Category: Satire

In a world where missiles gather dust and microphones do the real damage, nothing topples a throne faster than the wrong name on the wrong list.

When America’s political arguments devolve into screaming from the backseat, the job of keeping the car on the road keeps falling to people who never volunteered to be the babysitter.

Be sure to carry some extra flashlights if you’re going to be playing “Follow the Leader” into the mouth of the dragon.

Todays Bob Lang inked cartoon takes aim at Marine Corps reenlistment bonuses, where fifty-thousand-dollar incentives and “high value” status meet the mud, diesel, and battlefield sarcasm of the motor pool.

Congress calls it oversight, but when the secrets start flowing, history says they come out the other end as headlines that warn the target.

When Washington turns deterrence into a headline and lets dictators treat red lines like punchlines, do not act surprised when the only thing they fear is the sound of rotor blades.

It is time to stop ducking, stop passing the hourglass, and grab the helm with both hands, because 2026 can either crouch in the splash zone of other people’s mistakes or steer this ship straight into calmer water by choosing bold, disciplined action over another year of survival advice.

SOUTHCOM’s Pirate Upgrade. The mission is sus, but the fit is fire!

A tired old NCO, explaining that Pvt. Joe Snuffy is both a real-deal WWII Medal of Honor badass and the eternal, cross-branch screwup whose chaos fuels every safety brief, empowers the E-4 Mafia, and keeps NCOs living on Motrin, Tums, and pure frustration.

America didn’t order a platter of bleached-clean bones, but that’s exactly what Congress keeps serving every time it pretends the Epstein files are finally on the table.

A crooked carnival where narco boats explode for pocket change and everyone smiles through the smoke is the kind of sick joke the war on drugs tells without ever bothering to set up a proper punchline.

While Nigerian churches collapse into ash, the powerful grope through the smoke with canes of denial, pretending to ignore the growing stench of genocide.