Dingus of the week: Definitely not these large adult children
Dingus of the week: Definitely not these large adult children
How dare you!
This is the weekly dingus, the newsletter where I make fun of someone or something in the news that’s made our discourse sink into the bowels of culture like an onion ring tower from Red Robin.
This weekly missive is something more people are clinging to as their last grasp on sanity in the Era of the Dingus. Never miss a newsletter by becoming a subscriber.
This week Donald Trump Jr took the stand to testify against his father in a fraud trial. Next week, the rest of Trump’s children, Ivanka and Eric,1 will also testify. In response to this news, the former president issued a statement noting that the judge is hounding his children.
“So sad to see my sons being PERSECUTED in a political Witch Hunt by this out of control, publicity seeking, New York State Judge, on a case that should have NEVER been brought,” Trump wrote on Truth Social, which is the social media site for people who think babies are being shipped on Wayfair.
Listen, I know I make fun of many things in this newsletter. I think of it as a way of having a few dark laughs during the decline of man.
But I draw the line at picking on children.
Look at them. They are actual infants.
Do you see them? They can barely hold their heads up.
They barely even eat solid food!
THEY’RE STILL DOING TUMMY TIME!
And you want to put them on the stand for a little thing they might have accidentally done, which is, in this case, fraud?
Like babies sometimes hit people with their little baby hands. You don’t arrest them for assault. Similarly, these absolutely large babies may have inadvertently defrauded people. What baby hasn’t? But you, a woke mob, you want to put them on the stand?
Your honor, Eric still needs a snack of goldfishies and milkies. And you want him to answer for the massive amounts of ALLEGED fraud he may or may not have helped his father do?
He doesn’t even understand numbers or that the little baby he sees in the mirror is actually him.
I mean sure are they large and grown? Maybe, what’s your definition of grown?
Listen to what he said on the witness stand, which is slightly advanced for a baby, but please listen.
“I understand we had financials as a company,” Eric Trump said. “I was not personally aware of the statement of financial condition. I did not work on the financial condition. I’ve been very, very clear on that.”
It’s not like this CHILD went to The Wharton School for business.
Oh wait. He did?
Okay, well that’s advanced for a baby. But still, a BABY NEVERTHELESS. You can’t expect someone running a foundation to understand the financials of it. You can’t expect that someone in charge would have any sort of responsibility. That’s ludicrous.
I mean we’ve all seen Boss Baby. Babies can be advanced, but they’re still widdle guys who should not have to ever face consequences.
Is there nothing sacred anymore when our justice system is making babies answer for their crimes?
I look forward to next week when Ivanka testifies. I imagine it will go something like this…
Also, shout out to dingus runner up, Eric Adams, who has united a large and diverse city into the universal cause of hating his ass.
And now for something good…
Professional nepo baby Brian Ferentz is losing his job with the Hawkeyes.
These tiny little jewel wasps suck the life out of cockroaches and I think nature is beautiful.
Lisa Bluder, coach of the Iowa women’s basketball team dressed up as Barbie for Halloween.
As a human being who is heartbroken by the loss of life during this war, I really appreciated this thoughtful open letter signed by Jewish writers, actors, and artists many of them my friends. This letter is a call for nuance, understanding, a cease-fire, and a return of the hostages.
You may recall a few months back when a group of Iowa journalists were surveying wages and working conditions in the state. I wrote about it all in a newsletter titled “Media’s Money Problem, which was reprinted in the Neiman Labs newsletter. Well, the survey findings were released this week. The results are devastating and show a picture of journalists who are working overtime for poverty wages. The reason this is a good is because this work is so important and I know it will lead to better things for this state (which I love despite how often it hates me) and for journalism. Also, I know the survey’s authors were receiving pressure from higher-ups during this process but they pushed through. And I’m so proud to know them.
What I am drinking…
I had a small meltdown this week when my fancy coffee machine broke. At first, it was giving me the little blinking light that indicated it was time for a clean. And I cleaned it up. But then, it still didn’t work. I spent hours on the internet troubleshooting the problems and mainlining Nescafe (yes, I have a Chemex but I don’t love it). Finally, I gave in and called the company, who confirmed my deepest fears, it was broken.
I bought my fancy machine in September of 2020, when it felt like I’d never be out of isolation and I just wanted my little fancy coffee drinks. I began a ritual of buying whipped cream in a can and spraying it on my espressos and americanos. After all, as my son once wisely noted, “What the point of being a grown-up if you can’t have whipped cream whenever you want?”
Honestly, that coffee machine kept me in fancy little drinks and grasping to my sanity during a hard time. Life was bad, but I could always whip up a little coffee treat.
Listen, I can hear myself. I realize there is war and devastation. I also realize that tiny joys are somehow the only way we muscle through the day-to-day of it all. I also realize it’s a real privilege. And sure, when the apocalypse comes, I’ll be fine boiling bark in pot over an open flame, while I entertain starving travelers with stories about how I once went viral on the internet. But we aren’t quite there yet.
And I love my fancy little coffee drinks. Also, I had just bought some gingerbread-flavored whipped cream from Target for them. And it brings me no joy to report that when I learned my machine was broken and it would be a week before a new one could arrive, I cried. I cried a lot. Then, I made myself a large ramekin of macaroni and cheese and tried to find some perspective.
The reason I began the drink of the week section is because I love beverages. I love freaky little weird drinks and I love the way people drink them. I love that humanity has taken an act as simple as “swallow a liquid” and made it into elaborate creations that would make a pilgrim die from shock.
So, please, in the comments, tell me the little drinks that bring you joy. And if you need inspiration, I’m reviving Lisa’s Hot Tang recipe, which combines Hot Tang with Cedar Ridge wheat whiskey plus Crown Royal vanilla. The proportions are very much up to user discretion.
Have a good weekend and if you have a small meltdown about something small, that’s okay too.
Tiffany doesn’t count.
TBH, losing it over a coffee machine makes a lot of sense. The world is full of massive, entangled messes caused by systemic oppression working together constantly to divide and exploit and literally kill people. No single person can solve it and the little actions we take matter but it's hard to see that in the moment and particularly when a crisis is *actively* happening. So yeah, it HITS HARD when one of the few things where we find some consistent joy and contentment (which MATTER TOO!) goes sideways.
Our nervous systems, if we are paying even the slightest bit of attention, are frayed AF. It doesn't take much to snap and it doesn't make us shallow because the the thing that did it seems like a mark of privilege or ease.
Like, it's good to have routine and consistency and little joys. Those are things we ought to have. It doesn't make us terrible people—it makes us very human because we like little things that make us feel good. We deserve to feel good! All humans! Even in tiny little ways.
I'm sorry your coffee machine bust right at a time when it was one of your precious little joys. That sucks.
Lyz, you just scared the crap out of me. The "clean me" light on my coffee machine has been on for two days. I just ran out into the kitchen to say "sorry I'll clean you today, I promise. Don't die on me!"