Disclaimer: This ain’t law school, folks. This is George Carlin with a sledgehammer. If you came for balanced reporting, go find a teeter-totter. I’m here to call out bullshit where it stinks the most—and right now the whole goddamn Department of Justice smells like a backed-up porta-potty at a Trump rally.

So Fat Orange Jesus wants James Comey’s head on a pike. He screams on social media: “Indict him NOW! Justice must be served!” And—abracadabra—suddenly the Eastern District of Virginia coughs up charges. Not because there’s a case, not because there’s evidence, but because the toddler-in-chief had a tantrum. That’s not justice. That’s political retribution with a stapler.

And who does he put in charge of this little witch hunt? Lindsey fucking Halligan. Never prosecuted a case in her life. Not once. This is a woman whose entire résumé is “ran errands for Trump during the Mar-a-Lago documents fiasco.” And now she’s the U.S. Attorney for one of the most important districts in the country? That’s like putting your plumber in charge of brain surgery because he once watched Grey’s Anatomy.

And guess what? She’s fucking it up. Day one, she’s filing indictments with duplicate case numbers, spelling errors, typos that make legal scholars cry. She can’t even tell the difference between a principle and a principal. One is the foundation of American law, the other gives you detention for chewing gum. That’s who’s prosecuting the former head of the FBI. A woman who thinks due process is a high school administrator.

This isn’t a trial, it’s amateur night. She marched into a grand jury all by herself, because apparently no real prosecutor in her office wanted to touch this political suicide mission. And now she’s trying to convince a court that Comey deliberately lied when the evidence doesn’t even meet the “oops, my bad” standard. Every career lawyer told her: “There’s no case here.” But Trump said, “Do it anyway.” And like a good little ventriloquist dummy, she opened her mouth and out came his bullshit.

This is what incompetence begets: Incompetent bosses hiring incompetent cronies to do incompetent jobs. You don’t get justice, you get paperwork that looks like it was scribbled on a cocktail napkin at Mar-a-Lago. You don’t get accountability, you get a puppet with Trump’s tiny orange hand wedged so far up her ass she burps Diet Coke.

And the best part? The whole thing is going to collapse. The charges are weak, the filings are sloppy, and every defense attorney in the country is lining up to rip it apart. But that’s not the point. The point isn’t winning. The point is punishing enemies. The point is headlines. The point is fear. “See what happens if you cross me? Even if we lose, we’ll drag you through hell.” That’s not democracy. That’s mobster cosplay.

So here we are. In the most important courtroom in America, the rule of law is being run by someone who couldn’t pass first-year legal writing. In Trump’s America, justice doesn’t just mean “guilty until proven innocent.” It means “guilty because I said so, and if my lawyer can’t spell it right, who gives a shit?”

Folks, we are witnessing the punchline of a very bad joke: a country where the Department of Justice is run like open mic night at the world’s dumbest comedy club. And the sad part? Nobody’s laughing—because the joke’s on us.