Planes Down. A Pilot Is Missing. And These Pieces of Shit Are Saying Nothing

Families are waiting. They won’t even pretend to give a shit

Holy shit—are we really at the point where we’re white-knuckling a refresh button on foreign government feeds to find out what happened to our own downed aircraft and our own missing Americans, because our government—our government—has apparently concluded that silence, contradiction, and a full-body shrug into the howling void constitutes a communications strategy, because that’s not just failure, that’s not just incompetence, that is a pants-shredding, taint-flapping, full-genital-exposure collapse of a regime operated by feral, sweat-damp, power-poisoned bottom-feeders—braying, ball-less, brain-dead bumblefucks, knuckle-dragging, mouth-frothing fuckmongers—men so cosmically, catastrophically stupid they couldn’t route a two-car funeral procession without losing the corpse, blaming the widow, and live-posting the whole greasy, fuck-slick disaster to their socials before the dirt hits the box.

We’ve got at least two aircraft down—at least that’s the number. That’s what we’ve been able to drag bleeding from the margins of the information ecosystem, because nobody helming this catastrophe can produce a straight declarative sentence without it curdling mid-air into warm, reeking verbal sewage, so we are out here—civilians, private citizens, people with day jobs and mortgages and zero access to anything classified—piecing together the fate of American service members like we’re reconstructing a shredded document with spit and desperation, decoding a drunk text from a concussed, conspiracy-soaked lunatic who spilled something sticky on the keyboard and keeps autocorrecting “help” to “hoax” like a dumb, glitch-brained shitbucket.

CENTCOM has gone silent. Gone the way a bad roommate goes—cord yanked, door slammed, no note, no forwarding address—while families sit in the particular, specific hell of the refresh loop, F5 as a grief response, the insane, muscle-memory hope that the right combination of clicking and waiting will eventually force the government to acknowledge that their person is out there somewhere and someone with a radio and authority is looking for them. Like staring at a dead screen is somehow going to answer back. Like repetition itself might summon the truth if you just keep hitting the button hard enough, like grief has a cheat code and nobody told them what it is.

And inside that silence—that fat, federally-sponsored, deliberately-cultivated silence—there may be an American alive. Alone. Hiding in whatever cover a crashed aircraft and a hostile landscape offer a single human body. Listening for sounds that belong to rescue and trying to tell them apart from sounds that don’t. Rationing hope the way you ration water when you don’t know how long the desert goes—and the gelatinous, grievance-gargling, gravity-defying shitstain who sent them there, who ordered them into that airspace with his chest puffed and his ego fully, obscenely tumescent, has said nothing. Has produced zero words. Has offered the families, the public, the troops still out there exactly fucking nothing.

Not one syllable.

This is the same man who was out here seventy-two hours ago in full peacock-strut, auto-fellatingly ecstatic about “complete control” of Iranian airspace, performing certainty like a cheap, loud, lying sideshow hack banking on nobody checking the wires, swearing up and down they couldn’t touch us, that we had them locked, finished, folded into themselves like a bad hand—and now aircraft are auger-drilling into the earth and Americans are unaccounted for somewhere in the dark, because this entire operation was architected with the strategic depth of a sunburned, serotonin-starved dipshit double-parked outside a Wawa, hollering wrong directions with vein-bulging bravado while his hazards blink and his entire situational awareness extends to the length of his own arm and not a single functional fucking thought beyond it.

Of fucking course he’s on his Temu Twitter though, spasming out word-mulch about oil, frothing at reporters, issuing threats with the syntactical confidence of a man whose brain is a busted blender full of buzzwords and bile, warning that “all Hell will reign” in the spelling of someone who thinks literacy is a liberal conspiracy—while the wreckage he caused cools in a foreign desert like it belongs to someone else entirely, consequence behaves like a weather system that simply will not reach his particular zip code, and cause and effect took one look at this drooling shitpile and quietly, decisively said “no thanks, I’m out.”

Planes down. People missing. Families waiting.

And that melon-hued, mouth-breathing, malignant meat-sack menace can’t be bothered to even pretend to give a shit about our missing airmen. Not a word. Not a gesture. Not even the hollow, half-assed performance of concern he usually trots out when the cameras are on and the stakes are low.

There is no plan. There never was. It always dead-ends in the same place—no structure, no endgame, no coherent thread—just appetite bolted to authority, compulsion dressed up as strategy, a careening, combusting, methane-belching catastrophe-engine driven by a man whose entire cognitive process resembles a pinball machine someone filled with Adderall, rage, and dumb luck and then kicked down a flight of stairs just to see what would happen.

Troops get moved like change at the bottom of a coat pocket—shifted, scattered, redeployed with the precision and care of someone who upended the whole coat looking for their keys and couldn’t tell you what fell out—real, breathing, specific human beings with names and families and futures, being directed by men who relate to war the way a toddler relates to a fire: fascinated, grabby, and too stupid to understand the pain that comes next, too incurious to even ask.

And in that same festering, heat-lamped meat-sweat theater of operations you’ve got end cap Uday and Qusay—soft-skulled, slack-spined, silver-spoon shit-suckers, trust-fund tapeworms with business cards—working the region like a side hustle, slinging drones into a conflict zone that exists because of the war their father detonated, monetizing instability with the serene, sociopathic ease of men who have never built a single goddamn thing in their lives but have perfected the art of siphoning value from other people’s blood, sweat, and grief.

They are literally cashing in on the fallout.

But sure—tell me more about Hunter Biden’s paintings while Tweedle Dee-Finger-in-the-Coke-Bowl and Tweedle Dumber-Than-A-Box-Of-Hair are out here turning war into a family fucking coupon code, cashing in on drones for the same region their daddy helped turn into a live-fire yard sale.

And let’s kill this stupid fairy tale right now that any of this was ever about “helping the Iranian people,” because that line was bullshit the second it left their mouths. They don’t give a fuck about the Iranian people. They don’t give a fuck about our people. They don’t give a fuck about anybody who can’t flatter them, fund them, or bleed quietly offstage while they posture like discount warlords in makeup and lifts.

If this were about helping people, they wouldn’t be bombing the bones out of their infrastructure and calling it liberation. They wouldn’t be turning civilians into collateral damage and then dressing it up in patriotic word salad like that changes the smell of it.

This whole thing is a grift with a body count duct-taped to it, a tantrum zip-tied to missiles and launched anyway. A chesty little revenge fantasy for a citrus-glazed, consequence-dodging cockwomble who thinks human life is just set decoration in the world’s longest, dumbest, most self-infatuated infomercial.

And while they play cowboy with other people’s children, there are families over here suspended in that sick, airless quiet where every minute feels swollen and wrong, where somebody somewhere already knows more than they’re saying and the truth is just sitting there on a screen in some room they’ll never be allowed into, while the people who owe them answers keep their mouths shut and let the facts leak out sideways through rumors and foreign sources like sewage under a locked door.

Because there are families waiting.

There are Americans missing.

There are people paying for this with everything.

I’m praying for our airmen. I’m praying for that missing pilot. I’m praying for every single one of our troops.

None of this should have happened.

None of it.

Our troops deserve better than having their lives gambled away by a day-drunk, desk-drooling, decision-slurring fuckstick and a draft-dodging, duty-ducking sociopath who has never once in his life been forced to absorb the consequences of his own decisions and therefore behaves like a man who thinks consequences are a rumor invented by poorer people.

Our troops deserve better than a blustering, brass-plated, bile-belching bullshit monument—a human wrong answer, a sentient system failure, a presidential-grade blown fuse whose judgment shorts out the second reality pushes back even slightly.

Our troops deserve better than a bloated, besuited McNugget of advancing dementia and arrested development—a slack-jawed, self-satisfied, sputtering catastrophe of ego and impulse who treats human life like clutter, like debris, like something that happens to other people in other places that will never, ever reach him.

They deserve so much better than this.

So, so much better than this.

And with that, today’s song:

I love you guys.

Stay strong, stay safe, and stay sane(ish).

As for me, I think I’m nearing the end of the most insane saga I’ve ever been through. I hate not being able to be fully forthcoming about it, but I can’t risk hurting my ability to provide for my kids—and I won’t do anything that goes against my moral code. So, as my closest friends will tell you, it’s been a bit of a mindfuck, to say the least.

I am profoundly lucky to have this community—people I trust—with this level of vulnerability. I say it all the time, but I truly wouldn’t be able to do any of this without you.

And for something good, for a change—here’s a pic of me and my boy at the Yankees home opener yesterday. We won!!

Whatever team you root for, baseball is restorative. And I am so, so deeply grateful that it’s back. ⚾️

💙 Jo