Dead Kids, Silent Tweets: The Cost of Trump’s Jelly-Made Peace Plan

Trump’s refusal to sanction Russia proves his so-called peace plan is nothing but a Kremlin-approved script written in American ink.

Trump’s tariffs came down like a hailstorm—but somehow, not a single drop touched Russia. Funny, isn’t it? While China, Europe, and Mexico got roasted on the grill of the so-called "Liberation Day" tariffs, Vladimir Putin was left sipping tea in the rain of blood and fire raining down on Ukraine. Did anybody paying attention notice this? Putin launched missiles at playgrounds, while Trump launched tariffs at everyone except the man turning Ukraine into a cemetery. It’s not just a double standard—it’s a diplomatic joke written in jelly.

Let me say it clearly: Putin has continued to kill women, children, and innocent civilians in Ukraine. A few days ago, 18 people were killed in a Russian missile attack on Kryvyi Rih—nine of them were kids. Another 56 were injured. A restaurant and a playground were turned into rubble. The scene looked like a horror movie set. Meanwhile, Trump's response? Not a single word of condemnation. Not a whisper of anger. Not even a lukewarm tweet. Nothing. The silence is as loud as the explosion that tore through those Ukrainian streets.

You’d think that a man who calls himself the master negotiator would have at least pretended to be outraged. But no. His version of peace is basically Putin’s playbook—just with American flair. Trump’s “peace deal” for Ukraine is less of a strategy and more of a PR stunt. It’s flimsy, wobbly, spineless—a plan written in jelly, wobbling in the sun while children’s bodies lie in the dirt. There is nothing strong or respectable about that. It’s cowardly. It’s shameful. And it’s dangerous.

Trump has gone out of his way to avoid punishing Putin. While Russia continues its war crimes, the so-called “Dealmaker-in-Chief” is playing footsie with a tyrant. Where are the sanctions? Where are the consequences? The excuse is that U.S.-Russia trade is already low. That’s like saying you won’t jail a murderer because he already lost his job. The logic is twisted, the priorities are broken, and the people of Ukraine are paying the price in blood.

Even Zelenskyy, a man under daily attack, called out the weak response from the U.S. embassy. When Russia bombed a playground and killed children, the U.S. reaction didn’t even name Russia. Zelenskyy asked, “Are you afraid to say the word Russian?” And I ask the same of Trump: Are you afraid to say Putin’s name? Or is your tongue too tied from all the secret deals and handshake diplomacy?

Trump’s team says they're "waiting to see" if Moscow is serious about peace. Really? While they wait, more drones drop, more missiles strike, and more lives are lost. Russia has already violated the partial ceasefire deal that the U.S. helped negotiate. They bombed Kharkiv. They struck an energy facility in Kherson. They hit residential areas. Every Russian promise ends with a missile. But Trump still thinks this war can be ended with a hug and a handshake.

Putin sent his investment envoy Dmitriev to Washington last week. Why? To peddle the same empty words wrapped in lies. And what did Trump’s people do? They smiled and asked him to “take a message back to Moscow.” What message? That America is watching, taking notes, and doing nothing? That’s not diplomacy—that’s delusion.

Trump says if Russia launches a big offensive, then we’ll know they’re not serious about peace. But what about the bombs already falling? What about the children already dead? What more does he need—an RSVP from hell?

Let me make it plain: Trump’s peace plan is not a peace plan. It’s a political stunt. It’s a lie wrapped in the American flag. A real peace plan demands pressure. A real peace plan calls out the criminal and protects the victim. A real peace plan doesn’t shake hands with a warlord while ignoring the blood on his palms.

It gets worse. While Russia keeps firing at Ukraine’s energy facilities, Trump keeps selling the dream that he can “end the war in 24 hours.” That’s not policy. That’s a used-car salesman pitch, and the car is already on fire. His peace deal has no spine, no strength, no strategy. It’s a circus act, and the ringmaster is asleep.

And now, as Congress begins talking about new sanctions, Trump plays the role of the middleman. He warns buyers of Russian oil that they might face tariffs. But even that comes with a wink and a shrug. China and India—the biggest buyers—aren’t shaking. They know the game. They know that Trump talks loud but punishes selectively. If the goal is to stop Russia’s war machine, then someone should remind Trump that sanctions aren’t optional—they’re essential.

Let’s not forget history. Putin’s war in Ukraine began in 2014 with Crimea. In 2022, it turned into a full-scale invasion. Since then, thousands have died. Millions have been displaced. Cities have been destroyed. And through it all, Trump has treated Putin like a poker buddy, not a war criminal. He even praised him as “savvy” and “smart” at the start of the invasion. That wasn’t just bad judgment—it was an insult to every family hiding in basements while bombs fell from the sky.

There’s an old proverb: “He who sups with the devil should have a long spoon.” Trump not only supped with Putin—he seems to have handed him the menu. His refusal to punish Russia with tariffs is not just a policy choice—it’s a betrayal of justice, decency, and global stability.

Zelenskyy is right. We must call a spade a spade. We must call Russia what it is: a terrorist state waging war on the innocent. We must put real pressure on Putin. And if Trump won’t do it, then the American people must ask why. Why is he afraid of punishing the man responsible for so much pain?

Because right now, it looks like Trump’s peace plan is less about peace and more about pleasing Putin. And if that’s the case, we might as well call it what it is: Putin’s Plan, made in America, endorsed by the “Jellymaker-in-Chief.”

No Wallet, No Woman: Stop Dating If You’re Broke

A man relying on his dad’s credit card shouldn’t be pursuing women—he should be pursuing a job and a clue. The truth is, modern women aren’t heartless—they’re just tired of dating boys who come with dreams but no direction, ambition but no bank account.

When broke men talk about love, it’s like trying to fill a gas tank with pocket lint—ambitious but pointless. Let’s be honest here: women don’t like broke guys. That’s not a dig, it’s a fact, a social law as old as romance itself. If a guy can’t afford to pay for the first date with his girlfriend, or if he’s swiping his dad’s or mom’s credit card to impress her at Applebee’s, then he shouldn’t be in a relationship. It’s that simple. No money? No honey.

I’ve seen guys strut around like peacocks on payday, yet collapse like wet tissue paper when the bill arrives. Let’s get one thing straight: women aren’t asking for Bentleys or yachts; they’re asking you not to pay for their sushi with your mother’s Discover card. And if that’s too much to ask, you’ve got no business being in the dating game. Love isn’t a welfare program. No woman signed up to be your unpaid therapist, financial coach, and personal sponsor.

This idea that women don’t like broke men isn’t new, and it’s not even controversial in the real world—just on the internet where broke men gather like mosquitoes to whine about gold diggers. But go back as far as the Bible, and you’ll see the trend. Ruth didn’t pick the poorest man in the field—she married Boaz, the landowner. Women have always gravitated toward men who provide security, stability, and sanity. And in modern times, that translates into a stable income, a working debit card, and preferably no roommates named “mom” and “dad.”

There’s a Nigerian proverb that says, “No matter how sweet love is, it cannot be used to cook soup.” In other words, feelings don’t pay bills. We live in a world where adult responsibilities matter. You can’t love someone properly when you’re dodging debt collectors and hoping your date orders from the appetizer menu. A man who’s financially unstable is not ready for a relationship. He’s barely ready for himself.

Let’s bring in some facts, not fantasies. Surveys from the last couple years show that over 50% of women say financial stability is the number one trait they look for in a partner. Another study found that nearly one in three millennials and Gen Zers have broken up with someone over financial stress. These are not bougie women with unrealistic expectations—they are working women who don’t want to carry another grown adult on their back like a backpack full of unpaid bills.

And don’t get it twisted. This isn’t about materialism; it’s about maturity. If you can’t hold down a job, stick to a budget, or even afford your own car insurance, you’re not ready to carry the weight of another person’s emotional needs. Relationships cost money—dates, gifts, emergencies, the whole package. Trying to build a relationship while you’re flat broke is like trying to build a house during a hurricane with no tools and a prayer. It’s doomed from the start.

Some men think it’s romantic to say, “I don’t have money, but I have love.” That’s not romantic. That’s reckless. Love is not a substitute for rent. If you love her, the least you can do is not drag her into your financial mess. Imagine a guy proposing to a woman and saying, “Will you marry me—and help me consolidate my student loans?” That’s not a proposal. That’s a cry for help.

And don’t come with the exception stories. Yes, some broke guys end up with women who believed in their potential. But those stories are rare, like lottery winners. For every broke man who became a millionaire, there are thousands who stayed broke and dragged someone down with them. Michelle Obama didn’t fall in love with a broke Barack because she loved struggle; she saw vision, purpose, and potential backed up with action. The difference is, Barack had ambition and direction, not just vibes and excuses.

It’s crazy how so many broke men expect loyalty from women they can’t even afford to take to Wendy’s. You want her to stick around while you “figure it out”? That’s not a girlfriend, that’s a babysitter. And even babysitters get paid. The bare minimum for being in a relationship is being able to stand on your own two feet financially. If your idea of a good date is splitting a $10 pizza and sitting in your mom’s basement watching free YouTube videos, stay single. That’s not a relationship, that’s a recession.

And let’s talk about emotional consequences. Financial stress is one of the leading causes of arguments and breakups. Broke men bring more than empty wallets—they bring anxiety, stress, and drama. A relationship built on broke bones can't stand. It's not romantic, it's tragic. Women don’t want to play counselor every night because their man overdrew his checking account buying Jordans.

Now don’t get me wrong—nobody’s saying a man has to be a millionaire. But he should at least be able to carry his own weight. If you need your parents to fund your dating life, maybe they should go on the date instead. If you can't afford gas to pick her up, why are you picking women up at all? You can’t pay for Netflix but you’re out here trying to chill. That’s delusional.

The truth is, the dating market is a competition, and broke men are entering with flip-flops and hope. Hope doesn’t pay for brunch. Hope doesn’t keep the lights on. Hope is not a financial plan. If you want a girlfriend, get a job first. If you want love, learn how to budget. Until then, your only real relationship should be with your hustle.

So to all the broke guys out there thinking love will save them: wake up. This ain’t a fairy tale. Women want a partner, not a project. And if you can’t even afford your own dates, then no—you can’t afford a girlfriend. Period. Try loving yourself first. It’s free, and it won’t call you out for forgetting your wallet again.

Because if women are gold diggers, then broke men must be buried treasure—hidden, unclaimed, and completely worthless in the market.

Death to Red Tape: Elon Musk’s DOGE Declares War on Federal Freeloaders

Elon Musk’s DOGE is doing what Congress has never had the guts to do: firing some redundant federal employees, cutting the fat, and making taxpayers the real shareholders of America.

When Elon Musk launched DOGE, the Department of Government Efficiency, critics rolled their eyes as if he had just tweeted another meme. But while some are busy mocking the name, Musk is busy drawing blood from the stone of federal spending. That’s right—he’s hacking at the thick jungle of bureaucracy with the same chainsaw energy that Argentina’s Javier Milei used to slice through decades of economic rot. If government waste were a dog, DOGE just chased it out of the park.

Yes, I’ve heard the complaints. “He’s overstepping.” “He’s moving too fast.” “He’s gutting programs people depend on.” But come on—proceeding with all due caution is often just a recipe for permanent paralysis. Remember the Grace Commission? Probably not. That’s because its careful recommendations to cut waste under Reagan gathered dust in some forgotten archive while the government ballooned in size. Everyone talks about change. Elon is actually changing things.

Take a look around. The federal budget is a leviathan of automatic spending—entitlements, Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security. You can’t even poke those sacred cows without an army of lobbyists screaming. DOGE, for now, targets the little slice of the pie labeled “discretionary,” which is only about 15% of the federal budget. It’s not much—but it’s something. And something is better than the nothing that most politicians have offered for decades.

And let’s be honest: it’s about time someone smashed the vending machine of federal grants and asked, “Who ordered this garbage?” Elon shut down some obscure commissions, killed off a few DEI grants, and suddenly he’s being called a tyrant. But maybe the real tyranny is making taxpayers fund programs that produce reports nobody reads and pay salaries for agencies that couldn’t survive in a private-sector fish tank.

People scream about the methods—but what if the madness works? Musk's “break-it-first” style is nothing new. At Twitter—now X—he walked in, kicked over the desk, fired half the staff, and asked, “Now, what’s left that actually matters?” The app still works, trolls are still trolling, and news still spreads. Maybe his chaotic strategy is more strategic than people think. Destruction first, creation after.

That kind of boldness is not without historical precedent. Ronald Reagan didn’t politely ask if he could tame inflation. He slammed interest rates through the roof, took the hits, and changed the trajectory of the U.S. economy. Margaret Thatcher didn’t nibble at Britain’s bloated unions—she went to war with them. Both were hated at the time. They were mocked, protested, and cursed. But history had the last word: both are now credited with reversing their countries’ decline.

Argentina’s Javier Milei is proof that shock therapy can work. He defunded ministries, slashed energy subsidies, froze government hiring, and stopped public works projects. The result? Inflation, which had reached a blistering 276%, fell by over 90% in a few months. That’s not fiction. That’s a fact. Sure, the people are angry. But sometimes, the cure burns before it heals.

Musk is trying to apply that same bitter medicine to America. He’s not hiding it. He’s saying it plainly: the system is too fat, too slow, and too comfortable. And he’s not waiting for Congress to greenlight every snip. That’s what terrifies the swamp dwellers—he’s doing things they didn’t vote on, using a mandate they didn’t approve, with a speed they can’t match. It’s the creative destruction they read about in business school but hoped would never come for them.

Now, here come the same old scare tactics. “Musk is going to ruin essential services!” “He’s dismantling the safety net!” “He’s a billionaire dictator!” But the facts keep getting in the way. Social Security checks? Not touched. Defense spending? Left alone for now. Core services? Still running. What’s actually happening is that the gravy train is finally slowing down—and the folks in first class are furious.

Even the promise of sharing the spoils—$5,000 “DOGE dividend” checks to every taxpayer if the trillion-dollar cut succeeds—hasn’t quieted the critics. They call it a gimmick. But it’s more like a performance bonus from the world's most reluctant CEO. Think about it: the private sector rewards success. Why shouldn’t taxpayers get a cut when the government finally trims its waistline?

Naturally, the protests have begun. A Tesla dealership in Pasadena became the backdrop for activists chanting slogans and waving signs. The irony? They were using smartphones made possible by private innovation to protest a man trying to inject private-sector efficiency into government. That’s like biting the hand that builds your broadband.

I’m not here to say DOGE is perfect. Its reach is still limited. Its savings, so far, smaller than promised. And its strategy is loud, messy, and unpredictable. But if the goal is true transformation, then some transgressions might be worth it. Revolution doesn’t come with a return policy. It comes with broken glass, shouting matches, and second thoughts. But the alternative is standing still while the world sprints forward.

I see Musk’s tactics as necessary chaos. The old way hasn’t worked. The polite memos and blue-ribbon panels gave us nothing but more spending, more deficits, and more excuses. Maybe now, in a time of peacetime stagnation and peacetime spending, we need wartime urgency. Maybe we need to break the system before it breaks us.

And if a few toes are stepped on in the process, so be it. Because the last time government got serious about waste, Reagan had a full head of black hair, and people still used typewriters. Musk is taking a flamethrower to bureaucracy, and maybe—just maybe—that’s exactly what it takes to clear the dead wood.

If nothing else, DOGE has shown us that when government is treated like a business, it gets scared. It panics. It howls. But it also starts paying attention. And maybe that’s the biggest efficiency of all.

Because if we wait for Congress to cut spending, we’ll be using Bitcoin to buy toilet paper in 2030.

And if Musk’s plan fails? At least he’ll fail faster than the government’s usual slow-motion collapse into debt.

Myanmar Earthquake: Sorrows, Tears and Blood

I return to Habakkuk, one of my favorite books in the Bible, every time the earth splits open like it did in the Myanmar (Burma) Earthquake, because Habakkuk too saw the innocent buried while the powerful stayed untouched and dared to ask God the question that now burns in my chest: why do you let this happen?

When the earth shakes, it’s not just buildings that fall—faith does too. One of my favorite books in the Bible is Habakkuk, because the author asked God the kind of question that burns in my chest today: “Why do you let this happen? Why do you just watch when people are crushed, their homes flattened, their futures stolen?” Simply put, the Book of Habakkuk is unique because it presents a dialogue between the prophet and God, where Habakkuk boldly questions divine justice. Unlike other prophetic books, it begins with complaints and ends in a psalm of trust, showing a personal journey from doubt to faith.

But today, I’m stuck right in the complaints.

When I saw the earthquake that just occurred in Myanmar on Saturday, March 28th, I froze. A 7.7-magnitude monster tearing through Mandalay, toppling buildings, collapsing the historic Ava Bridge, and crushing people under rubble—what lesson is buried under that destruction? Over 1,000 dead already, more than 2,300 injured, hospitals overwhelmed, and entire cities like Yangon and Naypyidaw shaken to their foundations. Do earthquakes come with spiritual purpose, or are we just pawns tossed around in nature’s cruel game?

The tremor came from the Sagaing Fault, Myanmar’s ticking time bomb. It runs like a scar beneath the feet of millions of people. This is the biggest earthquake to hit the Myanmar mainland in over 75 years, the strongest since the one that rocked Turkey and Syria in 2023, killing 55,000. Now Myanmar joins that grave list. Mandalay, the second-largest city with 1.5 million people, has been shattered—streets swallowed, homes reduced to splinters, and cries buried under collapsed concrete. But even that wasn’t the end. Thailand felt it too. At least ten people in Bangkok died when a skyscraper under construction crumbled like a poorly baked cake. Eighty-one others remain trapped under the rubble as rescuers claw through ruins, hour by agonizing hour.

Meanwhile, water flooded from rooftop pools in tall buildings as people screamed and fled through the streets of Bangkok. The metro shut down. The Prime Minister called it an emergency zone. But even leaders can’t command aftershocks to halt. The ground is moving and so are the people—running, crying, searching for safety. And I'm here asking, just like Habakkuk did, “How long, Lord, must I call for help, but you do not listen?”

Some might say earthquakes are natural, and I get that. They are the earth’s way of stretching after a long sleep. But I don’t care if it’s natural when it flattens an entire neighborhood. Just because it’s nature doesn’t make it okay. Tornadoes spin in, hurricanes tear apart lives, wildfires eat up homes—and we’re supposed to say what? “It’s nature, let it burn”? Why does nature’s wrath always pick on the poor and the vulnerable? Why does the earth’s fury not shake up the mansions of the powerful first?

And then there’s the irony. Myanmar’s already been torn apart by a civil war since 2021. Over 3.5 million people displaced. People were already sleeping in tents, hiding from bullets. Now they’re hiding from falling buildings and landslides. Before this quake even struck, 20 million people—35% of the population—needed humanitarian help. That’s not a statistic. That’s suffering stacked on top of suffering.

To make it worse, the United States recently slashed the help it sends to Myanmar. Last year, USAID spent $240 million there, most of it on humanitarian aid. This year, they’ve axed most of those programs. From 18 down to just 3. And some of the hospitals on the Myanmar-Thailand border, which got American support, have now shut down. You can’t heal broken bones in buildings that have already collapsed. You can’t treat quake injuries in clinics that have lost power, beds, and even walls.

The Myanmar junta, a military regime rejected by most of the world, has made a rare plea for help. That’s how bad things are—they’ve dropped their pride. But even now, they’re still trying to control where aid goes. The army only wants supplies to reach government-friendly areas, not rebel-controlled zones. So, aid is being blocked from where it’s needed most. During Cyclone Nargis in 2008, the same military dragged their feet accepting foreign help. That delay killed over 130,000 people. Are we going to watch history repeat itself?

And just when you think it can’t get worse, geologists warn of “liquefaction.” That’s when the earth turns to mush under your feet. Mud volcanoes have formed. That means the very land that people used to stand on is now bubbling up to devour them. The control tower of Naypyidaw Airport collapsed. And in Mandalay, even more decrepit buildings might still come down. People now live in fear not just of aftershocks, but of collapsing dams and more chaos. The earthquake is over, but the danger is just beginning.

Habakkuk ended his dialogue with God on a note of faith: “Yet I will rejoice in the Lord.” That’s nice, but let’s not rush there too quickly. I’m still in chapter one, shouting my questions, and I’m not afraid to keep asking: “Why do you let this happen, God? Why are people buried under the silence of heaven?”

Some theologians will say God works in mysterious ways. I say mystery isn’t comforting when you’re digging your child out of rubble. Some preachers will say pain builds character. I say earthquakes break bones, not build backbones.

We live on a planet that seems to have a temper problem. The ground rumbles when it’s angry, the skies roar when they’re fed up, and water comes crashing in when the oceans throw a fit. We talk about climate change, tectonic shifts, and atmospheric pressure like it’s science—but it feels like punishment.

If this is the design of a perfect world, I’d like to see the blueprint.

Until then, I’ll keep asking like Habakkuk did. Not because I don’t believe, but because I refuse to blindly accept a world where the earth can swallow a family in seconds and we call it “natural.” Earthquakes may be natural, but that doesn’t make them noble. Hurricanes may be common, but they are not kind. And if “acts of God” include this kind of destruction, then somebody needs to check God’s job description.

I used to believe the earth was our home. Lately, it feels more like we’re squatters on a landmine.

And if this is nature’s way of reminding us who’s boss, I say it’s time we fired the landlord.

Sanction the Devil: Why Europe Must Keep Its Boot on Putin’s Neck

              Source: The Economist

Europe has everything it takes to snap the spine of Putin’s power structure, and they don’t really need America to whisper ceasefire lullabies while Russian missiles still fall on Ukrainian schools.

When you give a bear a cookie, don’t be surprised when it swallows the pantry. That’s exactly what President Trump is doing—handing Putin the cookie jar and watching him grin. By now it’s obvious that Trump likes Putin, maybe even idolizes him. And from the way his team is negotiating a so-called peace deal in Ukraine, it looks like America might start peeling off those tough sanctions that once had Russia gasping for economic air. But here’s the thing: even if Trump decides to cozy up to Putin and unbutton the sanctions belt, Europe must not follow America’s lead. In fact, Europe must do the exact opposite—it must tighten the screws on Putin harder than ever before.

Why? Because Putin’s regime is cracking. And when you see cracks in a dam that has held back a flood of oppression, you don’t patch it up—you blow it wide open.

First, let’s talk dollars and sense. Europe, not America, holds the economic key to Putin’s kingdom. Before Russia invaded Ukraine, trade between the EU and Russia totaled around €258 billion—compare that to the relatively puny $35 billion in U.S.-Russia trade. After sanctions, EU-Russia trade collapsed by more than 69%. Russia’s oil, gas, and military sectors lost billions. Russia’s car production has fallen over 60%. Its aviation industry is in shambles, and high-tech imports have dried up like an old Soviet well. America loosening sanctions won’t fix that. Only Europe can choke off the pipelines of cash that keep Putin’s war machine running.

Let’s face it—Putin’s economy is now a Frankenstein stitched together with Chinese knockoffs, Central Asian reroutes, and dreams of Soviet grandeur. But those black-market tricks won’t last. Without access to Western banks, ports, and insurance networks, Russia’s economy is walking with a limp. And Europe is the one holding the crutch. If it kicks that crutch away now, Putin falls.

Second—and more important—Europe can help bring down Putin himself. That’s not a pipe dream. That’s history waiting to repeat itself. Dictators don't die in bed; they fall under the weight of their own lies, their own bloodshed, and their own bankrupt treasuries. Think of Ceaușescu. Think of Gaddafi. The same fate waits for Putin, who now leads a country where dissent is criminal, elections are rigged, journalists are jailed or killed, and young men are dragged to war they don’t believe in.

The cracks in Putin’s power are already showing. His circle is shrinking. His economy is shrinking. His grip is weakening. His war is failing. Ukraine didn’t fall in three days. It’s been fighting for over three years. And Russians know it. That’s why over a million have fled the country since the invasion. That’s why Russian mothers protest silently, hiding their grief behind shuttered windows. That’s why even Putin’s inner circle whispers in fear. A cornered rat is dangerous, but it’s also vulnerable. And right now, Putin is cornered.

But then comes Trump, waltzing in like a peace fairy with an olive branch dipped in oil money. His team is reportedly asking Russian firms what sanctions they want lifted. They’re talking about removing bans on banks that finance oil exports. They want to unfreeze assets and loosen the leash. But why? Because Trump wants to play kingmaker in Eastern Europe? Because he sees himself as the hero who ended the war?

Let’s not pretend. This isn’t about peace. It’s about power. Trump sees an opportunity to score political points and maybe cut some deals. But appeasing Putin has never worked. In 2014, Russia took Crimea. The West responded weakly. In 2022, Russia tried to take all of Ukraine. What will happen in 2026 if we ease up now? Will Latvia be next? Poland? The past is a prophet—ignore it, and it repeats itself with a vengeance.

The only way to stop Putin is to bankrupt his war and shake the throne under him. Europe must not just keep the sanctions—it must sharpen them like a guillotine blade. Stop letting Russian oil ships dock in European ports. Stop insuring those shadowy tankers sailing under third-country flags. Ban European banks from processing any ruble-linked transaction. Freeze more oligarch assets. Squeeze the pressure points until the Kremlin chokes.

And don’t worry about Trump’s tantrums. Europe has played this game before. When Trump pulled out of the Paris Climate Accord, Europe stayed in. When he fumbled NATO commitments, Europe doubled down. Europe can—and must—stand on its own spine. It doesn’t need Trump’s permission to protect its borders, its values, or its future.

Because here’s what happens if Europe blinks: Putin wins. He gets a lifeline. He rebuilds. He rearms. And the next invasion becomes only a matter of time. If Europe lifts sanctions now, it sends a message to every dictator watching: you can invade a neighbor, butcher civilians, and eventually get forgiven. That’s not diplomacy. That’s moral bankruptcy.

There’s an African proverb that says, “When the roots of a tree begin to decay, it spreads death to the branches.” Putin is that tree. His roots are rotting—economically, politically, morally. Letting up now only lets the poison spread. But if Europe pushes harder, those roots will snap. The branches will fall. And finally, Russians might plant something new in the ashes.

So, let Trump toast champagne with the Kremlin and play Santa to Russian billionaires. Let him wave a peace plan that smells like surrender. But Europe must bring the hammer down—and keep hammering until the walls of Putin’s palace crack like dry plaster.

After all, if Putin is planning for Christmas, Europe should give him the only gift he deserves: a one-way ticket to history’s trash bin, with sanctions so strong they make his ruble weep.

Mike Waltz’s Blunder Makes America Look Like a Circus

If Mike Waltz won’t apologize for leaking war plans, he should be stripped of his title, his security clearance, and his delusions of competence. In plain English, his behavior proves that giving him national security clearance was like handing car keys to a blindfolded man and hoping he’d drive straight.

When the cat’s away, the mice will play — but when Mike Waltz is texting, even the mice look more competent. Let’s not sugarcoat what just happened. Waltz, Trump’s National Security Adviser, committed a mistake so dumbfounding, so reckless, so unworthy of his post, that the nation ought to pause and ask: is this the kind of man we trust with classified war plans?

He added a journalist—yes, a journalist—to a Signal group chat where they were discussing detailed, emoji-laced plans to bomb Yemen. Precise targets. Weapon packages. Timing. The whole nine yards. Sent directly to Jeffrey Goldberg, the editor-in-chief of The Atlantic. This isn’t a high school gossip thread—this is America’s national security.

And guess what? He wasn’t alone in the chat. Seventeen other bigwigs were reportedly in there too, including JD Vance, Marco Rubio, Pete Hegseth, and Tulsi Gabbard. The room read like a reality TV reunion—except instead of drama, they were coordinating airstrikes. And instead of security, we got absurdity.

Let me be clear: Mike Waltz committed an embarrassing mistake—the kind of mistake that one can lose his job over. But that decision is up to President Trump. This isn’t a case of forgetting to mute a mic or misspeaking at a press conference. This is about sending war plans to the press. It's about putting lives at risk through sheer stupidity.

But there's precedent. Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin under President Biden also made a serious mistake. He kept his cancer treatment a secret and didn’t inform the White House he was hospitalized. And what did he do? He apologized. Publicly. Ashamed, yes. Embarrassed, of course. But he said the words America needed to hear: “I’m sorry.” And Biden, in turn, allowed him to keep his job.

So here’s the fair deal: if Mike Waltz apologizes to the nation—no excuses, no spin—then it makes sense not to judge his competence or condemn him based on one horrifyingly stupid mistake. We’re all human. Even high-ranking officials can slip. But if he refuses to apologize, if he acts like nothing happened, if he treats this as another day in the swamp—then he is one incompetent, arrogant, and rude white man who thinks national security is just a meme game, who laughs while our soldiers risk their lives, who pretends sending classified information to journalists is no big deal—and he should be fired. Period.

What makes this even worse is the attitude behind it all. These weren’t somber discussions filled with strategic wisdom. No. It was full of mockery for our European allies. Waltz and others sneered about “European freeloading,” joked about making our partners pay the bill for American bombing, and pushed for military strikes not out of necessity, but to look tougher than Biden. Their diplomacy strategy? Emoji fist-bumps and flexed biceps. Their worldview? America acts, others pay.

Even Pete Hegseth—the Secretary of Defense in this reality-show administration—admitted they feared the operation might leak. Irony had a front-row seat. “This might leak,” they said... while a journalist silently sat in their chat, probably wondering if he’d accidentally opened an episode of Veep.

JD Vance tried to be the voice of reason. He said, “I just hate bailing Europe out again.” But instead of caution, they went full-throttle. Waltz declared that the Europeans were too weak, and America alone had to carry the burden. Their solution? Bomb now, bill later.

And then came the greenlight. Trump, through his deputy chief of staff Stephen Miller, apparently gave the go-ahead, with a clear directive: if we bomb for freedom, then we expect something in return. Not peace. Not security. But economic gain. “There needs to be some further economic gain extracted in return,” Miller said. That’s not foreign policy—that’s gangster politics.

And what happened after the first bombs dropped? Mike Waltz cheered. “Amazing job,” he posted, along with a fist, a flag, and a flame emoji. Steve Witkoff, Trump’s envoy to the Middle East, threw in five more emojis—like it was a football game. This is not leadership. This is lunacy.

Witkoff, by the way, doesn’t even hold a cabinet position, but he was in the group. Treated like a “principal.” This man openly fawns over Vladimir Putin, and recently claimed on live TV that Putin commissioned a portrait of Trump and prayed for him at church. That’s who Waltz was trading military strategy with. A Putin fanboy who dreams of a U.S.–Russia alliance in oil, gas, and AI, while dismissing the idea that Russia poses any threat to Europe.

Let me ask plainly: if Waltz is this careless with war plans, what else is he careless with? Our alliances? Our troops? Our democracy? If you give a fool a sword, don’t be surprised when someone bleeds.

And don’t mistake this for partisanship. This is about basic competence. About knowing the difference between war plans and WhatsApp jokes. If this had been a Democrat, conservatives would’ve gone nuclear. But because it’s Trump’s man, we’re supposed to shrug and say “boys will be boys”? Not this time.

Even the National Security Council scrambled to explain it away, calling it “inadvertent.” Really? That’s the best we’ve got? What if Goldberg had tweeted the messages? What if foreign intelligence picked it up? What if lives were lost because Waltz can’t tell the difference between a journalist and a general?

The U.S. military has protocols for a reason. This wasn’t a glitch in the system—it was a glitch in judgment. A breach of trust. A failure of leadership.

So again, let Waltz apologize—publicly, sincerely, and humbly. Let him stand before the American people and admit that he screwed up. Not a “notes app” apology. Not a half-hearted statement through a spokesperson. A real apology. Because that’s what adults do. That’s what leaders do. That’s what people who respect their jobs do.

But if he stays silent or arrogant, then he must go. No fanfare. No honor. Just pack up and leave. America is not a frat house where your status buys you protection. This is the highest level of national security. And if you can’t keep your chat secure, you don’t belong at the table.

Because at the end of the day, if Mike Waltz can leak war plans with the same fingers he uses to send emojis, then maybe his next job should be hosting a podcast—not advising the President of the United States.

Unlike President Trump’s Tariff Model, The Free Market Fights Dirty—And That’s Why It Wins

Protectionism is the graveyard of ambition—every economy buried under it stopped competing, stopped innovating, and started decaying. In contrast, a free market doesn’t coddle mediocrity—it crushes it, and that’s exactly why it works. In plain English, if you need government shielding to stay in business, you don’t deserve to be in business—go compete or go extinct.

Tariffs may sound like tough love, but in Trump’s economy, it’s more like a toxic relationship—loud promises, high drama, and a painful breakup waiting to happen.

President Trump’s obsession with reviving American manufacturing through tariffs and tax credits is like trying to fix a flat tire by pumping it full of hot air. He may think these protectionist tools are the golden keys to economic greatness, but anyone who’s taken a basic econ class knows better. It’s not tax breaks or tariff walls that build a nation’s innovation engine. It’s competition. Pure, brutal, relentless competition—the kind that sharpens ideas, slashes waste, and fuels breakthroughs.

But Trump wants to put U.S. companies on life support, shielding them from foreign rivals like overprotected toddlers in a playground brawl. In his world, a tariff is a warm blanket, not a barrier to growth. He’s rolling out tax credits and depreciation rules like candy at a parade, convinced that corporate handouts will somehow trigger a manufacturing miracle. But they won’t. Because countries don’t invent the future through subsidies—they compete for it. When you block out global challengers, you also block out urgency, and urgency is the father of invention.

Let’s call it what it is: the President is sweet-talking the economy into stagnation.

Back in 1890, President William McKinley tried a similar trick with his tariffs. The result? A recession that nearly tanked the country. Britain, on the other hand, went all in on free trade, mechanized its factories, and outpaced rivals. The lesson? Tariffs may help politicians win elections, but they rarely help nations win the future.

Today, Trump is turning back that same dusty page of economic history, and expecting a different ending. He slapped tariffs on Canadian steel and Chinese electronics, jacking up prices across the board. Consumers got hammered. Small businesses had to choose between layoffs and bankruptcy. And what did the President do? He cheered as if something great had happened—like a man clapping after lighting his own house on fire.

Even when companies like Nvidia announce massive U.S. investments, let’s be honest—it’s not patriotism. It’s panic. They’re scared stiff of the trade chaos Trump’s created. They aren’t innovating because they’re inspired; they’re fleeing uncertainty. It’s damage control, not dynamism. And when companies invest to avoid tariffs instead of to outsmart their competitors, the innovation edge dulls.

I have heard the argument: “We’re protecting American workers!” But tariffs don’t protect workers. They protect inefficiency. A worker in a factory shielded from global competition becomes like a muscle never exercised. Eventually, it weakens. Then what happens when the protection ends? Mass layoffs, empty plants, and another government bailout.

The free market works for a simple reason—it forces you to be better, or get out of the way. When you compete globally, you can’t be lazy. You can’t overcharge. You can’t fall behind in technology. You either innovate or you evaporate. That’s how we got the smartphone revolution, Tesla, cloud computing, and mRNA vaccines. Not from tariffs, but from a ruthless race to be first, fastest, and best.

Trump, however, wants to turn this race into a backyard picnic, where only the invited guests get the goodies, and the rest are locked outside. That’s not capitalism. That’s cronyism in a red hat.

And don’t forget what tariffs actually do to ordinary people. They raise prices—period. Poor and middle-class families end up paying more for everything from food to furniture. It’s a tax in disguise. Trump might not want to call it that, but when your groceries go up and your paycheck doesn’t, it doesn’t take a Ph.D. to see the con.

Tax credits? Sure, they sound nice. But they reward the wrong thing. You don’t get ahead by handing out favors to whoever screams the loudest on K Street. You get ahead by letting the best idea win. You get ahead by making companies fight for every dollar and forcing them to improve or die trying.

If Trump really wanted to unleash America’s innovative spirit, he’d tear down trade barriers, not build them. He’d tell companies: “No more safety nets. No more sweetheart deals. If you want to lead the world, prove it.” That’s the only way to reignite the creative fire that once made this country a global powerhouse.

Instead, he’s playing matchmaker with mediocrity. He’s cuddling up with tariffs and calling it strength. He’s flirting with economic nationalism while real innovators are sprinting ahead in places like Germany, South Korea, and Taiwan—countries that know competition isn’t the enemy, it’s the coach.

Let me put it plain: America didn’t get to the moon on subsidies. We got there because we were in a race—and failure wasn’t an option.

So when Trump wraps himself in the flag of economic patriotism, just remember the old proverb: “Empty barrels make the loudest noise.” He can bang his tariff drum all day long, but it won’t create a single new idea, or a single world-beating product. It’ll only lull the economy into a nap we can’t afford.

And when the music stops—when the tariffs bite back, when the credits dry up, when companies realize they’ve been pampered into uselessness—President Trump’s love affair with protectionism will collapse faster than a Made-in-America plastic chair.

Rome wasn’t built with tax credits. It was built with ambition, competition, and grit. If Trump wants to make America great again, he should start by letting it compete. Otherwise, we’ll keep throwing punches at our own reflection and wondering why the world left us behind.

And as for his love story with tariffs? Well, even fairy tales come with a wicked twist—and this one ends with the prince charming himself into a recession.