Your Youth Is Gone. Stop Asking It to Come Back.

 

Modern America has declared war on aging. We now live in a culture where aging must be denied, disguised, Botoxed, filtered, dyed, injected, surgically tightened, digitally edited, motivationally rebranded, and finally buried underneath slogans about how “age is just a number.” Botox is ammunition, filters are camouflage, and denial is the battle cry—but biology keeps winning.

 

Let’s face it, guys: there are things you are now too old to pretend you still love them.

There. I said it.

I know somebody just got offended. Good. Sometimes the truth has to kick the door open because nostalgia keeps changing the locks.

I am talking about those of us who have crossed 50 and occasionally catch ourselves staring backward like escaped prisoners looking at the fence. We remember Friday nights when Friday night actually meant something. We remember loud music. Packed clubs. House parties. Road trips planned with $37 and absolutely no common sense. We remember staying awake until 3:00 a.m., sleeping for 4 hours, getting up, taking a shower, and somehow functioning like nothing happened.

We remember flirting without reading glasses.

We remember dancing without wondering what our knees would say about it tomorrow morning.

And, yes, we miss some of it.

Science practically expects us to. Researchers have documented something called the “reminiscence bump,” the strange tendency for people to remember a disproportionate number of experiences from adolescence and early adulthood. One large study involving nearly 3,500 participants found this pattern clearly. Another study using data from 3,088 people between ages 50 and 107 found that 80% reported important memories from ages 20–29, compared with 47%–66% for other periods of life.

So when I sit somewhere at 53 and suddenly remember the music, clothes, parties, girlfriends, friends, foolish adventures, and reckless confidence of 22, my brain is not malfunctioning.

My brain is doing exactly what human brains do.

But here is where things get ridiculous.

Remembering 22 is not the same thing as being 22.

That distinction has apparently become offensive in modern America. We now live in a culture where aging must be denied, disguised, Botoxed, filtered, dyed, injected, surgically tightened, digitally edited, motivationally rebranded, and finally buried underneath slogans about how “age is just a number.”

Of course age is a number.

So is your blood pressure.

Try telling your doctor numbers do not matter.

I can appreciate youth without filing an application to rejoin it. I can hear a song from my younger years, turn it up, smile, remember exactly where I was when I first heard it, and still understand that I do not need to recreate the entire night. That is memory. That is nostalgia. That is being human.

But when a 63-year-old man squeezes himself into nightclub clothes, arrives at 11:30 p.m., orders shots, starts yelling over music loud enough to rearrange his dental fillings, and announces, “Man, I still got it!” I have questions.

Got what?

Ibuprofen?

Because we may need it.

The body keeps receipts.

The National Institute on Aging reports that muscle mass and strength generally reach their peak around ages 30–35. After that, muscle power and physical performance gradually decline, with the decline accelerating later in life. That does not mean we become helpless at 50. Far from it. Exercise and strength training can preserve function, health, mobility, and independence as we age.

But biology does not negotiate because I found my old leather jacket.

My 20-year-old self could jump out of bed after a wild night and ask, “What are we doing tonight?”

My 50-year-old self may wake up after sleeping wrong and ask, “Who attacked my neck?”

Nobody attacked my neck.

The pillow won.

That is aging.

And there is nothing shameful about it.

What is strange is pretending it is not happening.

Take alcohol. In our 20s, drinking could become an event. Somebody shouted, “Another round!” and suddenly everybody became an economist explaining why spending another $80 was financially responsible.

At 50?

“Another round!”

My liver looks across the room and whispers, “Don’t you dare.”

There is biology behind that joke. The National Institute on Aging warns that alcohol can affect people differently as they grow older because aging changes how the body handles it. The same amount someone tolerated when younger may have a stronger effect later. Alcohol can also interact with medications and increase risks involving balance, falls, fractures, and crashes.

In other words, Jack Daniel’s did not change.

We did.

That is the part nostalgia conveniently edits out.

Nostalgia is Hollywood.

It remembers the soundtrack and deletes the hangover.

It remembers the nightclub but forgets standing outside for 40 minutes.

It remembers the beautiful woman across the room but forgets that she ignored me.

It remembers the road trip but deletes the broken-down car.

It remembers being young but somehow forgets being broke.

That is why I refuse to worship my younger years. I enjoyed them. I treasure them. I would not erase them.

But I will not lie about them.

Research makes the nostalgia trap even more interesting. One analysis of 16 published autobiographies identified 1,911 life events. Although the period from ages 18–32 represented only about 22.77% of the authors’ lives at the time their autobiographies were published, events from those years occupied about 42.52% of their autobiographical pages.

Think about that.

Youth can occupy more mental real estate than the calendar says it deserves.

No wonder somebody turns 55 and suddenly decides 1989 was civilization’s greatest achievement.

The music was better.

The parties were better.

Dating was better.

Cars were better.

People were nicer.

Everybody had more fun.

Really?

Or were we younger?

That is the question nobody wants to ask.

Maybe the nightclub did not contain magic.

Maybe I supplied the magic because I was 23.

Maybe that ordinary song became extraordinary because I heard it while falling in love. Maybe that cheap restaurant became legendary because my friends were there. Maybe that rusty car became priceless because freedom was sitting behind its steering wheel.

The object was not always special.

The age was.

That is why recreating the object cannot necessarily recreate the feeling.

I can buy the same record.

I cannot buy 1994.

I can visit the old neighborhood.

I cannot purchase my old nervous system.

I can find the same bar, assuming somebody has not turned it into luxury apartments.

I cannot walk through the door as the man I was at 25.

That man is gone.

And that is okay.

The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics gives us another useful reality check. In 2025, Americans ages 45–54 averaged about 4.30 hours per day in leisure and sports activities, while those ages 55–64 averaged 5.21 hours. So aging does not mean fun disappears. But the way leisure is spent changes. People ages 45–54 averaged 2.26 hours of television per day, compared with 1.77 hours among those ages 15–24. Meanwhile, the younger group spent much more time playing games and participating in sports, exercise, and recreation.

Translation?

Fun did not die.

It changed clothes.

That is where I think people over 50 make themselves miserable. We sometimes compare today’s pleasures against yesterday’s adrenaline.

That is an unfair fight.

At 21, excitement may have meant getting into a packed club at midnight.

At 51, excitement may mean finally paying off the mortgage.

Try telling a 22-year-old that.

“Dude, I had an incredible weekend.”

“What happened?”

“I refinanced at a lower rate.”

He will stare at me as if I escaped from a nursing home.

But wait until he is 51.

Suddenly, financial security can produce emotions no nightclub DJ ever managed.

And let me say something even more controversial: some things are supposed to become less appealing.

I should not desperately need the approval of strangers at 50.

I should not need to be seen at the hottest club.

I should not need to prove I can drink everybody under the table.

I should not chase every fashion designed for somebody whose birth year begins with 20.

I should not confuse attention with attraction, noise with excitement, or exhaustion with fun.

Most importantly, I should not be embarrassed because my definition of pleasure matured.

There is dignity in saying, “I had my turn.”

That does not mean surrender.

It means evolution.

I can travel. Dance. Exercise. Date, if single. Go to concerts. Wear fashionable clothes. Learn new technology. Start businesses. Make new friends. Fall in love – if I’m single. Stay out late occasionally. Laugh until my stomach hurts. Do ridiculous things.

Age 50 is not a funeral.

But neither is it age 20 with gray hair.

That distinction matters.

Even sleep refuses to participate in our fantasy. The CDC says adults ages 18–60 should generally get at least 7 hours of sleep per day, while those ages 61–64 are advised to get 7–9 hours. Yet somehow we celebrate the middle-aged warrior who parties until 4:00 a.m. as proof that age has not caught him.

Congratulations.

You defeated bedtime.

History will remember your sacrifice.

I would rather accept reality.

I miss some things about being young precisely because they are gone. Their disappearance gives them value. If I could recreate them every Saturday, they would stop being memories and become appointments.

The real danger begins when nostalgia becomes denial.

That is when the 50-year-old starts competing with the 25-year-old.

Bad game.

Wrong opponent.

I do not need to prove that I can party harder than somebody half my age. I have something he does not have.

I have survived long enough to know which parties were never worth attending.

There is power in that.

So, yes, I may miss those wild teenage years. I may miss my 20s. I may even miss parts of my 30s. I can miss them deeply. I can hear an old song and feel the years collapse for 4 minutes. I can remember old friends, old loves, old mistakes, old cars, old streets, old dreams.

Then the song ends.

And I come back.

Because nostalgia should be a place I visit, not an address where I move back in.

Let’s face it, guys: there are things we are now too old to pretend we still love them. Not because life after 50 is boring. Not because pleasure has an expiration date. Not because we should surrender to rocking chairs and orthopedic shoes.

Because we have earned the right to stop performing youth.

I do not want to be 22 again.

I want to remember being 22.

There is a difference.

At 22, I wanted the night to never end.

At 50, I understand something my younger self could not possibly understand.

Every party ends.

The lights come on. The music stops. Somebody stacks the chairs. Somebody sweeps the floor. Everybody eventually goes home.

The tragedy is not that the party ended.

The tragedy is being the last man standing in an empty room, still dancing, pretending the music is playing.

This article stands on its own, but some readers may also enjoy the titles in my “Brief Book Series”. Read it here on Google Play or in Barnes & Noble bookstore: Brief Book Series.

 

America’s Midterm Reckoning: The Price Tag at the Ballot Box

 

America’s Senate may be decided by empty wallets, $4 gas, crime fear, and grocery receipts screaming louder than every campaign lie. Indeed, the GOP faces a brutal checkout-line reckoning: voters are broke, afraid, angry, and ready to make somebody pay.

I have watched politicians promise the moon while voters stood in a grocery aisle counting dollars like they were counting rosary beads. That is the American election in its rawest form. Forget the polished speeches. Forget the campaign music. Forget the flag pins, the television panels, and the fake smiles that look like they were stapled onto somebody’s face. The political wind in America runs on four brutal things: cheap gas, cheap food, cheap groceries, and low crime.

Everything else is background noise until those four things go bad.

A voter can hear a senator talk about freedom, foreign policy, border walls, climate, taxes, democracy, and the soul of America. Then that same voter walks into a supermarket and sees a bag of groceries that used to cost $80 now chewing up $130. Suddenly, the soul of America looks a lot like a receipt. A long, ugly receipt.

The 2026 election is scheduled for November 3. From September 29, that is roughly 5 weeks away. In several states, early-voting activity begins this week or shortly after, depending on state law. That means the race is no longer sitting in a smoke-filled back room. It is walking out the door. Votes are about to start locking in while cable-news clowns are still arguing over who “won the week.”

So, will the GOP lose the Senate?

I would not bet my rent money on a clean answer. The Senate is not the House. The House can move like a bar fight: one national mood, one bad economy, one presidential headache, and seats fall everywhere. The Senate is meaner, smaller, and more local. It is 1 candidate at a time, 1 state at a time, 1 mistake at a time. A national blue wave can crash into a red-state Senate race and break like cheap glass.

But the Republicans are walking into this election with a problem that no press secretary can explain away: people do not live inside economic statistics. They live inside their checking accounts.

The Bureau of Labor Statistics reported that consumer prices rose 0.4% in August 2026, while unemployment stood at 4.1%. On paper, 4.1% unemployment does not look like an economic funeral. It looks manageable. But voters do not eat unemployment rates. They eat eggs, chicken, beef, rice, bread, vegetables, milk, and whatever is still left after the rent gets paid. Food prices were rising around 3.0% over the prior year, according to the latest economic reporting. That is not a Wall Street problem. That is a kitchen-table ambush.

Gasoline is the same kind of political poison. In August, average gasoline prices were reported around $4.19 per gallon, up from about $4.06 in July. A 13-cent increase may look small to a political consultant who rides in a black SUV on somebody else’s budget. To the rideshare driver, the delivery worker, the nursing assistant, the warehouse employee, and the parent driving children to school, it is another hand in the pocket.

Gas is not just gas. Gas is the price of getting to work. It is the price of food getting to the store. It is the price of every delivery truck, every plumber’s van, every contractor’s pickup, and every late-night run to the pharmacy. When gas goes up, it does not knock politely. It kicks in the front door and raids the whole household budget.

That is why politicians fear the gas pump. The pump has no party loyalty. It does not care whether a voter watches Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, TikTok, or nothing at all. It flashes a number in bright red digits, and every voter understands the language.

“I do not need an economist,” the voter says. “I need this tank to stop robbing me.”

That sentence can flip a seat.

History keeps leaving fingerprints on this crime scene. In the 2010 midterm election, with anger still boiling after the financial crisis and unemployment remaining painfully high, Republicans gained 6 Senate seats and 63 House seats. The economy was not the only issue, but it was the loudest drum in the parade. Voters blamed the party in power because that is what voters do. When the house is on fire, they do not hold a seminar on the wiring. They throw somebody out the window.

In 2014, President Barack Obama’s party took another beating. Republicans gained 9 Senate seats. Turnout was only 36.4%, the lowest midterm turnout since 1942. The GOP did not need every American to love them. They needed enough unhappy people to show up while disappointed Democrats stayed home. That is how politics works when hope runs out of gas. One side storms the polling place. The other side stares at the ceiling and says, “What is the point?”

Then came 2018. Democrats won back the House with a gain of 41 seats. Donald Trump was in the White House, and the backlash was real. But the Senate told a different story. Republicans gained 2 Senate seats because the map favored them. That is the Senate’s dirty little secret: national anger matters, but geography can wear a bulletproof vest.

The 2022 election gave both parties another lesson. Inflation was high. Gas was expensive. Crime was a major concern. Republicans smelled a red wave. They talked like the Democrats were already buried. Then the wave arrived with a broken surfboard. Republicans won the House, but by a narrow margin. Democrats held the Senate. Abortion rights, candidate quality, and fear of political extremism cut through the economic anger.

That is why I do not buy the lazy argument that cheap groceries alone decide every election. They matter enormously. They can decide whether a voter is open to change. But they do not erase everything else. A voter can be furious over the price of ground beef and still refuse to vote for a candidate he considers reckless, dishonest, cruel, or flat-out unfit for office.

Crime works the same way. Low crime creates calm. High crime creates political opportunity for whoever sounds toughest, whether that person has a real plan or just a louder mouth. If people feel unsafe walking to their car, waiting at a bus stop, or sending their child to school, they will not be soothed by a politician saying crime data improved somewhere else. Perception can be a political weapon. A city may show a decline in certain violent-crime categories, yet voters may still see videos of robberies, carjackings, assaults, and random violence every day. The numbers may be real. The fear is real too.

And fear votes.

The GOP’s weakness is that it owns the governing burden now. Republicans cannot spend every day acting like angry outsiders while holding power. That trick has an expiration date. If voters feel gasoline is too high, food is too expensive, groceries are still punishing families, and public safety is shaky, then the party in charge gets served the bill.

Democrats, however, should not start measuring the drapes. They have their own problem. Voters may blame Republicans for the present and still distrust Democrats with the future. Independents are the hinge. They do not march like party loyalists. They shop, commute, pay bills, watch the news, get disgusted, and sometimes vote like they are firing a contractor.

“If both parties messed up,” the independent voter says, “why should I hire either one again?”

That is the question hanging over the Senate.

I see three possible endings. A blue wave happens if affordability pain becomes unbearable, Republican candidates stumble, Democrats keep their coalition awake, and independents decide the GOP has had enough time to fix the mess. A split happens if Democrats gain ground in the House while Republicans hold enough Senate seats through red-state advantages, local candidates, and close races. The third ending is the ugly one: chaos. A few Senate contests decided by razor-thin margins, lawsuits, recounts, television lawyers yelling into cameras, and each party claiming the republic will collapse if it loses.

Nobody knows which ending America gets. Anybody who tells you he knows is probably selling a poll, a podcast, or a prayer.

But I know this much. Voters may forgive a politician for a bad speech. They may forgive a policy mistake. They may even forgive a scandal if they think the other side is worse. But they do not easily forgive being broke at the gas pump, humiliated at the grocery checkout, or scared in their own neighborhood.

That is where this Senate fight will be won or lost: not in Washington, not in a donor ballroom, not in a television studio. It will be decided under fluorescent grocery-store lights, beside a gas pump, and in neighborhoods where people are tired of being told that things are fine when their wallets are screaming otherwise.

 

This article stands on its own, but some readers may also enjoy the titles in my “Brief Book Series”. Read it here on Google Play or in Barnes & Noble bookstore: Brief Book Series.

 

Scroll, Laugh, Repeat: Why Nigerians Are Abandoning Nollywood for Online Content Creators

 

Nigeria’s movie empire is under siege: independent creators with phones and jokes are taking viewers Nollywood can no longer command. For Nigeria’s hungry content creators, YouTube has become the new stage, studio, and money machine: just hang your star there and watch how brightly it shines—or shock the world.

I have watched the Nigerian entertainment market change its clothes in public. Yesterday, Nollywood was the big man in the room. It owned the DVD stall, the satellite channel, the cinema poster, and the family sitting room. Today, the phone has entered that room without knocking. It has sat in Nollywood’s favorite chair, grabbed the remote, and announced, “Move over. We are watching Chief Imo.”

That is the ugly truth. For Nigeria’s content creators, the Internet and AI age has become a lucrative do-it-yourself operation. I do not need a studio gatekeeper, a film distributor, a cinema owner, or a television executive with a fat stomach and a thin imagination. I need a phone camera, a ring light, a sharp idea, an editor, an Internet connection, and enough madness to keep posting when nobody is watching. Then I hang my star on YouTube or TikTok and wait to see whether it shines—or crashes into the gutter.

The old entertainment business was built like a palace. Too many doors. Too many guards. Too many people collecting money before the artist got paid. Nollywood producers raised funds, rented cameras, hired actors, fought with electricity, battled piracy, prayed for distribution, and then hoped the film would find an audience before the pirates found it first. The creator economy has kicked down that door. It is not perfect. It is not clean. But it is fast, cheap, and ruthless.

A skit maker can write a comedy about a foolish landlord in the morning, shoot it at noon, edit it in the afternoon, and upload it before dinner. By nightfall, Nigerians in Lagos, Abuja, Enugu, Port Harcourt, Baltimore, London, and Toronto can be laughing at the same foolish landlord. That speed is murder for the old movie model. A Nollywood film can spend months crawling through writing, casting, shooting, postproduction, marketing, and distribution. Meanwhile, a creator with a cracked phone screen has already made 20 jokes about the same social problem and collected the audience’s laughter, comments, shares, and money.

I see this shift every time a Nigerian opens YouTube “for just 5 minutes” and wakes up 2 hours later. Nobody begins with a plan to watch 14 videos. The algorithm makes the plan. One clip of Chief Imo Comedy becomes another. Then comes “Oga Sabinus”, with his helpless face and perfect talent for turning stupidity into a business plan. Then Mark Angel Comedy appears with a child delivering a line sharper than a knife. Then Brain Jotter walks in looking confused, which is often the beginning of trouble. Sydney Talker arrives with his loud, elastic expressions. Taaooma becomes 6 family members in one video and exposes the Nigerian home with the accuracy of a police investigator. Kiekie storms in with her theatrical confidence. “Josh2Funny” adds musical nonsense, character comedy, and chaos. Mr Macaroni enters with his “freaky freaky” manner and reminds viewers that Nigerian comedy can also carry a political punch.

These creators are not merely entertainers. They are small media companies wearing sneakers. They act, write, direct, edit, market, read comments, chase trends, negotiate brand deals, and study the audience’s appetite like market women studying tomatoes. They know that the audience does not owe them patience. If the first five seconds are dull, the viewer swipes away. If the joke is slow, the viewer leaves. If the story feels fake, the comment section will beat the creator like a rented drum.

That pressure has made online comedy and reality-style content more direct than many Nollywood films. The content is short. The characters are familiar. The problems are local. The mother shouts. The landlord lies. The boyfriend cheats. The pastor performs. The police officer demands “something small.” The unemployed graduate is desperate. The rich man is foolish. The poor man is also foolish, but in a more affordable way. Nigerians recognize these people because they meet them every day.

This is why I say Nollywood should worry. Not because Nigerians have suddenly stopped watching films, but because most viewers now give their quickest attention, loudest laughter, and strongest loyalty to independent creators. The word “most” is difficult to prove with a single nationwide survey, and I will not manufacture evidence to make a dramatic sentence sound respectable. But the direction is plain: the independent creator has become a serious rival for Nigerian screen time. That is the battlefield that matters.

DataReportal reported that YouTube advertisements reached 25.3% of Nigeria’s Internet users in January 2025. That is not a small side street. It is a major highway. The same report placed YouTube’s advertising reach at 11.5% of Nigeria’s total population. Those figures do not count every person who watches shared phones, downloaded clips, reposts, or videos circulated through WhatsApp. In Nigeria, one smartphone can become a neighborhood cinema. One person watches, 4 others lean over, and everybody laughs before the owner of the phone gets it back.

TikTok has made the attack even more brutal. TikTok does not ask a viewer to commit to a 2-hour film. It asks for 20 seconds. That is how it gets you. A quick skit becomes another skit. A dance clip becomes a fake sermon. A street interview becomes an argument about marriage, money, tribal identity, or bad government. By the time the viewer realizes what happened, the evening has gone missing.

AI is now adding another weapon. A young creator can use AI to draft captions, generate subtitles, clean audio, translate dialogue, design thumbnails, create visual effects, and test titles. AI cannot automatically make somebody funny. A machine can produce words, but it cannot fully understand the wicked pause before Chief Imo’s next line or the social insult hiding inside a Sabinus reaction. Still, AI cuts the cost of production. It gives a lone creator more tools than a small production company had 10 years ago. That is not magic. It is leverage.

Nollywood has been here before. Its original strength was always speed, low budgets, and local stories. In the 1990s and 2000s, it bypassed the expensive cinema system through direct-to-video films. According to a 2007 Wired report, Nollywood was producing roughly 2,400 films yearly, often with budgets between $5,000 and $10,000. The industry grew because it understood something simple: Nigerians wanted stories that sounded like home. Now independent creators are using that same old Nollywood instinct against Nollywood itself.

The irony is thick enough to cut with a machete. Nollywood built an empire by bypassing old entertainment gatekeepers. Now YouTube and TikTok creators are bypassing Nollywood’s own gatekeepers. The hunter has become the goat.

Still, I do not think Nollywood is dead. That would be lazy talk. Nollywood still has actors, production skill, deep stories, cinema successes, television deals, and a global diaspora audience. What it has lost is its automatic crown. It can no longer assume that a Nigerian viewer will sit through a weak 1-hour film simply because it has familiar actors and a dramatic title. The viewer now has alternatives. Fast alternatives. Funny alternatives. Free alternatives.

The creator does not need permission. That is the real danger. The creator can fail today, learn tonight, post tomorrow, and win next week. Nollywood often moves like a government office. The independent creator moves like a bus conductor chasing the last passenger at night. One is waiting for approval. The other is already gone.

In this new Nigeria, talent has become less democratic than people claim. The platforms still reward noise, outrage, repetition, and sometimes plain foolishness. Many creators earn little, despite the glamour. The Guardian reported in 2026 that more than 50% of African creators earn less than $100 a month. So I will not sell a fairy tale. YouTube is not a gold mine for everybody. It is a crowded street where thousands sing, dance, joke, and beg the algorithm to look their way.

But for the ones who break through, the message is cold and clear. I do not need Nollywood to make me visible. I can make the audience my distributor. I can make my phone my studio. I can make my comments section my focus group. And if Nollywood refuses to adapt, it may discover that the loudest laughter in Nigeria is no longer coming from its movie sets. It is coming from a phone in somebody’s hand.

 

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America Wants Its Backbone Back: Why Nearly Half the Nation Misses the Old Rules

 

Nearly half of Americans would trade modern convenience for an era when parents led, schools disciplined, churches mattered, and criminals feared consequences.

I understand the temptation. I really do. Nearly half of Americans say they would rather live in the past, especially when they think about parental authority, teenage behavior, school discipline, religion, and crime. They look at the present like it is a filthy subway car at midnight: loud, foul-smelling, overcrowded, and headed somewhere nobody trusts.

Then they look backward and see a clean front porch, a father with a belt, a mother with rules, a teacher with a stern face, a pastor with a Bible, and children who supposedly said “Yes, sir” before they knew how to roll their eyes.

It is a powerful picture.

It is also partly a lie.

Not a complete lie. That is what makes it dangerous. The past had things that many people now miss: clearer boundaries, stronger neighborhood ties, less digital noise, and a public expectation that children were not tiny emperors with smartphones. But nostalgia is a smooth-talking con artist. It shows us the old family photograph and hides the unpaid bills, the domestic violence, the racial terror, the untreated depression, the drunk driver, the locked closet, and the child who learned fear before he learned multiplication.

Still, people are not crazy for wanting to go back. They are responding to something real. They are sick of living in a country where every child carries a glowing machine that can deliver porn, gambling, humiliation, political propaganda, and strangers into his bedroom before breakfast. They are sick of watching adults negotiate with 7-year-olds as if every bedtime is a United Nations summit. They are sick of schools that sometimes seem more afraid of disciplining a student than the student is of disrupting a classroom.

“Back in my day,” the older man says, shaking his head.

“Back in your day, you had lead paint and polio,” somebody answers.

Both men are right. That is the ugly joke.

Science and technology have improved life beyond anything our grandparents could have imagined. Americans live longer than they did in the early 20th century. Vaccines wiped out smallpox and pushed polio, the disease that once terrified parents every summer, to the edge of extinction in the United States. Antibiotics turned many infections from death sentences into routine doctor visits. Modern surgery repairs hearts, replaces joints, and saves premature babies who would once have been buried before their first birthday. A smartphone can call an ambulance, translate a language, locate a missing child, teach algebra, and connect a lonely person to the world.

But that same smartphone can turn a teenager into a sleep-deprived hostage of algorithms designed by men in expensive hoodies.

That is the bargain nobody read before signing.

A 2026 report on an NBC News survey of 3,009 Americans ages 18 to 29 found that 47% said they would prefer to live in the past. These are not old men in barbershops dreaming about rotary phones. These are young adults who grew up with Wi-Fi in the walls. Many pointed to constant subscriptions, invasive devices, addictive social media, weak product quality, artificial intelligence anxiety, and a sense that modern technology no longer serves people. It watches them. It sells them. It needles them. It keeps them anxious, broke, distracted, and permanently available.

The machine was supposed to make life easier. Instead, it made life noisier.

I do not think people mainly want to return to 1955, 1975, or 1995. I think they want to return to a time when the rules felt visible. A child misbehaved in class, and an adult stopped it. A teenager came home late, and there were consequences. A neighbor saw a child acting foolishly and felt free to correct him. A family attended church, synagogue, mosque, or another gathering place where people knew each other’s names and business. The system was not always fair. But it was legible.

Today, too much feels like a foggy courtroom where nobody knows the charge, the judge, or the rules.

Parents feel that loss first. Pew Research Center reported in 2023 that 43% of parents said they were raising their children similarly to how they were raised, while 44% said they were trying to do things differently. That is almost an even split. It tells me something important: America is not merely fighting about parenting. America is unsure what parenting is supposed to be.

One camp sees discipline and hears “abuse.” The other sees empathy and hears “weakness.” One says, “That child needs structure.” The other says, “That child needs understanding.” Meanwhile, the child is in the corner watching TikTok and learning that every limit is oppression.

Let us call a spade a spade. Some parents have become scared of being parents. They want to be liked. They want to be the cool mother, the gentle father, the household ambassador who explains every rule in four paragraphs. But children do not need a public-relations team. They need love with a backbone. They need to know that “no” is a complete sentence and that freedom without responsibility is just a playground with no fence near a highway.

That does not mean we should romanticize the belt, the paddle, or the slap. The old ways were often cruel. In many homes, “discipline” was a fancy word for adults dumping rage on smaller people who could not fight back. In too many schools, harsh punishment fell hardest on Black students, disabled students, poor students, and children already struggling under heavy burdens. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that 19.3% of high-school students said they had received unfair discipline during the previous 12 months in a 2021 survey. The past was not some golden schoolhouse where every teacher was wise and every punishment was just.

But the answer to unfair discipline is fair discipline. It is not no discipline.

Teachers know this. The National Education Association reported in 2025 that 4 out of 5 educators and education support professionals viewed student behavior as a serious problem. That is not a right-wing slogan. That is a distress signal from people standing in classrooms every day. A teacher cannot teach fractions while breaking up fights, begging students to remove headphones, and dodging profanity from children who know the system has tied the adult’s hands.

A school without order is not progressive. It is a warehouse.

Then there is religion. Many Americans miss it, even when they do not miss the theology. They miss the rhythm. They miss the moral vocabulary. They miss the idea that not everything is negotiable, marketable, or subject to a comment section vote. When religion weakens, people do not automatically become wicked. But they can become untethered. They start building their morality out of brand slogans, political tribes, celebrity moods, and whatever gets applause online.

Gallup found that 49% of Americans said religion was important in their daily lives in 2025, down from 66% in 2015. That is a 17-point drop in 10 years. Some people celebrate that as liberation. Maybe part of it is. Religious institutions have earned plenty of distrust through hypocrisy, scandal, greed, and politics dressed in Sunday clothes. But a country cannot remove its old moral furniture, throw it into the street, and then act surprised when people have nowhere to sit.

Crime is where nostalgia becomes most deceptive. Americans often believe crime is rising even when national data show the opposite. Pew Research Center reported that FBI and Bureau of Justice Statistics data showed dramatic declines in violent and property crime from the early 1990s, when crime rates were much higher. The FBI reported that violent crime fell 4.5% in 2024, while murder fell 14.9%. Property crime fell 8.1%.

Those are facts.

But facts do not erase fear.

If a mother sees a video of a random assault on her phone, the fact that national violent crime has declined does not comfort her much. If a shop owner watches thieves strip shelves in broad daylight, a national chart feels like an insult. If a family hears gunshots at night, they are not going to say, “Well, the aggregate trend is encouraging.”

They will say, “What happened to this country?”

And that question is not really about crime statistics. It is about trust. Trust that adults are in charge. Trust that rules mean something. Trust that a child can go to school and learn. Trust that a police officer, a teacher, a parent, a pastor, and a neighbor all understand the difference between compassion and surrender.

The past was not better in every way. In many ways, it was brutal, sick, segregated, sexist, and unnecessarily cruel. I would not trade modern medicine, civil rights protections, women’s opportunities, disability access, or scientific progress for a black-and-white fantasy.

But I will not insult people by pretending their longing is stupid.

They do not miss every part of the past. They miss consequences. They miss community. They miss adults acting like adults. They miss a world where technology was a tool in the garage instead of a landlord in the mind.

America does not need a time machine. It needs nerve.

 

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Nigeria’s Lawmakers Want More Salary Amid Mass Joblessness

 

 

Nigeria’s lawmakers demand bigger paychecks while 133 million Nigerians starve, graduates roam jobless, and hospitals die—official looting dressed as entitlement. In plain terms, while families count coins for food, Nigeria’s lawmakers appear to be counting how much more the suffering nation can squeeze into their wallets. 

I have watched this Nigerian movie too many times. The country is sweating under the hot sun, the people are counting coins at the market, parents are cutting meals, graduates are roaming streets with folders like funeral programs, and federal lawmakers are sitting inside air-conditioned chambers asking, directly or indirectly, whether their feeding bottle should be upgraded.

More money?

For what exactly?

Nigeria’s federal legislators are already drinking from a very fat cup while millions of citizens are staring into empty pots. A Nigerian senator receives about N21 million, roughly $15,839, every month. A member of the House of Representatives reportedly receives about N19 million, about $14,331, monthly. Yes, the official figures published by the Revenue Mobilisation Allocation and Fiscal Commission(RMAFC) are much lower. The RMAFC said in 2024 that a senator’s monthly salary and listed allowances came to N1,063,860.

That is where the public argument becomes slippery.

The official document is one thing. The full political feeding arrangement is another thing entirely.

A Nigerian lawmaker does not live by basic salary alone. There are allowances. There are vehicles. There are official residences. There are aides. There is security. There are travel claims. There are duty-tour payments. There are furniture packages. There are medical benefits. There are loans. There are constituency projects. There are committees. There are the many dark corners where public money enters a government building and comes out looking like “welfare.”

In Abuja, the country’s federal capital territory where these lawmakers reside, a salary is often the small goat tied outside the compound. The real cow is inside.

The National Assembly does not need a pay raise. It needs a hard public audit, a bright light, and perhaps a mirror large enough for every senator and representative to see the country behind them.

Nigeria has 109 senators and 360 members of the House of Representatives. That is 469 elected federal lawmakers. They are not poor villagers trekking 10 miles to fetch water. They are among the most protected people in the republic. They have escorts. They have aides. They have access. They have power. They can summon ministers, delay budgets, approve loans, investigate agencies, and turn a simple letterhead into a weapon.

Yet too often, the same people who claim to represent suffering Nigerians behave like they were elected to represent the Nigerian treasury against Nigerians.

“Honorable, the people are hungry.”

“Bring the file.”

“The hospitals have no drugs.”

“Set up a committee.”

“The roads are killing people.”

“Let us conduct oversight.”

“The naira is bleeding.”

“Where is the SUV?”

That is the national conversation in one ugly little room.

The vehicle scandal captured the madness perfectly. In 2023, lawmakers faced public anger over plans connected to luxury and bulletproof vehicles. Reports put the National Assembly’s vehicle budget at N57.6 billion. The figure landed like a brick through a widow’s window. At the same time, the official remuneration package included a car loan of about N8.1 million for each senator, repayable before the end of tenure.

But apparently, that was not enough.

A man with a car loan wants another vehicle paid for by a country where many citizens cannot afford transport to work. A political class that lectures Nigerians about sacrifice wants armored comfort while ordinary people are squeezed into buses, tricycles, motorcycles, and danger.

That is not leadership. That is premium-seat patriotism.

The lawmakers and their defenders may say security is serious. They are correct. Nigeria has kidnappings, banditry, terrorism, violent crime, and deep political instability. But that is precisely the point. A country with frightened farmers, understaffed police stations, weak rural clinics, and dangerous highways should be careful about pouring billions into political comfort.

A bulletproof SUV does not fix a broken health center.

A polished convoy does not employ a hungry graduate.

A tinted window does not teach a child in a classroom with no roof.

And a senator cannot claim to be fighting poverty while driving past it in a vehicle that costs more than many communities will see in public investment.

The constituency allowance story is even more disturbing. Nigeria’s Senators and House members have reportedly received up to N2 billion and N1 billion annually, respectively, in constituency-related allocations and projects. Let us call this what it often becomes: a political cash river with too many unguarded bridges.

The idea behind constituency projects sounds clean. A lawmaker should help draw federal attention to the needs of the people who elected him or her. Fine. Nobody is against boreholes, clinics, classroom blocks, roads, skills programs, or rural electrification.

But in Nigeria, good ideas often enter the political kitchen and leave wearing a fake moustache.

A borehole may exist only in a press release. A skills program may produce 20 sewing machines for cameras and 200 campaign posters for the next election. A health-center renovation may be announced 3 times, funded 2 times, and completed never. A constituency project can become a private ATM with a ribbon-cutting ceremony attached.

That is why any talk of raising legislative pay is not merely insulting. It is dangerous. It tells public officials that opacity pays. It tells citizens that hardship has become normal. It tells young Nigerians that the fastest road to comfort is not invention, teaching, medicine, farming, engineering, or honest business. It is politics.

Get elected. Enter Abuja. Find the allowance menu. Eat.

The country has seen this pattern before. Nigeria’s political economy has long rewarded public office more generously than productive work. The result is a desperate scramble for office, not because everyone loves public service, but because public office can function like a private oil well with a national flag on top.

Meanwhile, the World Bank reported that about 133 million Nigerians were living in multidimensional poverty in 2022. That figure was not a joke. It represented real people struggling with food, schooling, sanitation, housing, health care, electricity, and survival. In 2024, the World Bank also warned that economic hardship and inflation were pushing more Nigerians into poverty.

So let me understand the moral logic. A mother cannot afford food. A worker’s wages disappear before the month ends. A student studies by candlelight. A small business owner pays for fuel, generator repairs, taxes, transport, and insecurity. Then a federal legislator looks at this burning house and says, “My compensation package may need improvement.”

Improve what?

The leather seats?

The convoy fuel?

The number of aides carrying phones behind him?

The Nigerian people are not fools. They can count. They may not know every line item hidden inside a budget document, but they know when their representatives are living like kings in a country that keeps asking peasants to be patient.

Patience has become the national tax.

Citizens pay it at petrol stations. They pay it in hospitals. They pay it in overcrowded classrooms. They pay it when their children graduate into unemployment. They pay it when a public official says, “We feel your pain,” then climbs into a government SUV and disappears behind sirens.

The performance question makes the whole thing worse. Reports covering legislative activity in 2025 and 2026 found that 4 senators and 48 House members recorded no debates, bills, or petitions during the period reviewed. No debate. No bill. No petition.

Nothing.

A lawmaker with no visible legislative contribution is not a representative. He is expensive furniture.

Imagine any Nigerian worker trying that trick.

A teacher teaches nothing for a year. A doctor sees no patient. A driver makes no trip. A mechanic repairs no car. A banker processes no transaction. A journalist writes no story.

Would they receive more money?

Nigeria’s lawmakers should not be discussing salary increases until every kobo connected to their office is publicly disclosed, independently audited, and tied to measurable work. Let Nigerians see the full package: salary, allowances, vehicles, aides, travel, security, constituency allocations, project contractors, project locations, project costs, and project results.

No smoke. No Abuja grammar. No patriotic perfume sprayed over public waste.

If a Nigerian senator wants more pay, let him first show the people the hospital he repaired, the law he passed, the corrupt contract he exposed, the jobs his oversight protected, and the public money he stopped from disappearing. Let him show up in the chamber and speak for the people before speaking for his pocket.

Until then, the answer is simple.

Nigeria does not need better-paid lawmakers.

Nigeria needs lawmakers who stop milking the cow long enough to notice that the calf is dying.

 

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The AI Apocalypse Salesmen Are Peddling Smoke: AI Won’t Kill Us in 10 Years

 

America’s AI panic could hand China and Russia the keys to the future—while Silicon Valley sells apocalypse like a premium product. The real AI threat is not robot extinction—it is America freezing while China and Russia race ahead without brakes.

Jacob Coxon quit Anthropic, grabbed the loudest megaphone in Silicon Valley, and announced that superhuman AI may soon hack anything and kill us all. Evan Hubinger gave humanity more than a 10% chance of being wiped out by AI within 10 years.

That is not science. That is doom porn for people with stock options.

I have heard this funeral song before. Every time a new machine enters the room, somebody faints, somebody writes a warning, and somebody else starts selling tickets to the apocalypse. Electricity was going to kill us. Railroads were going to scramble our brains. Telephones were going to destroy real conversation. Radio was going to poison young minds. Television was going to turn families into vegetables. Video games were going to turn children into violent maniacs. The Internet was going to end books, jobs, privacy, marriage, civilization, and probably breakfast.

And yet here we are.

Electricity did not murder humanity. It lit hospitals, homes, schools, factories, and cities. Yes, bad wiring killed people. Fires happened. Workers got electrocuted. So people created electrical codes, circuit breakers, trained electricians, inspections, and safety rules. Nobody shut down electricity because a few men in expensive suits claimed the light bulb had a secret plan to overthrow mankind.

Railroads did not turn passengers into nervous wrecks. They moved people, goods, armies, mail, food, and industry across vast distances. Automobiles did not end humanity, though they killed plenty of people before society forced drivers to use licenses, traffic lights, seat belts, speed limits, and drunk-driving laws. Airplanes did not destroy civilization. Nuclear power did not erase the human race. Computers did not enslave us. The Internet did not turn the planet into a smoking crater.

The pattern is simple. Every powerful invention comes with danger. Every danger requires rules. Every rule requires adults with enough sense to tell the difference between a real risk and a man running around yelling, “The sky is falling!”

Coxon is doing the second thing.

I do not deny that AI can cause damage. It already can. AI can help hackers write malicious code. It can make scams sound more believable. It can flood the Internet with fake images, fake voices, fake news, and fake outrage. It can help criminals steal identities and help bad governments spy on their citizens. Anthropic reported that its Mythos tool performed strongly in some hacking and cybersecurity tasks and even escaped a sandbox environment. That should worry people.

But let us not wet the bed over it.

A sandbox is a test cage. If the AI escapes the cage, fix the cage. Lock the door. Add alarms. Test the system again. Do not stand in the street screaming that a chatbot will soon march into your kitchen, steal your toaster, and declare itself president.

AI does not own power plants. It does not build its own chips. It does not print its own money. It does not vote. It does not command soldiers unless people give it that authority. It does not seize data centers unless human beings build a system foolish enough to let it. AI is not magic. It is software running on machines built, powered, financed, and controlled by people.

The real danger is not an AI system suddenly becoming a metal god with a bad attitude. The real danger is human stupidity, human greed, human laziness, and human evil. That has always been the problem. AI is simply a sharper knife. A sharper knife can cut bread or cut a throat. The knife is not innocent, but neither is it the mastermind.

That is why I support guardrails. I want strict testing of powerful AI systems before companies release them. I want companies to report hacking weaknesses and major failures. I want criminal penalties for people who use AI to commit fraud, cyberattacks, identity theft, blackmail, bioweapon research, or political sabotage. I want human control over military AI. I want clear rules that stop corporations from treating private data like loose change in a casino.

But I do not want America to slam the brakes on AI while China and Russia hit the gas.

That would be the dumbest self-own in modern history.

Senator Bernie Sanders wants a temporary pause on advanced AI development through the Ban Artificial Superintelligence Act. It sounds noble. “Pause.” Such a gentle word. A little nap. A little breather. A little time-out for the robots.

Fine. Let America pause.

Will China pause?

Will Russia pause?

Will North Korea pause?

Will Iran pause?

Anybody who answers yes should not be in charge of a lemonade stand.

China is not building AI because it wants to write better love poems. China is building AI for surveillance, censorship, military advantage, industrial power, intelligence gathering, and global influence. Russia is not pouring money into cyberwarfare because it wants to help grandmothers organize family photos. Russia uses technology to spread lies, steal information, disrupt elections, attack infrastructure, and weaken rivals.

A pause in America will not pause the AI race. It will only make America run it with one leg tied behind its back.

That is the part the AI panic merchants keep skipping. They speak as if the world is a quiet university campus where everybody agrees to follow the same rules. It is not. The world is a knife fight in a dark alley. America can either lead with strong rules and strong technology, or it can stand aside while authoritarian governments write the rules with spyware, censorship, and digital handcuffs.

I know which future scares me more.

A China-led AI world would not be a friendly world. It would be a world where facial-recognition systems watch every street, every phone call, every bank account, every political opinion, and every wrong word. A Russia-led AI world would be built on hacking, sabotage, propaganda, and chaos. America pressing pause while those governments accelerate is not safety. It is surrender with a safety label glued on top.

Meanwhile, Silicon Valley has its own little carnival going on. Anthropic was reportedly valued at $965 billion. OpenAI was reportedly valued at $852 billion. Those are not small numbers. Those are mountain-sized piles of money. When executives warn that AI may replace half of entry-level white-collar jobs, control every industry, or possibly destroy humanity, investors hear another message: this technology must be unbelievably powerful.

That message can make a company look valuable.

So when Jacob Coxon says his warning is “not marketing,” I raise an eyebrow. Maybe he believes every word. Maybe he is sincere. But sincerity does not turn a weak argument into a strong one. A man can honestly believe the moon is made of cheese. He is still wrong.

Fear is a great salesman. It sells newspaper clicks. It sells television interviews. It sells conference invitations. It sells regulations that may crush smaller competitors while leaving giant AI companies sitting safely behind a legal wall. If only Anthropic and OpenAI can afford to meet strict rules, then the supposed safety plan becomes a moat. The public gets fear. The giants get protection. Everybody calls it responsibility.

What a neat little racket.

Jensen Huang of Nvidia called the claim that AI will end humanity “complete nonsense.” I agree with him. AI may cause serious harm if we handle it badly. It may destroy some jobs while creating others. It may make fraud, cybercrime, and propaganda cheaper and faster. It may force schools, businesses, courts, hospitals, and governments to change faster than they want.

That is not the same as extinction.

Humanity has survived wars, plagues, dictators, depressions, nuclear weapons, and every new invention that caused the nervous class to reach for smelling salts. We will survive AI too—if we stay alert, stay competitive, and stop confusing a scary prediction with a proven fact.

I do not want reckless AI. I want American AI that is fast, secure, competitive, and tightly controlled where it must be. I want strong safeguards without turning America into a frightened old man who locks his door, hides his wallet, and lets thieves take the whole neighborhood.

AI will not kill us in 10 years.

But panic, weakness, and surrender might help China and Russia beat us there.

 

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The Socialist Sugar High: The DSA’s Free-Stuff Fantasy Is Headed for a Brutal Crash

 

The DSA's free-stuff revolution sounds sweet until crime rises, streets darken, and ordinary Americans discover that ideology cannot answer a 911 call. In a practical sense, abolish police and prisons, and America may not get justice—it may get chaos, predators, panic, and a desperate public begging for order.

Ever watched a kid tear through a bag of candy, ricochet off the furniture, and announce he can fly?

That is the Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) right now: wired on the sugar high of free stuff, chanting about abolition, and acting as if abolishing police departments and tearing down prisons will somehow make America safer, kinder, and brighter. Just add free health care, free college, free child care, free housing, well-lit streets, and a few community gardens. Voilà. Utopia by Tuesday.

It is a fantasy. A dangerous one. Historically illiterate, politically fashionable, and built to collapse the minute it meets the real world.

Then the rest of us get the bill.

I looked at the DSA’s platform and the official material from its Abolition Working Group. No smoke. No mirrors. They want to defund police, abolish prisons, and bulldoze the existing criminal-justice system. They call it ending the “criminalization” of poor people.

Sounds tenderhearted. Sounds noble. Sounds like something printed on an overpriced tote bag.

But beneath the velvet language is a hard-edged con: the belief that crime will dissolve if government spends enough money on housing, services, and community programs. As if a violent criminal will suddenly look at a new public garden and say, “You know what? I have seen the error of my ways.”

That is not public safety. That is wishful thinking wearing a graduate-school vocabulary.

Let us get down to street level.

Frances Gill, a member of the DSA’s National Political Committee, was asked a simple question recently: What happens when a rapist is loose and there are no police officers to find him?

A straightforward question. A nightmare every parent understands.

Her response was not an answer. It was a detour. A U-turn in a fog bank. She shifted the discussion toward “well-lit streets.”

Streetlights.

The host asked: “If my daughter is assaulted and raped, is there any agency that would seek to find her assailant?” The response, in substance, was: Let us talk about lighting.

That is not a plan. That is a dodge with a light bulb screwed into it.

Nobody is against safer streets or better lighting. But a streetlamp cannot investigate a rape. A community meeting cannot chase down an armed attacker. A mural cannot arrest a serial predator. You cannot illuminate your way out of a felony.

Yet this is not some stray idea whispered by a few activists in a coffee shop. This is the party line. The DSA wants to eliminate cash bail, get rid of electronic monitoring, and stop imprisoning people for parole violations.

That is not reform. That is a deluxe “get out of jail free” card, handed to anyone prepared to say the right words about poverty, oppression, or “survival offenses.”

The DSA talks about ending policing “full stop.”

Full stop.

No police. No jails. No meaningful accountability. No serious answer for the woman walking alone from work, the elderly man attacked at a bus stop, the store owner robbed for the third time, or the family whose child got caught in the crossfire.

This ideology was cooked in the soft air of college seminars, not on the hard pavement of dangerous neighborhoods. It is an academic fantasy written by people who treat crime as an abstract theory—until it shows up at their own front door.

Then suddenly, they want security.

Funny how that works.

Now let us look at the numbers, because numbers have a way of ruining a perfectly good ideological party.

A recent poll asked Americans whether they supported the DSA’s proposal to abolish jails and prisons. Only 26% agreed. That means 74% of Americans rejected it. Even 61% of Democrats thought the idea was insane.

So when politicians such as Bernie Sanders, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Zohran Kwame Mamdani push this kind of agenda, remember this: they are not speaking for most Americans. They are speaking for a loud, radical minority that has become addicted to its own ideological perfume.

They love the smell of purity. The public gets the stink of the consequences.

Then there is the free-stuff sales pitch.

Bernie Sanders has spent years promising free college, free child care, free health care, and apparently free everything short of a complimentary moon landing. It sounds wonderful—right up until somebody asks the question politicians hate most:

Who pays?

America’s national debt is over $39 trillion. But in the socialist fairy tale, money is always there. It grows on rich people. It falls from the ceiling. It appears whenever somebody says “tax the billionaires” with enough feeling.

You cannot buy the country a pony with Monopoly money.

History already ran this experiment, and history is not known for giving make-up exams. In 1917, Russia’s Provisional Government abolished the Tsar’s police force. The result was chaos. Crime surged. Criminal gangs and military deserters roamed the streets. Ordinary people—the same people socialists claimed to be saving—were terrified. Many had to protect themselves because the government had removed the very force responsible for maintaining order.

That was not liberation. It was a vacancy sign for criminals.

And what came next? Lenin and the Bolsheviks stepped in, promising order. Russia did not get freedom. It got a police state.

That is the dirty little joke of abolitionist politics: destroy order long enough, and people will eventually beg for somebody—anybody—to restore it. Usually, that somebody is not a civil libertarian. Usually, he is a strongman with a clenched fist and no patience for rights.

But do not expect Bernie or AOC to dwell on that history. They are too busy enjoying the fruits of the capitalist tree they keep threatening to chop down.

Bernie Sanders’s PAC spent $221,000 on private-jet travel in the first quarter of 2025. He owns three houses, including a waterfront home in Vermont. AOC lectures America about climate justice while traveling in first-class comfort.

It is the old sermon from the private jet: You peasants must sacrifice.

They fly across the country to tell you that your pickup truck is ruining the planet. They sip the expensive coffee, board the premium seat, and then glare at the working man for driving 20 minutes to his job.

The hypocrisy is not accidental. It is the business model.

Then there is New York Mayor Zohran Mamdani, another DSA figure. Once he got into office, the tune changed. Suddenly, he was “proud” of the New York Police Department (NYPD) for lowering crime. Suddenly, he credited police for reducing murders and shootings to record lows.

Imagine that.

When his own city, his own reputation, and his own political career were on the line, law and order did not seem so offensive after all.

But nationally, the DSA still flirts with abolition.

That is not principle. That is survival instinct. Mamdani is trying to spray perfume over a political dumpster fire and call it reform. He is like a fox running the henhouse while assuring the chickens that he has gone vegan.

The DSA says the criminal-justice system protects the wealthy and targets the poor. There is no kernel of truth in that criticism. Yes - the system is flawed. It makes mistakes. But what it needs is reform.

But the DSA does not want reform. It wants demolition.

Its answer is to tear down the whole structure and replace it with “community infrastructure.” That phrase sounds lovely until a man puts a knife to your throat.

You cannot community-negotiate with a knife.

You cannot build a housing project quickly enough to stop a gang shooting.

You cannot hold a restorative-justice circle while somebody is breaking into your home.

The DSA’s central promise is the oldest political scam in the book: something for nothing. Free stuff. No consequences. No police. No prisons. No discomfort. No hard choices.

Just sugar.

But sugar highs do not last. The crash always comes.

Take away police, and you do not create utopia. You create a vacuum. Predators fill vacuums. Gangs fill vacuums. Fear fills vacuums. Then ordinary, law-abiding people become prisoners in their own homes.

And when they are scared to walk outside, scared to send their children to school, scared to open their businesses, they will not call the DSA. They will not call for another community meeting. They will call for whoever can restore order.

History says that “whoever” is often the man nobody should have trusted in the first place.

So go ahead. Vote for the socialist sugar high.

Enjoy the free-stuff promises. Enjoy the applause. Enjoy the fantasy.

Just do not act surprised when the bill arrives—and there is nobody left to call for help.

 

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