THE DAY THE GOVERNMENT REOPENED (AGAIN), OR: HOW AMERICA LEARNED NOTHING AND EVERYTHING BEFORE LUNCH

DISCLAIMER: This is satire. Relax. The real world of politics is already meaner, messier, and far more ridiculous than anything in these pages. While nothing here is meant as a jab at any one demographic, it is, sadly, a pretty fair mirror of just how absurd the U.S. political landscape has become, wobbling along in full daylight.

Someone posted a meme that read, “The Government is Open and everyone has a Full Stomach. What will Libs protest next? Is Thanksgiving a Slave Holiday? Does Santa skip Trans chimneys? Was New Year’s created by a Nazi? Stay Tuned, America!!” and my mind, true to form, sprinted straight toward the extreme. Maybe it is because I have been buried in Thompson, Kerouac, Mailer, and, for reasons even I cannot explain, a heavy dose of Anthony Bourdain. Either way, the gearshift slipped, the wheels spun, and this is the story that spilled out. Satirical, absolutely. Far fetched, probably. Yet we live in a moment where truth keeps tripping over its own shoelaces and the absurd keeps showing up wearing a name tag that says “Reality.” So maybe this is not as wild as it looks. Stay tuned.

THE DAY THE GOVERNMENT REOPENED (AGAIN), OR: HOW AMERICA LEARNED NOTHING AND EVERYTHING BEFORE LUNCH

By BR. Giga

By the time Karoline Leavitt finally bothered to call that emergency press meeting, the sky over Washington had gone jittery, kind of guilty-looking, honestly, the way a cat parks itself next to a shattered vase and gives you that blank “funny wasn't me” stare. The air was off too. Sour, metallic. Like the whole damn building had been breathing through the wrong lung for a week. It had that hybrid smell, burnt wiring mixed with stale government carpet, the specific funk you only get in D.C. offices where the vents cough up whatever’s been lodged in them since Reagan was still clearing his throat on TV.

Reporters shuffled in from every direction, not in any real line or herd, more like hungry gulls drifting toward the racket behind a chowder shack in Providence. A couple were muttering about the government flicking back on at exactly 11:13 a.m.,one of those hyper-specific times that feels like a typo someone forgot to fix. I remember thinking the whole thing crackled with that weird electricity you get when your parking meter hits zero and, for reasons known only to God and the half-asleep seraphim responsible for parking enforcement, there’s no bright orange ticket waiting for you. You don’t trust the luck, not for a second, but you stand there anyway, trying to figure out which universe you slipped into where things break your way.

Karoline stepped to the microphone wearing the exact shade of political optimism that looks like determination ironed onto a migraine. She tapped the mic, blinked twice, and delivered the proclamation. “Ladies, gentlemen, and esteemed members of the American press, the government is open.” The collective gasp that followed did not come from relief. Americans had grown accustomed to shutdowns the way New Englanders accept snow in April, with a grunt, a shrug, and a muttered “Christ almighty.” The shock came from something stranger, because behind Karoline, both political parties stood shoulder to shoulder, looking like rival ex spouses attending the same wedding while pretending they were really happy for you.

The Democrats wore pastel smiles. The Republicans smirked like they had swallowed something illegal. Everyone radiated the smug glow of a toddler who just figured out how to stack blocks without eating them. Rep. Mike Johnson stood there looking like your drunk uncle at Christmas, shirt slightly crooked, eyes glimmering with misplaced confidence, the type of man who brings a fruitcake nobody wants but everyone politely slices anyway. Rep. Steve Scalise planted himself beside him, smugly sneering at the crowd with the victorious energy of a college kid who just won a drinking contest while chanting something close to “O’Doyle rules.” Rep. Hakeem Jeffries stood with arms crossed, stoic, cool, and unreadable, looking very much like Al Sharpton attending a KFC grand opening, part witness, part quiet authority, part cosmic disappointment.

Karoline took a breath, probably her last peaceful one for the day, and gestured for the parties to explain exactly how this miracle of federal resurrection had happened. Representative Buck Halwell went first. He had the eternal tan of a man who believed sunscreen was government overreach and a belt buckle large enough to qualify as personal armor. Buck slapped the podium with paternal force and smiled like a man unveiling a grill at a Fourth of July cookout. “My fellow Americans,” he boomed, “we did it. We opened the government.” He paused, waiting for applause that never arrived. Someone coughed in the back, which accidentally sounded like the word “why.”

“You are welcome,” Buck said. “We succeeded because of our moral stance, our historical integrity, and our refusal to cave to holiday based propaganda.” He slapped the podium again. “As the fine print states, and I quote, since Thanksgiving was founded by illegal immigrants, the Pilgrims, Thanksgiving will no longer be recognized as a federal holiday.” The room quieted into a stunned meditation. Buck nodded as if he had solved the national debt with a single thought. “Any reference to Thanksgiving will be treated as sedition. Citizens who celebrate will be raided, violated, and deported by the Storm Trooper Corps of ICE. This is a new chapter of patriotism.”

Reporters stared at him with the terrified fascination of commuters watching a deer wander onto the highway. Buck smiled wider and declared, “America first.” Congresswoman Delilah Monterose then approached the mic, gliding forward like a pastel cloud drifting over a snowbank. She adjusted her lavender scarf, composed herself with ceremonial calm, and spoke softly into the microphone. “We also opened the government,” she said. “We did it through reason, science, and a commitment to inclusivity.” She folded her hands and looked serenely at the audience. “Last week, outside the LGBTQ headquarters in Provincetown Massachusetts, we conducted a scientific poll. Ten out of nine citizens surveyed agreed that Santa Claus displays clear anti transgender bias.”

A reporter raised a hand. “Ten out of nine?” “Yes,” she said. “This was confirmed by specialists.” The room nodded, defeated by the certainty in her voice. “As a result of our research, Christmas is canceled. Not suspended, not reconsidered, canceled.” She exhaled softly, like a monk delivering a final blessing. “Any citizen found practicing, promoting, humming, or envisioning anything related to Christmas will lose their federal allotment of government cheese. They will be permanently placed on what was once the Naughty List, now officially renamed the Inclusivity Challenged Participants List.” The silence in the room had weight, the type you feel before a thunderstorm hits. “This is progress,” she said. Somewhere in the distance, a candy cane snapped out of sheer spiritual protest.

Karoline stepped back up, looking like a teacher returning to her classroom after the substitute called for medical assistance. “In exchange for these sensible and respectful cultural adjustments,” she said, “both parties have agreed to reopen the government and apply these rules retroactively to January 20, 2025.” A groan rippled through the room like a wave hitting a rotting pier. Retroactive enforcement meant that half the country was already guilty of crimes involving stuffing, cranberry sauce, reindeer motifs, festive sweaters, hot cocoa consumption, peppermint themed beverages, and any tune that echoed the beat of Jingle Bell Rock.

“We understand this will be an adjustment,” Karoline said, reading from the paper as if the page were radioactive. “However, both parties agree that this sacrifices nothing important and successfully avoids addressing any real issue faced by the American people.” She glanced at the last line, winced, and read it anyway. “Both parties appreciate your joyful endorsements during the next election cycle.”

Outside the Capitol, the public reacted as if someone had unplugged reality for twenty seconds. People walked sideways, confused, like gravity had shifted without warning. New Englanders muttered “Ayuh, they can take my turkey from my cold hands.” Moms in the South hissed “Over my dead cookies.” Teenagers everywhere tweeted “ICE raiding grandma over cranberry relish is the most American thing ever.” Both parties celebrated their own victory speeches. Republicans declared they had defeated unvetted Pilgrims. Democrats declared they had protected oppressed chimney communities. Meanwhile, the average citizen stared at the whole thing with the kind of disbelief usually reserved for UFO sightings near Worcester.

I stood on the sidewalk near the Capitol with coffee that tasted like regret and hot metal. The sun flickered over the dome, or maybe that was divine embarrassment radiating through the clouds. An old city bus rattled past with a digital sign that read “Government Open Again, Try Not to Break It This Time.” A woman next to me said “This country lost its mind.” I said “It pawned its mind for store credit in 2016 and forgot to pick it up.” We watched reporters chase politicians across the plaza like overfed pigeons fighting over day old panic crumbs. She shook her head and muttered “This is ridiculous.” I replied “It is America. Ridiculous is our default setting.”

By sunset, both parties released a joint statement. “We thank the American people for tolerating our strategic avoidance of real issues, including infrastructure, healthcare, housing, climate, education, and the growing national suspicion that we have no idea what we are doing. We deeply appreciate your continued support and look forward to your enthusiastic participation in the coming election.” It was the most accurate thing they had ever written.

The sun disappeared behind the monuments, stretching long shadows over the grass like exhausted giants collapsing on the lawn. You could feel the nation shaking, not with fear, but with the kind of laughter you release when you finally accept the absurdity of being alive here. Somewhere in this tilted republic, someone whispered, probably in sarcasm, possibly in faith, maybe in both. “Stay tuned America.”

Because the show always continues, even when nobody remembers the plot anymore, because in a time when the truth seems increasingly absurd, The absurd, seems increasingly true.