Sam the Hooplehead

Kadizzle did not write this, but it is excellent. 

Sam is 61 years old and lives in a town where the Applebee’s closed in 2014 and people still mention it like it was a natural disaster. The old factory shut down years ago, but Sam keeps his faded employee badge in a kitchen drawer because he considers it proof that America peaked sometime around 1987, right between the release of Top Gun and the invention of low-flow toilets. He firmly believes the country began collapsing the moment they stopped letting people smoke in restaurants and started putting kale in things.

He wakes up every morning at 5:12 a.m., not because he has anywhere to be, but because decades of shift work, untreated sleep apnea, and permanent low-grade outrage have hardwired his body into a permanent state of agitation. He shuffles into the kitchen wearing camouflage pajama pants and a T-shirt that says “I Stand for the Flag” even though he has not stood up quickly without groaning since 2009. He pours himself coffee strong enough to power farm equipment and settles into his recliner to begin his daily ritual of becoming personally offended by things happening hundreds or thousands of miles away. Within half an hour, he is enraged about crime in Chicago, drag queens in Seattle, wind turbines in California, and a college professor in Vermont he has never heard of and never will again.

Sam spends most of his time marinating in an ecosystem of Facebook memes, talk radio, Fox News, chain emails, YouTube clips, and badly designed websites with names like Patriot Eagle Freedom Truth News. By noon, he has shared seven posts warning that America is under attack by socialists, immigrants, vegans, pronouns, electric stoves, and people who use the phrase “lived experience.” He believes every story because every story confirms what he already feels: that the country has been stolen from people like him and handed over to people he does not understand.

Sam is absolutely convinced he is one of the last remaining “real Americans,” despite living in a county entirely populated by people who also think they are the last remaining real Americans. He misses the America of his youth, which in his memory was a magical place where every man had a factory job, every woman made tuna casserole, every child respected authority, and nobody had tattoos, gluten allergies, or opinions about gender. He is nostalgic for a version of the country that mostly exists as a combination of old pickup truck commercials, Toby Keith songs, and stories his grandfather exaggerated after three beers.

His truck is the size of a military vehicle and has never once carried anything heavier than mulch and emotional baggage. His pickup truck is so large that small birds alter their migration patterns to avoid it. The truck has never hauled lumber, gravel, or equipment, but it does haul an enormous amount of political anxiety. The back is covered in bumper stickers warning that he is armed, angry, and deeply suspicious of the federal government, except for when it comes to Medicare, Social Security, highways, farm subsidies, police funding, veterans’ benefits, and keeping its hands off his lawn. He likes to tell people he is “not political,” which is impressive considering his entire personality has become an endless loop of cable news grievances.

He cannot attend a barbecue, church picnic, football game, or grandchild’s birthday party without eventually bringing up inflation, Hunter Biden, gas stoves, “the border,” or how nobody can say Merry Christmas anymore even though literally everyone still says Merry Christmas.

Then Trump arrived, descending from his golden escalator like a casino-themed prophet sent by God to sell steaks and grievance. Sam had finally found his perfect candidate: a billionaire from Manhattan with multiple mansions, gold-plated bathrooms, and a private jet, who somehow convinced Sam that he understood the pain of a man screaming at the self-checkout machine in Walmart.

Trump was loud, angry, theatrical, and constantly under investigation, which only made Sam admire him more. Every lawsuit, scandal, or indictment was not evidence of wrongdoing. It was proof that Trump was fighting the deep state, the media, the elites, the globalists, the FBI, the Democrats, the RINOs, and possibly the ghost of George Soros.

Every scandal, every lawsuit, every indictment, every accusation became proof that Trump was fighting the corrupt establishment on behalf of “real Americans” like Sam.

At this point, Sam does not support Trump because of policy details. He supports Trump because Trump has become the human embodiment of his anger, nostalgia, confusion, and Facebook feed. Trump says the world Sam remembers can come back, that the people Sam dislikes can be punished, and that all of Sam's frustrations are someone else’s fault.

To Sam, Trump is no longer just a politician. He is a lifestyle brand. He is a martyr, a warrior, a stand-up comedian, a victim, a patriot, and the lead singer of a traveling grievance festival. Sam owns at least three Trump hats, two Trump flags, a Trump coffee mug, a “Never Surrender” T-shirt, and a giant “Let’s Go Brandon” sign in the garage that he insists is “not political, just funny.”

For Sam, that is not politics. That is therapy. Trump is not just a candidate anymore; he is an emotional support billionaire.

He is a spray-tanned security blanket with a private jet. He is the gold-plated, fast-food-fueled mascot Sam clings to whenever the modern world feels confusing, threatening, or insufficiently patriotic.

Trump gives him a ready-made explanation for every disappointment in his life: it is not aging, bad luck, economic change, or his own choices; it is the immigrants, the liberals, the media, the globalists, the vegans, the people with pronouns, and whoever is ruining Christmas this week.

Supporting Trump lets Sam believe there is still someone out there fighting for him.

Sunshine is ending

 Soaking up a little sunshine as the day gets cloudy. Morning entertainment is battling the Hoopleheads. The level of hypocrisy among the unwashed is amazing. In Payson we have the three Stooges, Charlie Bell, Jim Ferris, and mayor Steve Otto. Little Trumpers they play the same game of lying and deceit their pappy does. Kadizzle was blown away watching Bell and Otto praise the library. Maybe they forgot Stooge number three Jim Ferris wanted to defund the library because it promoted pornography. Ordinary people can see right through the Stooges, and Trump, but the special Tea Party glasses show a hero when you look at a worthless lickspittle playing you for a fool. 

One percent own as much as 90 percent.

 

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Reading The New York Times today, Kadizzle wasn’t surprised—but he should have been. One percent of Americans now hold as much wealth as the bottom 90 percent combined. That’s not a functioning democracy. That’s an aristocracy.

We like to pretend we still live in a land of opportunity, but the numbers tell a different story. In today’s America, having ten million dollars doesn’t make you rich—it barely gets you through the front gate. The real power sits far above that level, in a class so wealthy it writes the rules the rest of us live by.

And the political system? It follows the money. It always has. The people in power are tied to the same interests that benefit from this imbalance, and they have little incentive to change it.

Meanwhile, behavior that would destroy anyone else barely makes a dent at the top. Scandals come and go, headlines flare up and fade out, and nothing fundamental changes. Wealth shields power, and power protects wealth. It’s a closed loop.

So what do we do? Mostly, we look away. We normalize it. We cruise along as if this is just how things are supposed to be.

But it’s not normal. It’s not sustainable. And the longer we pretend otherwise, the harder the reckoning will be.

Wi Fi at 35,000 ft.

At last American Airlines has free wifi up in the skyfi. Here the Kadizzles sit on some kind of Airbus headed to Phoenix blasting away at the Hoopleheads. It makes a flight go quicker. Another bonus are the Airpods Kadizzle bought. They are excellent at noise suppression. 

Well tonight Trump will do his best to start World War Three. Who could possibly still support that worthless con man?  

Can we ever clean up the Trump mess?

The damage done during the era of Donald Trump isn’t the kind you fix with a policy memo or a change in leadership. It’s deeper than that. It’s structural, cultural, and psychological. It’s the kind of damage that lingers long after the headlines fade and the slogans stop echoing.

Some consequences hit fast. Gas prices, for example, can spike overnight and grab everyone’s attention. But the more dangerous effects are slower, quieter, and far more persistent. Inflation doesn’t announce itself with a bang—it seeps in. It erodes savings, shrinks purchasing power, and quietly locks younger generations out of homeownership. It’s not just that things cost more; it’s that the future becomes less attainable.

And then there’s the environmental toll. Policies that roll back protections don’t just disappear when administrations change. The air doesn’t clean itself overnight. Pollution accumulates. Climate patterns destabilize. Fires grow larger, storms grow stronger, and what used to be called “unusual” becomes routine. The cost of neglect shows up not just in dollars, but in the quality of the air we breathe and the safety of the places we live.

But perhaps the most lasting damage isn’t economic or environmental—it’s cognitive. Reality itself has taken a hit. A significant portion of the country now operates in an alternate version of truth, one shaped more by loyalty than by facts. In that world, contradictions don’t matter, evidence is optional, and belief outweighs reality. The merging of political identity with religious fervor has created something powerful and deeply resistant to correction. When a political figure and a religious figure become interchangeable in the minds of followers, debate becomes nearly impossible.

This distortion has consequences. It fractures communities, erodes trust in institutions, and makes cooperation feel like betrayal. It turns disagreement into hostility and replaces dialogue with slogans. Once that kind of thinking takes hold, it doesn’t simply vanish with a change in leadership—it persists, spreads, and hardens.

History shows that institutions can be repaired. Economies can recover. Even environmental damage, to some extent, can be mitigated. But rebuilding a shared sense of reality—that’s the hardest task of all. It requires time, education, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.

The cleanup isn’t just about policy. It’s about restoring trust, reestablishing facts, and reconnecting people to a common understanding of the world. And that kind of repair doesn’t happen quickly. It takes years—maybe longer.

Because when reality itself has been bent, straightening it back out is no small job.

What does if feel like to be Stupid?

I got up this morning wondering what does it feel like to be stupid. I put on a MAGA hat, pasted a Trump sticker on a jacked up pickup truck, and then realized I was missing something, it was a huge American flag flying from the back of my truck. I felt like and idiot, but I knew how to make it worse. The Tea Party was the answer. I went to a Tea Party meeting and listened to Fox News conspiracy theories repeated. In a room full of redneck Hoopleheads I felt at home as an idiot. Right away I noticed no one was allowed to speak unless they agreed with Trump and the lies he told.  It hit me I was missing something, a gun.  If you want to be part of the network of idiots, you need a gun, concealed or carried in the open.  With my new look I took off to the grocery store. It worked, people looked at me and treated me as an idiot. All I needed to do now was join the Republican Party. 
 

Strange Twist on Trump

 

Trump: The Accidental Salesman for Renewable Energy

History has a strange sense of humor. Sometimes the very people who try to drag the world backward end up pushing it forward.

Take Donald Trump.

Between the chaos, the chest-thumping, and the ever-present threat of conflict, Trump may be doing something he never intended—accelerating the world’s shift to renewable energy.

War has always been about control. Control of land. Control of people. But most importantly—control of energy. Oil pipelines, shipping routes, gas supplies. These are the real chess pieces behind the headlines. And when a leader behaves unpredictably, when conflict becomes a daily possibility, the rest of the world starts asking a simple question:

Why are we still dependent on anything that can be taken away?

That’s where the irony kicks in.

You can’t embargo sunlight.
You can’t sanction the wind.
You can’t bomb a solar panel into submission across the entire planet.

Countries are beginning to understand that energy independence doesn’t just mean drilling more oil—it means eliminating vulnerability altogether. And nothing does that better than renewables.

Solar panels don’t care who the dictator is this week. Wind turbines don’t stop spinning because someone decided to flex military muscle. Renewable energy doesn’t answer to strongmen, oligarchs, or unstable governments.

And when global tensions rise, the math changes fast.

Every missile launched, every threat made, every supply chain disrupted—it all sends a signal to the rest of the world: Get off the grid that can be controlled.

Europe has already felt it. Parts of Asia are moving faster. Even countries that once dragged their feet are now sprinting toward solar fields and wind farms—not because they suddenly became environmental idealists, but because they became realists.

Energy security is national security.

That’s the part no one talks about enough.

Trump may rail against green energy. He may mock it, dismiss it, or try to prop up the fossil fuel past. But the instability that follows him is quietly making the case for renewables stronger than any climate activist ever could.

Because fear is a powerful motivator.

And nothing drives change faster than the realization that your entire economy can be held hostage by someone else’s decisions.

In the end, this may be Trump’s unintended legacy—not the slogans, not the rallies, not the bluster.

But a world that looked at the chaos and decided:

We’re done being dependent.

The sun rises every day.
The wind keeps blowing.

And no dictator can turn either one off.

Here we sit

Wild grandchildren are fun. Granny and Granpa are in New York with Evie and Quinn. Constant excitement. Quinn constantly shooting Grandpa with his foam darts. Evie dances, and fights with Quinn. Cold is a new thing for two old North Dakota people. It has been so long since we have been cold. Yesterday we helped build the new enclosed raised garden which will be the source of vegetables this summer.  

 Trump has now grifted almost 4 billion dollars with his bribery schemes, and other crooked kickback deals. Trump has set back green energy by years, and now started a war to divert people from his sex crimes. No matter how much he lies or steals, or violates the constitution his cult will not abandon him. Trump's downfall will be gasoline prices. The cult reads little and gets all the cult news from Fox News, but the cult members cannot ignore the news at the gas pump.