⚖ Chronicles of Misrule Dispatch ⚖
“The Checks Have Bounced and the Balances Have Fled”
Or: “Can the 25th Amendment Be Invoked Retroactively?”
The Guardrails Have Resigned
The tripartite structure of American government—once a thing of Enlightenment elegance—has collapsed into a three-legged stool being used as a bludgeon. In theory, the branches were co-equal. In practice, we now have an executive drunk on impunity, a Congress curled into the fetal position, and a judiciary trapped in a group text labeled “Do We Still Matter?”
The “balance of power” has become a nostalgia act, like vaudeville or dial-up internet—quaint, slow, and mostly decorative.
The DOJ, formerly the bastion of blind justice, has now been transformed into a bespoke tailoring shop for vendettas. Gone are the career professionals. In their place: cranks, cronies, and that guy who once yelled at a city council meeting about chemtrails.
The Attorney General—Pam “Televised Vengeance” Bondi—runs the show like it’s a promotional tour for a QVC legal thriller. Loyalty is law. Mercy is sold separately.
Congress: Nods, Prayers, and Mike Johnson
Behold the legislative branch, now little more than a performance art collective for moral collapse. While Trump redraws the Constitution with a Sharpie, Congress clutches pearls and issues statements readable only under ultraviolet cowardice.
At the helm stands Speaker Mike Johnson, a man whose greatest political innovation is performing devout concern while voting to burn it all down. He nods along to autocracy like a parishioner at a tent revival where the preacher is juggling hand grenades.
His majority—a wobbly coalition of seditionists, survivalists, and surplus Sarah Palins—requires herding, yes, but only in the sense that one herds feral raccoons toward a fireworks stand. And Johnson? He just smiles, clutches his pocket Constitution like a security blanket, and whispers, “It’s God’s plan.”
The Judiciary: Wearing Robes, Not Pants
Once the proud custodians of restraint, the courts now find themselves ignored, mocked, or replaced. Executive orders are scrawled on napkins and posted to social media before the ink on judicial rulings has dried.
Judges who dissent are lambasted as traitors, groomers, or “Obama Holdovers.” The gavel has become a prop. The robe, a costume. The Supreme Court? Mostly silent—content to watch the fire from their marble perches like Roman senators catching the matinee of Democracy: The Musical.
A Constitutional Crisis in Flip-Flops and Facepaint
This is no longer a slow-motion disaster. It’s a demolition derby where the cars are laws, the drivers are feral consultants, and the grand marshal is Stephen Miller in a powdered wig. The 25th Amendment looms like a decorative sabre above a buffet—impressive, but never actually used.
The Constitution is no longer a document. It’s a mood board, invoked when convenient and discarded when pesky. Our founding parchment now functions chiefly as set dressing for photo ops and performative reverence, its meaning diluted by slogans and merch.
Closing Thought: The Executive Pyromaniac
Lady Justice is no longer fleeing. She’s tied to a chair, gagged with precedent, while Donald Trump cavorts through the rotunda with a box of matches and a grin that suggests he’s just discovered fire is billable. Surrounding him: half-spilled cans of constitutional gasoline—Amendments IV, V, and XIV leaking freely as footnotes ignite and ethics melt.
The blaze flickers in his eyes as he lights another match on the scorched remains of Article II, shrugs, and declares: “It’s warm in here. I like it.” The room, of course, is the Republic.
Next Up:
“The Republic as Ruin Porn”
Or: “A Guided Bus Tour of Terminal Decline (Snacks Not Included, Immigrant Labor Pending)”
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