Talking to a MAGA

Under the Willow Tree: Reality Check with a MAGA Man

The evening was pleasant, the kind that makes you want to linger under the willow tree at the park. I sat with my little sign, encouraging people to vote for the swimming pool—the one the Three Stooges on the council are determined to block.

Then along came a younger guy, maybe mid-40s, with a pack of hunting dogs tugging at their leashes. I asked the simple question: “You going to vote for the new pool?” That’s all it took.

Turns out, he was a full-tilt MAGA disciple. Taxes were the devil, and anything involving them was out of the question. From there, the conversation slid into the familiar left-right trench warfare.

What amazed me wasn’t his opinions—it was how far divorced from reality they were. According to him, January 6th wasn’t stirred up by Trump at all. No, it was 125 FBI agents who masterminded the whole thing. The rioters? Oh, they were escorted into the Capitol. When I pointed out the video evidence of people smashing windows to get inside, he shrugged it off. In his world, the mob just appeared, Trump had nothing to do with it, and the FBI was running the show.

I tried another angle: Trump’s long track record of lies. I reminded him that Trump built his political career on claiming Obama was born in Africa—and later admitted he made it up. Even with that clear-cut case, the MAGA man wriggled and squirmed, but couldn’t escape the truth.

On it went, circling around in the same loop: fact versus fantasy. And that’s the problem—we’re not just arguing politics anymore. We’re living in two different realities.

This is the world we live in now. A simple question about a swimming pool turns into a surreal debate about FBI conspiracies and Trump’s innocence. Under the willow tree, it was clear: America is sitting at the same table, but talking past itself.

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Lawrence: Trump was 'on the verge of outright insanity' in deranged spee...

Hard not to see it

A Tale of Two Lights in the Sky

Last night, the heavens put on a show. The International Space Station shot across the evening sky like a cosmic diamond, so bright it could stop you mid-sentence. It was a reminder that human beings, when working together, can build something extraordinary—something that soars silently above politics, borders, and nonsense.

But back here on Earth, in Washington, D.C., another light shined, though not nearly as noble: Trump’s madness lit up the stage before America’s generals. The contrast could not have been starker.

The generals sat like stone, uniforms pressed, eyes forward, while the Commander-in-Chief raved like a man possessed. The same tired script played again: We’re the greatest, we have the best economy, the strongest military, and yes, even the best toilet paper. You could almost hear the collective groan of history saying, Not this speech again.

By any reasonable measure, the man is unwell. But the MAGA faithful don’t flinch. To them, it’s part of the package. They know he sounds like a patient in the wrong ward—but he’s their patient, and that seems to be enough.

Then came the part that should chill every spine in the room: Trump urged the military to start “training” for urban warfare—right here in American cities. He dressed it up as strength, but it’s nothing more than rehearsal for martial law. Insane? Absolutely. Unconstitutional? Without question. But to the cult, it’s just Tuesday.

The space station arcs silently across the heavens, proof of what humanity can achieve when we strive toward light. Trump’s performance before the generals was the opposite: a dark spectacle, grounded in fear and delusion, dragging us downward. One is the future we could have; the other, the nightmare we risk if the MAGA crowd keeps cheering their chosen madman.

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Trump's mental illness is embarassing

Trump’s March Toward Madness: When Will the Hoopleheads Wake Up?

On it goes. Day after day, Donald Trump parades his chaos before the world. At the United Nations, he lied, he bragged, and he postured like a strongman on the international stage. Today, before our own military, the performance was the same—bombast, exaggeration, and self-glorification masquerading as leadership. What will it take to wake up the Hoopleheads who still cheer this spectacle?

This isn’t just embarrassing anymore—it’s dangerous. We are living in a slow-motion slide into authoritarianism, a full-blown dictatorship that inches closer each day while people tell themselves it can’t happen here. Trump’s latest stunt—pushing the idea of “training” the military by imposing martial law in our own cities—should send chills down every spine in America. This is not normal policy debate. This is a blueprint for repression.

Meanwhile, the Republican termites gnaw away at the foundation of our democracy. They undermine independent institutions, smear dissenters, and cheer on the very tactics they once swore America would never tolerate. These aren’t just political disagreements anymore. This is about whether we remain a free society or surrender to a wannabe king and his enablers.

History’s warning lights are flashing. Authoritarian regimes never start with tanks in the streets—they begin with the normalization of lies, the erosion of checks and balances, the steady drip of propaganda, and the quiet acceptance of abuses of power. We’re already deep into that cycle. Every day of denial makes it harder to reverse.

The question now is not whether Trump will stop. He won’t. The question is whether the rest of us will find the courage to stand up—before the country we love becomes unrecognizable.

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Being Great Again isn't like we though it would be

MAGA: Make America Grift Again

So Trump was going to make America great again. Fantastic. We were supposed to be swimming in prosperity — gold-plated jobs, filet mignon at Walmart prices, and, I don’t know, maybe a bald eagle delivering paychecks straight to the trailer park. Instead, what did we get? Grocery bills that make you sweat like you’re betting the rent at the casino, and a town council in Payson whose idea of infrastructure is duct tape and a prayer.

The Pool of Broken Dreams

Let’s talk about the pool. Our town doesn’t have one. Zero. Nada. The kids are doing cannonballs into potholes because the old pool is closed. What’s the Trump-inspired solution from our local Three Stooges on the council? “Hey, why not slap some duct tape on the shut-down pool and call it good?” Because nothing says fiscal responsibility like turning a public safety hazard into a Slip ’N Slide of tetanus.

MAGA Math: Broke + Broke = Rich

Remember the prosperity Trump promised? Well, apparently it skipped Payson. The trailer park crowd still can’t afford groceries, but hey, they’ve got hats! Nothing screams “economic boom” like standing in line at the Dollar Store wondering if you can stretch instant ramen into a three-course meal. MAGA prosperity is kind of like Bigfoot — lots of people claim to have seen it, but the evidence looks suspiciously like a guy in a costume.

Same Old Circus, New Red Hats

This is the magic of Trumpism: convince people that “great” is just the same old broke life, only now you chant while you suffer. The prices go up, the services go down, but don’t worry — somewhere, a billionaire just got another tax cut. And here at home, the Stooges are busy following the script: obstruct, complain, and do absolutely nothing that would actually help anyone.

So, congratulations, folks. Payson is officially MAGA-great. No pool, higher prices, and a future being held together with duct tape. If that’s winning, please tell me what losing looks like.

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The Elk own Payson

Kadizzle was on his way home, but there was a miniature traffic jam. It was the elk. A very large bull elk was standing in the middle of the street and part of his harem was helping block traffic. The eld are so tame cars, dogs, and people don't concern them. Some people are violating the law and hand feeding them. A friend had and elk lick him on the face wanting an apple or carrot. They are magnificent animals and fun to see. When they show up at the park the cameras come out and the elk are the stars. 

Over on the National Association for the Advancement of Humanity blog a little discussion about the rich taking over the country. Read the New York times today. Here is one quote “The U.S. Senate is just a country club of millionaires who work for billionaires and have no idea what it’s like to work for a living.”

Eat the Rich

The U.S. Senate isn’t a chamber of the people—it’s a country club for millionaires who spend their days working for billionaires. They don’t have the faintest idea what it’s like to punch a clock, scrape a windshield in the dark, or carry a lunch pail to a real job.

Do you think Trump ever pushed a lawnmower, washed dishes, or shoveled snow just to make ends meet? You already know the answer. He never worked a day in his life. And the people who line up to let him wreck this country? Most of them haven’t either.

I have worked. I went underground as a coal miner. I know what labor really is—dirty, dangerous, and back-breaking. It grinds down bodies and lives. That’s work.

Here’s a number that sticks with me: 400 families own half the wealth of the United States. Half. Trump and his crew want to drag us back to a feudal system—kings at the top, peasants at the bottom. And somehow, the Hoopleheads cheer for it. They’re waving the flag while they’re being stripped of everything it’s supposed to stand for.

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