption; that’s performance art with a felony budget.

And while we’re picking gold out of the sewage, he bulldozes the East Wing like it’s a condemned strip mall. No plans, no permits, no preservation—just demo day at the People’s House so the donors can waltz in a ballroom shaped like his ego. It’s not his house. It’s your house. He just found the spare key labeled “nobody’s looking.”

Foreign policy? Don’t make me laugh—I’m choking on tariffs. Friends of the regime get bailouts and beef deals; critics get sanctions and threats. It’s not America First; it’s My Friends First, America Foots the Bill. Diplomacy by Venmo request.

And through it all, the shutdown rolls on—because why govern when you can hostage-take the budget? Programs starve, oversight sleeps, but somehow there’s always cash for private jets and armored toys. Funny how austerity only applies to you. For them it’s Champagne Famine: we’re out of bread, but the caviar is fantastic.

This isn’t “both sides.” This is one side installing a coin slot on the Constitution while the other side writes stern letters to the maintenance department. Checks and balances? Checks are rubber, balances are decorative. The only thing that still balances in this town is a donor’s portfolio.

And the faithful? They’re told it’s God’s will. Divine providence with a punch card. “He’s chosen.” Yeah—by lobbyists, oligarchs, and a focus group that thinks ethics is a city in Greece. Every time he says “many people are saying,” what he means is “the people who paid me.”

So here’s the headline, folks: we don’t have policies; we have invoices. Law is for enemies, waivers are for friends, cash is for family. The state is a storefront, the flag is the logo, and you—congratulations—are the unpaid intern for a criminal brand.

But hey, cheer up. We still do have one unbroken American tradition: When the grift finally gets obvious enough to piss off ranchers, coders, nurses, teachers, and the guy selling knockoff merch in the parking lot—when the ballroom leaks, the pardons stink, and the “preferred bidders” forget their inside voices—the con men always overplay the hand.

And when that happens?

We don’t need a billionaire on speed-dial. We need a spine, a subpoena, and a shutdown of the shakedown.

Because it’s not his house.

It’s your house.

And it’s past time we evicted the fucking landlord.