Category: Satire

When nuclear policy sounds like a bathroom joke, FAFO stops being a meme and starts reading like the instruction label on a world-ending button.

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.

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.

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

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.

When the ghost of Hitler starts sounding like the only guy in the room with historical perspective, you know the circus has pitched its tent in City Hall.

When the shell crates are empty and NATO’s still circling the bureaucracy drain, you improvise with whatever’s sticky, stinks, and might make a Russian grunt rethink his life choices.

Today’s cartoon slices through the fog of modern warfare like a B-2 through Tehran’s airspace—exposing a Pentagon flex and a press corps too bored, buzzed, or clueless to notice the smoke.