Pulp Fiction sermons, raccoon dicks, and a hotel door getting its ass beat like it’s trying to interrupt a grown man mid–pants-around-his-ankles puppet show with his hand halfway up a felt asshole—what in the lurching, glitching, government-issued, paint-huffing hallucination is happening right now?

Do they actually think we’re all just gonna act like any of this shit is normal? Like this is just another news cycle, another press conference, another day where the people in charge aren’t one group text away from accidentally confessing to a felony and then replying-all with a thumbs up?

No. Absolutely the fuck not.

I am not playing along with this polite little fiction that this is governance. This is a tequila-slicked, synapse-shorting, dignity-dissolving shitshow stumbling through power like it found a badge in a cereal box and decided that was good enough.

We thought the first iteration of this dumpster fire was bad. Holy shit, this second season looks like somebody scraped the worst parts of the original run off the dashboard of a four-on-the-floor ’83 Civic abandoned in the Oklahoma panhandle, let it blister into a bubbling boil of automotive regret and sun-baked stupidity, and then shoved that rancid slurry back into circulation with access, authority, and absolutely no adult supervision.