May 9, 2026

The New Golden Calf

Dear Future Me,

I need everybody to sit down, refill your coffee, and maybe emotionally prepare yourselves because the sentence I am about to say sounds less like current events and more like somebody locked the Book of Exodus, a Florida tourism commercial, and an HBO writers’ room inside an escape room and just let nature take its course.

Friends.

Supporters unveiled a giant gold statue of Grandpa Cheesebrain at his golf resort.

I know. I KNOW.

Take a minute. Blink if you need to. Stare out a window. Text your therapist. Because every now and then reality drops a sentence into our laps so aggressively ridiculous that satire just quietly gathers its belongings, whispers “girl, I can’t compete with this,” and moves to Vermont to run a lavender farm.

A giant. Gold. Statue.

At his own golf course.

And before anybody says, “Surely this is exaggerated for comedic effect,” let me assure you with the confidence of a woman clutching her emotional support latte: if anything, reality undersold the weirdness.

Picture it. Florida sunshine. Golf carts humming in the distance. A towering gold figure of Grandpa Cheesebrain standing there with his fist in the air like the patron saint of grievance, grievance accessories, and yelling at televisions while religious leaders gather around to bless the monument and repeatedly explain to the public that everyone should calm down because this is definitely, absolutely, pinky swear, not a golden calf situation.

And honestly? That sentence alone deserves an Emmy for unintentional comedy. Because if your event requires multiple public clarifications of “this is not idol worship,” congratulations, your optics have wandered into Bible Villain Origin Story territory.

I am not Bible Scholar Barbie. I know exactly six Bible stories, and half of those are mostly remembered through snacks and emotionally charged Sunday school crafts. But even my extremely average church kid memories seem to recall a fairly famous cautionary tale involving people getting a little too emotionally attached to a shiny gold object and God responding with the spiritual equivalent of, “Oh, for the love of everything holy, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Like… famously. Spectacularly. Whole-plague-adjacent levels of “maybe don’t.”

Honestly, Moses would come down the mountain, take one look at this situation, quietly set the tablets back down, and ask if maybe God wanted to workshop humanity a little longer.

Because pastors reportedly spent part of this whole thing emphasizing that they worship Jesus and not the giant gold monument standing directly in front of them, which has the enormous energy of somebody loudly announcing, “I am not drunk,” while falling directly into a decorative shrub.

Sweetheart. Respectfully.

If you have to spend twenty minutes explaining why something is not idol worship, the sentence has already lost custody of the optics. At this point, the Ten Commandments are somewhere filing a restraining order.

Nothing says “healthy democracy” quite like a giant gold statue and a crowd insisting everybody is being super weird for noticing the giant gold statue.

History has a flawless batting average here. Nobody opens a history book and goes, “Ah, yes, the humble, emotionally grounded leader with the massive gold monument to himself. Surely this fellow practiced moderation and healthy boundaries.”

No.

It always turns into a documentary narrated in a deeply ominous British accent.

And speaking of television accidentally becoming prophecy, can we discuss The Boys for one hot second? Because I genuinely think the writers are sitting somewhere stress-eating Cheez-It’s in stunned silence, whispering, “Okay, but seriously… we were trying to be SATIRE.” At this point, reality keeps stealing their scripts and somehow making them less subtle. You write one authoritarian celebrity character as a cautionary tale, and suddenly America’s over here like, “Cool, cool cool, but what if we added golf carts and a prayer circle?”

Honestly, if somebody pitched this exact plotline to HBO five years ago, an executive would’ve gone: “Too unrealistic. No one will believe the pastors. The gold statue is a bit much.”

And yet here we are, drinking coffee inside what increasingly feels like the deleted scenes of democracy.

Meanwhile, Transportation Secretary Sean “Family Road Trip but Make It Federal” Duffy apparently spent months filming a reality show with his family while also technically running the Department of Transportation, which feels a little bit like discovering your pilot has been filming a lifestyle vlog called Wings, Things & Family Feelings while occasionally remembering planes exist.

Now, yes, before anybody sends me an email written entirely in caps lock, I know the explanation. It wasn’t one giant seven-month RV pilgrimage through America. It happened in chunks. Little wholesome family slices of patriotism. Tiny road-trip nuggets. Duffy says filming happened in short windows and complied with ethics rules.

Sure. Fine.

But the Transportation Secretary still rolled into government with the energy of a substitute teacher who wheels in the TV cart and says, “Actually, we’re not really doing transportation today. Family field trip.” And somehow this whole adventure involved giant transportation and travel companies that just coincidentally happen to have business interests with the department he runs.

Totally casual. Nothing to see here. Just regulators and regulated industries hanging out like besties at a sponsored barbecue. Completely normal. Very “small town bake sale” energy.

Then this man cheerfully announced that road trips “fit any budget.”

Sir. Buddy. Captain Minivan of Delusion.

People are currently standing in grocery stores holding cartons of eggs like they just found Fabergé jewelry. Families are in Aldi doing the kind of emotional mathematics usually reserved for hostage negotiations. Gas prices look like they personally have a grudge. People are standing in front of refrigerators whispering, “Can dinner legally just be popcorn?” like contestants on a very depressing game show.

Road trips fit any budget in the same way yachts are technically a housing option.

Meanwhile, the Transportation Secretary is basically standing on a metaphorical mountaintop yelling, “Have you tried optimism and gasoline?”

I physically cannot.

But then, like a tiny emotional support candle flickering bravely in the chaos, California quietly did something refreshingly radical. Helpful. Useful. Functional.

The state announced free diapers for newborn families because babies, as it turns out, are tiny, adorable freeloaders with absolutely no respect for personal finances and a frankly alarming commitment to bodily fluids.

And honestly? Good.

In a week where America somehow found itself debating giant gold statues and federally adjacent family reality vacations, I will happily take one small story where somebody looked at exhausted new parents and said, “Hey. We got this one.”

Frankly, government occasionally acting like a helpful aunt with Costco access feels revolutionary these days.

Anyway, no letter tomorrow because I will be celebrating Mother’s Day with family, consuming irresponsible amounts of caffeine, crying over something unexpectedly sentimental for approximately six emotionally inconvenient minutes, and avoiding any conversation involving statues, idols, or anyone saying the phrase “totally normal behavior” with a straight face.

To all the moms, bonus moms, stepmoms, grandmas, aunties, chosen moms, exhausted moms, grieving moms, hopeful moms, dog moms, cat moms, and anyone who has ever mothered another human through chaos, Happy Mother’s Day. You deserve rest, hot coffee that stays hot, snacks nobody steals, and at least one uninterrupted stretch of peace where nobody asks where the scissors are when they are exactly where they always are.

And maybe, if the universe loves us even a little, slightly less biblical weirdness next week.

-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.