Bondi, Miller, and the Theatre of Cruelty & Hate

One Day Inmates

When the dust finally settles—and it will, like sulfur after cannon fire—we’ll be sweeping up the remnants of a regime so riddled with rot, you’d think Dante ran a consulting firm for the Department of Homeland Security.

Let’s name names, shall we?

Tom Holman, Kristi Noem, Pam Bondi, Marco Rubio—add them to the menu, served daily at the commissary of Karma State Pen. These are not public servants. These are well-dressed vandals of the Constitution, troweling hate mortar into the cracks of democracy while the rest of us tried to keep the damn house from falling in.

And then there’s Florida Fats, the carnival barker-in-chief, bloated on grievance and gravy, waddling through justice’s revolving door thinking it’s a golden archway to absolution. It isn’t. The hinges squeal, the locks turn, and the smell of bleach and boiled ham clings to everything he touches.

No, there is no presidential E-ZPass for crimes against humanity. There is no Secret Service detail once you’re chained to the floor, trying to figure out if that stain in the corner is soup or blood. History does not forget, it just sharpens its blade slowly.

Kidnapping. Human trafficking. State-sponsored sadism dressed in flag pins and Bible verses. These are not charges you dance away from in the rain. These are not “policy disagreements.” These are federal crimes, orchestrated by a choir of dead-eyed opportunists who mistook cruelty for governance and obedience for love.

And to those who think high office grants a pardon from justice: ask Ceaușescu. Ask Mussolini. Ask the ghosts hanging in the rafters of every failed republic. Even when the gallows don't swing, there are other punishments—pariahdom, poverty, the long, unending silence of relevance lost.

So yes, there is life after office. It just might be 6x9, concrete-floored, and smelling like bleach and regrets. The suits will fade, the hair dye will drip, and the handlers will vanish like roaches when the light hits.

And if there is a just god, He’s already drafting the sentencing guidelines.

Yesterday’s Oval Office pageant featured the usual rogues’ gallery, their faces pinched by the strain of holding back smirks too large for their thin lips. Pam Bondi and Stephen Miller, twin emissaries of America’s bruised conscience, flanked the Commander-in-Crime with the practiced poise of carnivorous courtiers. Each licked their lips—figuratively and not—at the press’s questions, as if savouring the moral decay of the moment.

The occasion? A press event draped in diplomatic pretense, featuring El Salvador’s President Nayib Bukele—part social media messiah, part strongman in skinny jeans—now cast as co-star in a grim transnational spectacle. The topic? Kilmar Abrego Garcia, a Maryland resident and legal immigrant, vanished into the paper shredder of American due process and spat out across the equator. Mistakenly deported, though in this administration, “mistakenly” functions less as an apology and more as a feature.

Bondi, the Attorney General in name and cable pundit in spirit, shifted blame with the grace of a sorority sister dodging a group project: “That’s up to El Salvador if they want to return him. That’s not up to us.” It is as if constitutional orders from the Supreme Court now come with opt-out clauses and administrative shrug emojis.

Miller, ever the architect of punitive immigration poetry, chimed in with the clarity of a man who’s been rehearsing this line since birth: “It’s very arrogant—even for American media—to suggest we’d tell El Salvador how to handle their own citizens.” A neat inversion from the same lips that once drafted bans, walls, and policies dictating how other nations must handle ours.

And then Bukele, wearing the smirk of a man who knows a photo op when he sees one, declared with performative innocence: “How can I smuggle a terrorist into the United States? I don’t have the power to return him.” There is no mention of the man’s innocence, his ties to Maryland, or the ruling from America’s highest court. Just the word “terrorist,” tossed like red meat into a sea of Fox News headlines.

To the onlookers—the jurists, the civil libertarians, the dwindling defenders of what remains of the Constitution—this wasn’t just another slip in a long slide. This was defiance sharpened to a blade. A Supreme Court order rebuked in real time. Due process was ignored with a wink and a grin. An immigrant’s fate dangled as performance art for a base that measures patriotism in cruelty and applause.

And there, behind the podiums, were Bondi and Miller, their lips glistening in the fluorescent rot of the moment, as if cruelty itself were a delicacy best served live.

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