Thankful for the Turkeys Running the Country

This Thanksgiving, we raise a glass to incompetence, political theater, and self-inflicted disasters; nothing entertains, frustrates, or guarantees blue midterms quite like sheer, glorious chaos.

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Today is Thanksgiving, the one day of the year when Americans collectively slow down, breathe deeply, and remind ourselves that gratitude is still possible in a world that feels held together by duct tape, denial, and whatever remains of our national patience. Families will gather around tables overflowing with turkey, stuffing, and decades of unresolved grudges; we’ll raise our glasses to health, to hope, and to surviving another spin around the sun without losing our minds.

Me? I’m thankful for something uniquely American. Something poetic. Something that only a nation with our brand of stubborn optimism could appreciate.

I’m thankful for the assemblage of the most incompetent, bumbling bunch of fools ever to occupy a presidential administration.

I’m not being hyperbolic. I’m not exaggerating for dramatic effect; though G-d knows this crowd makes drama easy. I’m talking about an all-star lineup of sycophants who somehow manage to turn every responsibility they touch into a five-alarm farce. And in the spirit of the season, I want to express my deepest gratitude to these people, because they’re about to gift Democrats the bluest midterms since the November 2025 special-election wipeout — a tsunami so deep it’ll leave pollsters apologizing for the next decade.

Let’s talk about just seven; seven key positions where incompetence hasn’t merely exposed the rot in the administration; it has ostensibly dragged the President’s favorability down to a historic, humiliating 36%. A number so low it would make even Richard Nixon send a condolence card.

Start with Pete Hegseth, the administration’s chaos engine in chief. Only Hegseth could deliver not one but two self-inflicted communications scandals — SignalGate 1 and its inevitable sequel, SignalGate 2 — all because the man responsible for national messaging couldn’t keep track of his own encrypted conversations. His now-infamous meeting with America’s top generals and admirals, where he lectured career military leaders with the confidence of a guy explaining fantasy football stats, became headline fodder across global newsrooms. And when he launched his deranged public attacks on Senator Mark Kelly, an astronaut and naval aviator who speaks four languages and understands orbital mechanics, the contrast was so absurd it bordered on performance art. If leadership is about judgment, Hegseth is the nation’s cautionary tale.

Robert F. Kennedy Jr. brings his own special brand of chaos to the table. His public appearances have become a running experiment in how much pseudoscience a nation can withstand before collectively walking into the ocean. The latest fiasco came when he resurrected his long-debunked claim linking autism to everyday Tylenol use — a theory so scientifically hollow it makes flat-earthers look peer-reviewed. Doctors across the country didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or throw their medical degrees at the television. Pediatricians inundated hotlines begging for guidance on how to undo the damage, while scientists were forced into yet another round of “No, seriously, this is not a thing.” Kennedy managed to turn a common household pain reliever into a national panic spiral, leaving Americans wondering how someone with this level of scientific literacy ended up anywhere near public health policy. Every time he opens his mouth, the CDC’s blood pressure spikes.

Pam Bondi, meanwhile, has turned the Epstein files into her own personal three-act tragedy — part legal disaster, part performance art, and entirely self-inflicted. Her press conferences have become spectacles of theatrical overreach, none more infamous than the one where she marched out flanked by staffers holding towering binders she implied — with a wink, a nod, and plenty of MAGA-ready innuendo — were the long-awaited Epstein client lists. Cable news carried it live. Social media exploded. Her supporters celebrated as though justice were about to drop from the heavens. And then, just days later, came the inevitable retreat; not a clarification, not an update, but silence. The binders were never released. Not a page. Not a name. Not even a heavily redacted teaser to justify the spectacle she staged. The most plausible explanation, whispered even within her own circles, is that those binders hold names she has no intention of exposing.

But the problem for Bondi is simple: Americans can’t unsee what they saw or unhear what they heard. She lit a match she can’t put out, especially within MAGA circles, where conspiracy thrives on the oxygen of suggestion. Instead of shutting down speculation, she supercharged it; and now the very base she tried to feed is turning the spotlight back on her, demanding receipts she can’t produce. It’s a political boomerang, and it’s already on its return flight.

Kristi Noem, meanwhile, is producing political theater that makes the TSA’s lost-luggage office look organized. Her now-infamous DHS airport video — ominous music, perfectly contoured cheekbones, hair extensions that don’t move even in imagined wind — has been condemned as propaganda by civil rights groups, immigrant advocates, and even a few Republican holdouts who still have a conscience. Designed to terrify anyone who passes through a terminal, the video’s tone is so dystopian it feels like a rejected trailer for a low-budget sci-fi film. Behind the scenes, her department is mired in infighting, retractions, and scramble-to-clean-it-up policy reversals that would embarrass even the most hardened bureaucratic cynic.

Howard Lutnick’s economic stewardship has been no less disastrous. Lutnick managed to throw markets into turmoil within days of announcing a new round of aggressive tariffs — tariffs he defended by citing economic models later revealed to be sourced from a think tank that consisted of a single Post-it note on his desk. The price spikes that followed hit American families first, with grocery costs soaring and consumer confidence tanking. Even Wall Street, usually cautious in its rebukes, began issuing statements so sharply critical they read like financial obituaries. Thanksgiving turkeys priced like heirloom diamonds? Thank Howard.

And then we have Steve Witkoff, the unofficial adviser whose foreign-policy blunder was so extraordinary it left even hardened diplomats speechless. His recently leaked recorded conversation with his Russian counterpart — in which he casually offered strategic advice on how Moscow should handle the President — threw the administration’s already fragile international standing into full meltdown. The arrogance was breathtaking. Here was a real estate developer coaching a geopolitical rival as though the Kremlin had been waiting for his pearls of wisdom. The fallout was immediate: European allies expressed shock, intelligence officials scrambled into containment mode, and the State Department spent the last few days issuing statements that clarified nothing and embarrassed everyone. One leaked memo described the episode as “catastrophic freelancing.” Witkoff didn’t just cross a line. He relocated it.

And finally, Kash Patel continues to operate as if the national security apparatus were his personal action-movie set, and the taxpayers his studio financiers. Reports revealed that he’s been flying his girlfriend around on government aircraft, complete with Secret Service protection funded by the public, as if he’d discovered a loophole that turned national security into his own private Wheels Up subscription. And then there are his investigations: chaotic, unfocused, and so deeply incompetent that Inspector Clouseau, by comparison, looks like a Rhodes Scholar. His probes wander through the bureaucracy like drunk tourists, knocking over protocols, clashing with career analysts, and producing conclusions that collapse upon first contact with reality. Patel has turned serious national security work into a farce that leaves allies worried and adversaries amused.

So yes, today, I’m grateful. Grateful for every spectacular misstep, every botched announcement, every scandal that reads like satire. Because the American people are wide awake, and in 2026, they’re going to paint the electoral map a deep, decisive, unmistakable blue.

So, Happy Thanksgiving. Savor the meal, because the real feast comes next November, when the voters carve this administration up themselves.

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