Editorial Cartoon

When devils start pricing snow tires and pitchforks double as ski poles, you know the ceasefire paperwork is real enough to fog a mirror, even if the lava in the background stays at a slow simmer.

Command squeezes inches from the ranks and calls it readiness while the real heavyweight, Waste, gulps taxpayer smoothies through a golden straw and rolls past running troops in a golf cart.

America isn’t losing its edge to Moscow or Beijing—it’s bleeding it out on the battlefield of bathroom debates and Twitter tantrums.

Like Axl howling into the mic back in ’91, you can feel the riff of this cartoon vibrating through the pavement—raw, unhinged, and begging the question of whether we really need another civil war and if we’ve already staged one.

Gold wings used to mean you could land on a postage stamp in the middle of the ocean—now they’re handing them out like participation trophies at flight school.

You can smell the insincerity from a mile away—their grief isn’t real, it’s a performance polished over decades of double standards.

Slap a new label on the Pentagon and call it what you want—war by any other name still smells like cordite and tears.

Venezuelan smugglers boast of easy runs until a Trump-era Navy missile screams “Surprise,” turning open water into a cartoon punchline.

Trump dangles “peace” like bait while Putin crushes Ukraine, turning foreign policy into caveman logic written in blood.

When the nation’s capital needs Kevlar to feel safe, call it what it is—a war zone with better press passes.

Equal-opportunity killers, my butt—these guys don’t care what tribe you’re from as long as your body fits in the ditch.

The Grim Reaper leaned on his scythe, watching the so-called peace talks take shape, like a bartender who knows last call might finally be coming.