May 13, 2026

America’s Motel Pool Era

Dear Future Me,

I opened the news this morning, took one sip of coffee, stared into the middle distance like a woman who just discovered somebody painted the Mona Lisa with outdoor deck sealant, and said out loud to absolutely no one:

“Oy. The reflecting pool.”

Because apparently, we have entered the era of American government where historical preservation now feels like letting a man who once watched three episodes of Flip or Flop scream, “I basically know construction,” before handing him the keys to national landmarks.

Friend.

The Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, one of the most solemn places in the country, currently looks like somebody lost a fight with a resort supply catalog.

And I cannot stop laughing.

Not happy laughing.

The kind of laugh you do when the smoke detector is chirping, the dog ate something suspicious, and somebody in your house just said, “I fixed it,” in a tone that suggests they absolutely did not fix it.

Because this thing is reportedly bubbling.

Bubbling.

Like a haunted lasagna.

Patchy in places. Streaky in others. Different shades of patriotic swimming-pool blue showing up like the paint department at Home Depot collectively decided, “Eh. Close enough.”

And before anybody accuses me of being dramatic, friend, this thing was supposed to cost pocket change by federal-project standards and somehow wandered into the financial neighborhood of “how did we accidentally buy a yacht?”

Meanwhile, the actual structural problems underneath, the leaks, the things grownups generally fix before throwing a decorative makeover on top, appear to be getting all the attention of a forgotten salad at a family barbecue.

America, babe.

We are repainting the ceiling while raccoons operate the furnace.

And speaking of confidence wildly exceeding expertise, remember how Grandpa Cheesebrain originally acted like he knew exactly who was doing the reflecting pool work because he had a guy? A pool guy. An unbelievable guy. The best guy. Tremendous guy. Everybody loves this guy.

And now suddenly it’s all, “Know him? Never heard of her.”

Sir.

The contractor did not arrive here via forest portal.

You can’t spend five minutes talking up your miracle pool expert and then suddenly act like he floated in from another dimension the second people start asking why the national monument now looks vaguely prepared to host synchronized swimming lessons.

Also, tiny detail.

Apparently, somebody thought it would be an incredible idea to drive heavy motorcade vehicles through the basin while this whole makeover situation was still happening.

Which honestly feels spiritually identical to walking across wet cement while making aggressive eye contact with the sign that says DO NOT WALK HERE.

It has very strong “dad reversing the truck directly onto the freshly seeded lawn because technically it’s faster” energy.

And now there are lawsuits.

Because weirdly enough, preservation people tend to get twitchy when national landmarks start looking like the lazy river outside a casino resort called Patriot Cove & Rib Shack.

Meanwhile, while all of us were still trying to emotionally process America’s accidental water park era, Grandpa Cheesebrain boarded Air Force One and headed to China.

Nothing says stable world order quite like beginning a major diplomatic trip after publicly arguing with reporters like a man fighting with customer service over expired coupons.

Apparently, there was pageantry. Flags. Military ceremony. Formal greetings. Fancy diplomacy things.

The whole international “please act normal for forty-eight consecutive hours” package.

And I just know there were people backstage whispering, “Nobody mention junk food. Nobody mention reporters. Nobody mention literally anything.”

Also riding along for this geopolitical field trip? Cabinet people. Billionaires. Tech CEOs. Corporate executives.

Honestly, the whole thing sounds less like diplomacy and more like the strangest corporate retreat in human history.

Like if Succession and a regional chamber of commerce mixer accidentally got trapped inside an international incident.

Meanwhile, because apparently every news cycle now includes one sentence that sounds fake but unfortunately is not, our vice president casually told reporters that when the president is away, the White House reminds him of Home Alone.

Excuse me?

You are telling me the backup adult in charge walked into the microphones and essentially said, “Sometimes I wander around wondering where everybody went”?

Sir.

That is inside-thought material.

That is not a confidence-building statement.

That is the kind of sentence you hear moments before Kevin McCallister accidentally sets something on fire.

Honestly, it explains so much.

And then came the moment where Grandpa Cheesebrain accidentally said the thing out loud.

You know how sometimes people spend years trying to carefully disguise who they are and then one random Tuesday they get tired and just… blurt the truth into a microphone?

Yeah.

One reporter asked whether regular Americans struggling with bills, gas, groceries, and the general Olympic sport of trying to survive financially was shaping his thinking on foreign policy.

And what a whole lot of people heard emotionally sounded suspiciously close to:

“Not really.”

Now, yes, context matters. He was talking about Iran, national security, nuclear threats, serious grown-up things that deserve seriousness.

Nobody’s pretending otherwise.

But friend.

Buddy.

My sweet, emotionally exhausted nation.

If you are president during a time when people are staring at grocery receipts like they’re ransom notes, maybe do not accidentally say a sentence that sounds suspiciously like, “Your financial pain isn’t really on my mood board.”

Because people heard that and collectively made the same face you make when Starbucks charges nine dollars for oat milk and audacity.

And honestly?

This might be the most accidentally honest thing we’ve heard in months.

Because people tell you who they are all the time. Sometimes dramatically. Sometimes repeatedly. Sometimes, while standing directly in front of cameras holding metaphorical confetti cannons labeled WARNING SIGNS.

And finally, because reality no longer believes in subtlety:

A Texas televangelist who reportedly spent recent weeks enthusiastically connecting the Iran war to Biblical apocalypse timelines, predicting a heavenly checkout line for Christians sometime around June 14th, and describing Grandpa Cheesebrain in extremely messiah-adjacent terms…

has now been arrested after authorities alleged he was operating a meth lab in a church basement.

I’m sorry.

I need everyone to sit with this for a second.

I genuinely need somebody to explain to me how we got from “the rapture is coming” to Breaking Bad: Vacation Bible School Edition.

Because there is simply no way to overstate the cinematic absurdity of loudly warning America about moral collapse while authorities are allegedly downstairs going, “Sir… why is there a chemistry set next to the folding tables?”

I am just saying: if your prophecy tour includes predicting heavenly ascension around Grandpa Cheesebrain’s birthday while describing him in deeply messiah-flavored language, and then the story takes a hard left turn into meth lab in the fellowship hall, maybe the Almighty is trying to tell everybody to slow down and hydrate.

You absolutely cannot make this stuff up anymore. Satire is outside, chain-smoking behind the building, whispering, “I quit.”

Anyway, I don’t know what’s happening anymore.

The reflecting pool looks like it lost a custody battle with a Hampton Inn renovation team. Diplomacy feels like corporate improv theater. The vice president is apparently wandering the White House like Kevin McCallister with government clearance. And the apocalypse preacher allegedly got caught doing chemistry experiments in the church basement.

I am going to make coffee strong enough to legally qualify as infrastructure.

If anybody needs me, I’ll be sitting quietly, staring at photos of the reflecting pool, wondering if somewhere an imaginary Abraham Lincoln ghost has folded his spectral arms and quietly gone, “Sir. No.”

-Me

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Disclaimer, Because Apparently, This Is Now Necessary:
This letter is opinion, commentary, satire, and historical observation, written for expressive and educational purposes and protected under the First Amendment of the United States Constitution. It reflects my personal views, interpretations, and concerns regarding current events. It is not a call to action, not legal advice, not operational guidance, and not an endorsement of violence, harm, or unlawful behavior of any kind.

If this writing makes you uncomfortable, offended, or unusually defensive, that reaction is worth sitting with. Possibly over coffee.

© 2026. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, redistributed, or republished in whole or in part without permission. Opinions are mine. Facts are stubborn. Coffee is essential. Democracy is non-negotiable.