A note from our senior editor.
Somewhere along the way we handed the steering wheel to the loudest three percent of the car. Not the smartest three percent. Not the kindest. The loudest. The ones who found a whole personality in a bumper sticker and decided the rest of us should live inside it.
Here is the con, and it is a beautiful one. They took differences so small you would need an electron microscope to find them, painted half of them red and half of them blue, and sold the fight back to us at a markup. While we scream at each other about water fixtures and lightbulbs and which coffee is woke, the people running the actual levers are quietly walking off with the whole hardware store.
This site is a mirror. On the right you will find people who believe the sunrise is a psyop. On the left, people who can turn a jaywalking ticket into four thousand words of reckoning. They are both, and I cannot stress this enough, completely certain. We let them write. Then, when it gets truly stupid, I come in at the bottom and say so.
Read both. Laugh. Then notice that while you were picking a team, nobody asked you what you actually needed. A life, mostly, and to be left alone to live it. That is the joke. You are the punchline. So am I.
Walt Kestrel, Senior Editor. Politically homeless, and comfortable there.