All Star Game — Bored bajillionaires won’t play defense
Usher — Empties seats at the Super Bowl
Dark Brandon — Dead Man Walking
Trump — Human Middle Finger
Insurrectionist — Voted for the other guy
Glowies — Federal agents pretending to be insurrectionists
South of the Border — What border?
North of the Border — Justin’s Reich
Houthis — World’s foremost naval power
Putin-Lover — Is that you, Hillary?
According to the latest USDA census, conducted in 2022 and released just last month, total US farm acreage decreased by almost 20 million acres between 2017 and 2022. The United States lost 142,000 farms during that period. The data also showed that there are 300,000 farm producers (defined as “a person who is involved with making decisions for the farm operation”) younger than 35; 1.78 million between ages 35–64; and 1.29 million over 65. The average age of farm producers is increasing, now sitting at 58.1 years, up from 57.5 in 2017. The producers are oldest in the South and West and youngest in the upper Midwest.
The bottom line: America’s farming industry is aging out, and fewer and fewer family farms are being passed on. Part of that is due to just how hard it is to compete with large industrial farms that produce at scale, and the crushing burdens of paper work and regulation that small producers are …
America’s biggest-ever conservative tent show has more hot chicks per capita than Coachella
Charlie Kirk is the new Elmer Gantry, mistaking the American Religion for the American Spirit
God doesn’t give a crap about who you vote for
It’s a bright and sunny Saturday morning in Phoenix, Arizona, and I am driving a cream-colored Hummer H3 with side decals in the style of a Lake Havasu tramp stamp. This car is the real deal. It has shiny, star-shaped hubcaps and a rack of LEDs on the grill that can turn any pedestrian parking lot into a crime scene. Aesthetically, it seems to trigger something instinctual in certain male nervous systems. As I pull up to a red light on Seventh Street, the man in the car next to me rolls down his window and lets out an obligatory, high-pitched Rebel Yell. I return a single-thumb salute. Together we join the flow of lifted trucks and Jeeps with flags waving from the tailgates — not the little 9/11 garden-stick models, but heavy-duty mothers whose clapping sound does a damn good impression of a gunshot. Trump 2024, Don’t Tread on Me, and ol’ glory are all firing into the breeze as we shoot headlong toward downtown …
