The Death of Hypocrisy

We no longer condemn deceit — only its lack of choreography.

If you’ve made it this far in life without being fired, cancelled, or publicly flogged for saying something true, congratulations — you’re ahead of me. I write because I can’t not; because silence feels like complicity, and complicity feels like rot. If this piece leaves you nodding, snarling, or muttering, “Well, he’s not wrong,” then you’re precisely the reader I’m writing for.

You’ll get two essays a week — unapologetically long, occasionally bleak, often funny, always honest. It’s six bucks a month — less than one coffee in Carney’s Canada, or two if you buy the cheap stuff. Everyone says that, of course: “It’s just a cup of coffee.” Fine. But if you’re only going to buy one cup this month, make it mine. It’s $8 a month, and you can cancel anytime.

Perhaps the most exquisite paradox of our age is that the man most universally condemned for moral rot — the gilded orange gargoyle of Mar-a-Lago — is the one actually getting things done. Donald Trump, that ambulatory conflict of interes…