Have you not read King Lear?

When you serve a mad king, don’t be surprised when he feeds you to the crowd.

Oh look, it’s the “I’m not saying I voted for Trump, but…” crowd, now clutching their pearls because the monster they fed is finally chewing on their fingers. Enter Justine Bateman, lamenting the very fallout she once applauded, like a suburban arsonist surprised her own lawn caught fire.

Now, I get it… Justine probably didn’t think she was voting for that Trump. Maybe she was part of the yoga-mat brigade who backed him by way of RFK Jr., the guy who campaigned on cleaner Doritos but is fine with asbestos making a comeback. But here’s the thing: when you cheer for the wrecking ball because you’re tired of the drapes, you don’t get to complain when the whole house caves in.

What’s truly baffling… no, sad… really sad, is that it wasn’t the dystopian imagery of unmarked vans snatching human beings off the streets, not the silent normalization of Gestapo cosplay in our cities, that rattled her. It wasn’t Trump grifting billions under the guise of “America First,” siphoning it straight into his tacky little TrumpCoin empire like some bargain-bin Bond villain, with not a dime ever reaching the people waving the flag. No, that didn’t do it. What finally broke her… finally, It was the trees. The trees! As if the razing of green space was the true moral event horizon, not the people disappearing into the night or the country hemorrhaging its soul one grift at a time. That’s what did it. Shrubs. And Don don’t get me wrong. I love those fucking shrubs.

She once wailed about how “wokeness” stifled her freedom to speak, especially during MeToo. Maybe she’s bitter about that blowjob she gave and still a role lost, an award never won, or the belief that Hollywood owed her more. (stop getting your panties in a bunch, these people deserve every ounce of mean words I can fling at their soulless bodies.) Because the cruelty wasn’t the cost; it was the point

And now that cruelty has turned inward.

Sorry, Justine. While your kids nibble on kale chips and frozen jam pops, that quaint little yard of yours is going to keep shrinking, unless you buy the block or the town, and even then they’ll take it if they want to. Because when tyranny runs out of immigrants and drag queens to persecute, it always turns on the folks who helped it rise.

And while Justine is over here finally sounding the alarm about our national parks, (something I actually agree with, by the way) she’s been dead silent on everything else. Not a word when children were ripped from their parents’ arms. Not a whisper when a political assassination rocked this country just last week. Nothing. Meanwhile, the so-called “woke” crowd, the ones with empathy, with functioning brains, are stretched so thin by the constant assault on decency that we can’t even keep our outrage trained on one thing for more than a moment. The chaos is relentless, and that’s the point. The news cycle barely hiccups before it barrels on. At this point, chaos is the only currency left, and Trump Inc. is printing it like it’s Monopoly money

And while he fantasizes about Nobel Prizes and rambles about Serbia (WTF did he have to do with Serbia??? Nothing… literally nothing…) his followers have no idea because they think Obama was president during the first gulf war) But now that he’s aiming his chaos cannon at you, you’re shocked? Honey, you should’ve gotten the Mar-a-Lago face, maybe then you’d have had a full three seconds of his attention.

Let’s be real: it’s not even Trump pulling the strings. He’s a Russian-backed meat puppet, propped up by white supremacist Christian dominionists fantasizing about Armageddon, convinced mushroom clouds are Jesus’s RSVP. Never mind that they’d deport him if he showed up barefoot with a beard.

But here’s the real kicker: they don’t want peace or progress, they want collapse. And they use people like Justine, Tucker, Stephen, Lauren. Court jesters, every one of them, who mistook their proximity to power for actual influence. Have none of you read King Lear? The mad king always kills his own.

And still, the jesters clap and prance, believing they’re shaping the stage. But the MAGA hats never followed them, they never cared about Justine, or Tucker, or Lauren. They follow the madman. They always have. Because he didn’t just lead with cruelty… he gave them permission to unleash their own. He made their bitterness sacred, their rage holy. And now they’re hypnotized by it, marching behind him with dead-eyed devotion, ready to follow him straight into the mouth of hell if that’s where he points. And if a few jesters fall along the way? Even better. They’ll tear them apart with glee, as tribute to their king. Trump knows this. One sneer, one cruel tweet from him, and those sycophants are toast. No encore. No loyalty returned. Just a quick execution and a thousand red hats cheering from the sidelines.

So thanks, Justine, for your concern. We’re glad something finally woke you up. Shame it took a chainsaw to the trees. But hey, you’re awake now. Just in time to get exactly what you voted for.