No Dumbo These


Some elephant Factslaps:


Largest Land Mammals: African elephants are the largest land animals, with adult males weighing up to 15,000 pounds and standing about 13 feet tall at the shoulder.
Massive Appetites: Elephants can consume up to 600 pounds of food daily, though 250–300 pounds is more typical.  
Inefficient Digestive Systems: Despite their large intake, elephants digest less than 50% of their food, leading to frequent defecation—12 to 15 times a day, totaling around 220–250 pounds.  
Long Gestation Period: Elephants have the longest pregnancy of any land animal, lasting about 22 months.  
Distinctive Ears: African elephants have large ears shaped somewhat like the African continent, while Asian elephants have smaller, rounded ears.  
Infrasonic Communication: Elephants communicate using low-frequency sounds, known as infrasound, which can travel several miles.  
Emotional Intelligence: Elephants exhibit behaviors associated with grief, learning, mimicry, play, altruism, tool use, compassion, cooperation, self-awareness, memory, and communication.  
Unique Names: Research suggests elephants may use unique vocalizations akin to names to address each other, indicating advanced social structures.  
Altruistic Behavior: Elephants have been observed helping injured individuals, including humans, and even guarding them from potential threats.  
Thermoregulation via Ears: Elephants use their large ears to regulate body temperature by flapping them to cool the blood in the ear’s extensive network of blood vessels.


Voter Regret? Not When They Hurt More


Pain is the point.

That’s the animating force behind Trump’s base in 2025. Not prosperity. Not policy. Not some grand vision for the future. Just pain—administered downward and in bulk.

The country is a mess. Stocks are sliding. Groceries are up. Federal workers are being laid off. Immigration raids are plucking students off sidewalks. Stability is gone.

Yet somehow, the people who put Donald Trump back in the White House feel no regret. No doubt. No second thoughts about electing a man with six bankruptcies, two impeachments, and one felony conviction.

Why? Because in Trump’s America, success is relative. And the only thing better than getting ahead is making sure someone else falls behind.

Psychologists call it downward social comparison. When your own situation feels bleak, you look down, not up. You don’t have to feel good—you just have to feel better than.

That’s the fuel of modern Trumpism. Not belief in him, but belief that he’s making the right enemies suffer.

Trump didn’t promise to save his voters. He promised to punish their enemies. And in that, he’s been wildly effective.

Wages are stagnant, but liberals are losing teaching jobs. Your health insurance sucks, but immigrants are being deported. Your cousin’s factory closed, but your old Facebook enemy’s pronouns got mocked on national TV. The border’s a disaster, but at least someone darker-skinned got roughed up in the process.

It’s emotional math: I’m hurting, but if you’re hurting more, I’m winning.

So when chaos breaks loose, the base doesn’t flinch. They cheer. Federal layoffs? That’s draining the swamp. ICE raids? That’s taking our country back. Book bans? That’s sticking it to the smug elites. It doesn’t matter if it fixes anything. It matters that it feels like payback.

This isn’t a conservative movement anymore. It’s a retribution cult. And it doesn’t hide it. The cruelty isn’t collateral—it’s the message. Trump doesn’t offer leadership. He offers vengeance. And that’s a hell of a drug for a country built on grievance.

So how do you fight that?

Maybe you don’t. Not with optimism. Not with kumbaya coalitions or Sunday morning sermonizing. Trumpism isn’t a misunderstanding—it’s a demand. The base doesn’t want change. They want the scoreboard to show their enemies are bleeding.

We need to stop looking for regret. There is none. Democrats need to stop waiting for a tide to turn. It won’t. This isn’t about finding common ground. It’s about recognizing there’s a whole swath of the country that likes the ground they’re standing on—because it’s on someone else’s neck.

You don’t reason with that.

You outnumber it. You outmaneuver it. Maybe you third-party it. You survive it.

And you stop pretending this is anything but what it is.

1.6

1.6

1.6 years—
for all creatures great and small,
from bacteria to sequoia,
that’s the full bloom,
the exhale and the hush,
the blink that forgets to open again.

Some never see winter,
some never feel heat,
some die in the turning between.

A spark leans into kindling,
believes in fire,
even if the sky is already raining.

You could count the seconds,
or you could taste them.
You could polish the regret
until it reflects nothing.

Or—
you could lie down
in the tall grass
and let the sun measure your worth
in how warm your shoulders feel.

Even the mayfly has a dance,
even the moss has a song
it sings to no one
on the underside of a stone.

And maybe the question isn’t
how long,
but how wide
a life can stretch
between the seconds
we’re willing to notice.

So when the time comes—
and it always comes—
let the last breath be not a wish
but a thank you.
Let it be not a door
but a window
that stayed open
just long enough
to let the wild air in.