Speaking of ChatGPT:

"In search of a little levity I asked ChatGPT to write an essay in the voice of Hunter S. Thompson about Trump's first week. Pretty pretty good."

"There's something foul in the air, and it's not just the burning wreckage of democracy smoldering in the distance. No, this is something deeper, more insidious"like a back-alley fever dream brought to life by a cocktail of gas station amphetamines and Fox News soundbites. We let a bloated reality TV huckster stumble into the White House, and now the whole goddamn country is choking on the fumes of its own self-inflicted stupidity.

This was never supposed to happen. Trump was the joke that went too far, the punchline that turned into a death rattle. One minute, we were watching him bumble through debates like a malfunctioning animatronic at a casino buffet; the next, he's sitting in the Oval Office signing executive orders with the same giddy recklessness as a trust-fund brat lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills. His entire presidency has been a car crash in slow motion, except the driver is blindfolded, drunk on power, and actively steering into oncoming traffic.

(cont'd)

"The man has the attention span of a fruit fly and the moral compass of a loan shark. His foreign policy consists of late-night Twitter tantrums and backroom deals with strongmen who see him as the useful idiot he so desperately is. His domestic policy? Gut everything, screw the poor, and let corporations run wild like steroid-fueled rodeo bulls. It's a free-for-all for the grifters, the cronies, and the sycophants who flock to him like vultures circling a bloated corpse.

And then there's the pandemic"a once-in-a-century crisis met with the strategic brilliance of a toddler smearing ketchup on the walls. Science was replaced with snake oil, facts became optional, and half the country decided that wearing a mask was an unforgivable assault on their God-given right to be idiots. Meanwhile, the bodies piled up, and the so-called leader of the free world was busy rage-tweeting about his television ratings.

At this point, even Richard Nixon"paranoid, scheming bastard that he was"would be rolling in his grave, aghast at the sheer incompetence of it all. Say what you want about old Tricky Dick, but at least the man had a plan. Trump is just a carnival barker who accidentally wandered onto the main stage and refuses to leave.
We are well past the point of satire. The American experiment is teetering on the edge of a cliff, and the guy holding the steering wheel thinks it's all just another episode of The Apprentice. The question now isn't how we got here"it's whether we can survive the fall."