Don’t Call Stephen Miller “bile”.

That’s not fair to bile.

It’s another day ending in Y when the last thing I want to be thinking about is Stephen fucking Miller—America’s crustiest, cucked little cryptkeeper. But here I am. Again.

I should be doing literally anything else—half-reading emails, cracking open my third can of sugar-free Red Bull, pretending my to-do list isn’t a personal attack. But instead, I’m sitting here on a Monday morning thinking about ICE raids and tear gas and masked goons snatching people at courthouses while that ghoulish toe fungus walks free in a spray-painted scalp and a smirk.

Because it never stops. Not for a second. It just churns—relentless, merciless, and loud. The next outrage is already pulling up in jackboots—whether it’s deploying the National Guard to a blue state that didn’t ask for it, criminalizing breathing while undocumented, or erasing the Constitution via tweet. It builds. It stacks. It crushes.

And yet—despite how terrifying all of this is—I still need to laugh. I have to. Humor is the emergency exit. It’s how we breathe when the house is on fire. So today, I’m choosing to laugh at Stephen Miller. Loudly. Hysterically. Unforgivably. Because yes, he’s f’ng terrifying—but he’s also a clown. A greasy, bone-dry loser-clown in fascist drag. And sometimes, the only way to fight monsters is to remind them how ridiculous they look when they think they’re gods.

So let’s begin.

Stephen Miller is what you’d get if a skin tag and a hate crime had a baby, then left it under a heat lamp in a motel room on the Oklahoman panhandle, where it learned how to write “immigration policy” from a series of DVDs narrated by James Woods and Jon Voight.

Not a man—a resentment barnacle in a funeral suit. A creature molded from forgotten gym socks, expired printer toner, and the unsettling confidence of a man who’s never made eye contact during sex. He acts like he was stitched together from burned library cards, weaponized loneliness, and the crust from a thousand uncried tears. His aura radiates “left the group project and still demanded credit.”

If a botched exorcism learned to say “anchor baby” before it learned empathy, you’d have Stephen Miller.

He doesn’t blink—he recalibrates. He doesn’t speak—he oozes. Oozes cruelty. Oozes disdain. Oozes the stale funk of high school debate trophies and weaponized loneliness. He oozes petty fascism like it’s pheromonal. He is the reason babies were torn from their mothers and locked in cages with no names, no paperwork, no plan. He authored that. He signed it. Smiled about it. He didn’t inherit that policy—he dreamed it up.

Stephen Miller is the guy who saw a refugee child crying and thought, “Good branding.” He’s the bastard behind ICE agents in hospitals, schools, courtrooms—anywhere immigrants show up to comply. He’s not interested in justice. He’s not protecting anyone. He’s hunting for numbers. Data. Charts. Deportation quotas. Human beings logged and loaded like fucking logistics.

This isn’t governance. It’s sadism in a spreadsheet. Fascism by bullet point.

And he doesn’t stop. He stagnates. He ferments in his own cruelty. He is the unflushable turd of the Trump administration, bobbing in the bowl of American democracy.

He sees compassion as a liability and empathy as a virus in the code. He doesn’t make policy—he mass-produces suffering and slaps a flag on it.

And if this all feels eerily familiar, that’s because we’ve seen this little authoritarian test tube baby before—just with fewer press gaggles and more bottle rockets.

Stephen Miller is Sid from Toy Story if Sid grew up, got radicalized by Breitbart, and started sending masked DHS agents to snatch housekeepers from bus stops.

Sid tortured toys. Miller tortures families. Sid glued Barbie heads onto spider legs. Miller glues razor wire to immigration policy and calls it Western values. Sid shaved his head because he was a sugar-crazed ten-year-old. Miller’s hairline bailed the moment it realized it was stapled to the skull of a soulless bureaucrat in fascist cosplay. Sid was a fictional chaos gremlin. Miller is the sequel nobody wanted—same dead eyes, same cruel streak, now with government clearance and a standing invitation to CPAC.

He’s not just Sid all grown up—he’s what happens when a child sociopath skips therapy and instead gets a Bachelor's degree in political science, a grudge against humanity, and an Excel sheet of deportation quotas. Pixar gave Sid a slight redemption arc. Trump gave Stephen Miller a policy portfolio and an unmarked van.

And somehow, while orchestrating a domestic terror regime disguised as immigration enforcement, he still managed to get publicly, galactically cucked. Because while he was busy whispering bedtime stories to border agents about chain-link fencing and national purity, his wife quietly tiptoed out of the White House—and into Elon Musk’s neurodivergent thirst dungeon. No one’s conclusively saying she left him for Musk, but she sure as hell didn’t stick around to help him organize his hate binder.

So now, he’s presumably alone. Rage-scrolling. Spray-gluing wisps of self-respect onto his haunted scalp. Wondering how the apartheid billionaire who thinks pronouns are communist managed to steal his girl, his thunder, and his last shred of plausible masculinity. While Elon’s out testing penis rockets, Miller heads home to perform unauthorized “medical” experiments on discount deli meat.

And still—still—ABC suspended Terry Moran for calling him “bile.”

Bile should be insulted by the comparison.

Bile has a purpose. Bile breaks things down and makes them easier to stomach.

Bile contributes to the body’s well-being.

Stephen Miller doesn’t break things down—he spoils them.

Look at him. The translucent skin. The sun-averse stare. That haunted-egghead glow that screams “banned from 23andMe for ethics violations.” His eyes don’t reflect light. They reflect contempt. His smile is what happens when trauma gets tenure.

He doesn’t believe in government. He believes in punishment. He believes happiness should be taxed. That brown joy is treason. That anyone not born inside a Bass Pro Shop should be monitored.

Stephen Miller isn’t some washed-up fascist mascot—he’s a policy arsonist who never put the matchbook down. A beige Gollum in business casual. A haunted sleep paralysis demon in wingtips. The final boss of bureaucratic hate-fucking. He doesn’t break laws—he rewrites them to break people. He’s laundering white nationalism through executive orders, reshaping federal power in ways that will take generations to undo.

He is not a thought leader. He is a loneliness leak. A man powered entirely by rejection, rage, and fiber supplements. He doesn’t evolve—he festers. He doesn’t inspire—he haunts.

So no, Stephen Miller isn’t bile.

He’s what bile would cough up after being fed a steady diet of bad policy and unsupervised power.

He’s the ideological equivalent of freezer-burned authoritarianism—left in the back of America’s fridge until even the mold gives up and moves to Canada.

He is what happens when a debate club incel gets a government badge and no safe word.

And when the next outrage comes—don’t act surprised. This isn’t theoretical. It’s happening now.

Immigrants are being arrested inside courthouses. Thrown into vans in front of their children. Ripped from jobs, from hospital rooms, from school pickup lines. These aren’t criminals—they’re volleyball captains, bakery owners, straight-A students, and mothers holding toddlers. They’re not fleeing justice. They came for it. And Stephen Miller made sure justice never showed up.

Because that’s who he is.

A monster.

Not misguided. Not controversial. Monstrous.

He doesn’t care about law. He doesn’t care about safety. He cares about numbers. He cares about cruelty. He wakes up every morning thinking about how many innocent lives he can uproot before lunch.

He is the blueprint of the Trump administration’s moral rot.

He is the whisper behind the policies, the shadow behind the cruelty, the ghoul in the server room printing out deportation quotas like they’re CVS receipts.

And he’s not alone.

Because none of them are different. Not really. Not anymore.

They’re all Stephen Miller—just with ring lights and better handlers.

The cruelty isn’t a glitch. It’s the operating system.

The Republican Party didn’t sideline Miller. They mainstreamed him.

They turned his fever dreams into federal memos. They made his spite into strategy.

They didn’t just nod along. They handed him the pen.

And yes, the fish is rotten.

But it’s not just the tail, and it’s not just the stink.

It’s the whole thing—gutted, glassy-eyed, and rotting from the head down.

And this—the bans, the raids, the stolen futures—is the smell of a nation being hollowed out by cowards who confuse power with punishment.

So when Terry Moran called Stephen Miller hateful and got suspended for it, he wasn’t crossing a line.

He was drawing one.

He said what needed saying.

What more of us need to say.

Because if we can’t name the villains, we can’t fight them.

And if we can’t fight them, they win.

Miller’s not just hateful.

He’s what happens when we stop screaming, stop voting, stop laughing, stop looking.

He’s what grows in silence.

So laugh loudly.

Call it out.

And for the love of every immigrant child this bastard tried to vanish—don’t look away. Not for a single goddamn second.

And with that, today’s song.

I love you guys.

Things are getting harder. Scarier. Darker. I see you. I’m here too.

The only way out is through and the only way through is together.

Stay strong, stay sane(ish), stay loud & stay standing with Terry Moran.

💙 Jo

Recording with Jim Acosta for the Sane(ish) podcast today. Drop some questions for him in the chat! 👇