First, release the papers.
Then release the hounds.
Thousands of pages flutter down like ash—names, dates, flight logs—so naturally the solution is noise. Preferably the kind with jets. Preferably somewhere warm, far away, and vaguely brown on a map.
They call it enforcement.
They call it precision.
They call it anything but what it is: a magic trick.
“Look,” says the hand, pointing south,
while the other hand shreds subpoenas, trims healthcare,
pads inflation, and sets a countdown clock on the government itself.
A war—sorry, operation—is announced with the solemnity of a press release and the emotional depth of a trailer voiceover. Flags unfurl. Talking heads nod gravely. Graphics bloom like fireworks: JUSTICE, SECURITY, DRUGS.
Somewhere, a dog feels a sudden tug.
The public is told this is necessary.
Urgent.
Unrelated.
Meanwhile, the real documents sit quietly, doing the most dangerous thing of all: existing. They don’t explode. They don’t chant. They don’t salivate for airtime. They simply wait to be read—which is precisely the problem.
Bombs fall. Markets wobble. Hospitals close. The shutdown looms like a shrug. But don’t worry—there’s a villain now. There’s always a villain when the house is dirty.
This is not distraction, they insist.
This is leadership.
And the tail wags harder,
thrashing the air,
until the dog forgets which way it was walking.
