The Adult in the Room
Every family has one. The grown-up who did not start the fight does not particularly care who started the fight and would very much like everyone to stop shrieking long enough to finish their coffee (in my family, that’s me).
That person is not there to debate feelings or validate slogans. They are there to keep the furniture upright and make sure nobody sets the dog on fire (relax, it only happened once).
In today’s scene, the adult wears a uniform and a neutral expression that says, I was trained for hurricanes and gunfire, not your needy pink and lavender-haired emotional spiral.
Weaponized Certainty
What makes modern outrage so exhausting is not its volume, but its confidence. Everyone is absolutely correct, morally spotless, and deeply offended by the existence of anyone who disagrees.
The tantrum has become strategic, curated for applause, likes, and a sense of righteousness that requires no follow-up action. It is the political equivalent of pounding on the minivan window from the inside while insisting you are being held hostage.
No one is steering, but everyone is screaming directions.
Cleanup on Aisle America
Eventually, someone has to mop the floor. Not metaphorically, literally.
Someone has to stand between the noise and the consequences, between the slogans and the sharp edges of reality.
That job keeps falling to people whose job description never included refereeing ideological food fights.
While the rest of the room argues about who ruined dinner, the babysitter counts heads, locks the doors, and quietly hopes nobody remembers this gig next time the adults decide to act like children again.
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The Adult in the Room
Every family has one. The grown-up who did not start the fight does not particularly care who started the fight and would very much like everyone to stop shrieking long enough to finish their coffee (in my family, that’s me).
That person is not there to debate feelings or validate slogans. They are there to keep the furniture upright and make sure nobody sets the dog on fire (relax, it only happened once).
In today’s scene, the adult wears a uniform and a neutral expression that says, I was trained for hurricanes and gunfire, not your needy pink and lavender-haired emotional spiral.
Weaponized Certainty
What makes modern outrage so exhausting is not its volume, but its confidence. Everyone is absolutely correct, morally spotless, and deeply offended by the existence of anyone who disagrees.
The tantrum has become strategic, curated for applause, likes, and a sense of righteousness that requires no follow-up action. It is the political equivalent of pounding on the minivan window from the inside while insisting you are being held hostage.
No one is steering, but everyone is screaming directions.
Cleanup on Aisle America
Eventually, someone has to mop the floor. Not metaphorically, literally.
Someone has to stand between the noise and the consequences, between the slogans and the sharp edges of reality.
That job keeps falling to people whose job description never included refereeing ideological food fights.
While the rest of the room argues about who ruined dinner, the babysitter counts heads, locks the doors, and quietly hopes nobody remembers this gig next time the adults decide to act like children again.
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