WE KNOW WHAT WE SEE | NATSLETTER

There was this dress.

It hung on a rack in the Cheshire Oaks Designer Outlet in the United Kingdom. A middle aged woman found it and snapped a picture of it, thinking it was the perfect dress to wear to her daughter’s wedding, and then sent along the pic for the bride-to-be’s approval.

It was a blue dress with black lace. However, when the daughter looked at the pic on her phone, she saw something completely different: a white dress with gold trim and, you know what? If you were alive and online in 2015, you probably know exactly the dress of which I write.

What a wacky time, 2015 - right? Probably the last good year on the internet. Pizza rat? Left Shark? Those were both 2015! Pardon my quick dip into the nostalgia vat but - and I don’t know if you’ve noticed - it’s been a tough couple of weeks. Baba could use a quick hit of memory-induced dopamine.

Anyway, back to the dress: it was an optical illusion, of course. It had to do with the brain or eyes or something science-y. Some folks saw blue/black. Others saw white/gold. Many a good natured argument ensued - we all had a good laugh and then, about a year later, our shared sense of reality completely shattered.

I used this dress phenomenon to help me reckon with the political polarization that’s cursed us since… well, I guess since forever but certainly for the past decade. We’ve looked at the same news, the same events, but some of us saw blue and others of us saw white. You could scream about how white that dress was until your vocal cords shredded into sinews, but it would never change the other person’s perspective.

Yes. ‘The Dress’ presented a nifty dichotomy to help me make sense of the world. But I don’t think it’s so nifty or accurate anymore.

As you’re probably aware, in this past year-of-a-month Federal Agents murdered Renee Good and Alex Pretti.

In the immediate aftermath, the Federal Government’s various mouth-breathing mouthpieces raced to their microphones in a desperate bid to paint these two people as dangerous domestic terrorists who were threatening the lives of valiant, masked, camouflaged-in-an-urban-environment-like-some-kind-of-schmuck law enforcing paladins.

There was one problem with the official narrative. The videos. So many videos, from so many different angles, and good lord are they hard to watch (which is why I'm not linking to any). And with each view, and with each new detail learned from the people who knew the victims and the people who loved them, it becomes clearer and clearer to most every American:

The lying liars had lied.

And it struck me that what’s on offer here, at least from this the “mulligan of malignance” version of the Trump administration, is not an equally plausible view of the same object. This is not the “blue dress version” of events. This is an alternate universe situation - one in which “truth” is fed to you not by your senses but by Kristi Noem and Stephen Miller and Greg Bovino (gone too soon, our tiny Himmler…). 

“The dress is neither blue nor white. You aren’t looking at a dress at all. What you see is a massive pink elephant. Bow before the majesty of the pink elephant and hand over your children to be sacrificed.”

Their plan is to take their fantasy world - this repulsive white nationalist fever dream in which an ever-shrinking circle of “real Americans” must be protected from hordes of acid spewing locusts - and lay that world over the top of actual reality like some sort of suffocating blanket.

This is Soviet era shit. This is Putin shit. This is “do not trust your own eyes” shit. This is unabashed horseshit, and to hear them talk about it you would think it is your patriotic duty to just accept it.

And we all know that’s what this is, right? Horseshit?

We knew it was horseshit when we saw that Alex wasn’t armed or resisting. We knew it when we heard Renee say “I’m not mad at you.” We knew it when “the worst of the worst” quickly became the taco vendor that used to set up kitty corner from the local Vons - they made fresh tortillas and we haven’t seen them for months and now have to pray to God that they’re just in hiding and not sitting in a Texas concentration camp or worse. 

We knew it when these surges conveniently kept hitting liberal cities and states (oh hey, they’re leaving Republican Senator Susan Collins’s Maine - quelle surprise). We knew it when Greenland became a must-have piece of real estate, or when the Epstein files became boring and unimportant. We knew it when the millions of protesters were labelled as radicals and terrorists and crisis actors (we’re still waiting for our checks, Soros) because people couldn’t possibly be upset at the massive, immoral and cruel upheaval ruining our day-to-day lives. 

Couldn’t be that, could it? The constant horseshittery? The never ending anxiety of what new horror awaits us every morning on our news apps? Couldn’t be that, right?

No, it’s the children who are wrong.

Dealing with this weird war against reality has been exhausting, even for those of us who are not out in the sub-zero streets of Minneapolis trying to keep our neighbors safe. It’s scary right now, although it is comforting to see heroes - everyday people - stepping up and continuing to care for those in need in the face of great violence. Not everyone can be a hero.

But there is one thing that everyone can do: insist on living your life in actual reality. Reject the lies and the fake world that the administration’s weird little hangers-on and sycophants are trying to create. Push back the suffocating blanket and continue breathing. That’s something that you can control, regardless of who you are, and the more of us who refuse to go along down the road to collective madness, the better chance there is we’ll all make it out.

That’s a power that you have right now. And at a time where our shared sense of reality is battling to survive against a deluge of flagrantly false horseshit, that’s power enough. We know what we’ve seen. We are witnesses. We talk to our neighbors and friends. We’re keeping this reality, holding it tightly to our chest, and because of our vigilance and because of our love for one another, better days will come.

Okay great! Uh. I had written in the outline “find a funny way out of this intro” but obviously that’s failed, so instead I’m just going to climb down from the soapbox and get on with some silly bits and pieces.

TRY TINY COOKIES

The big glittery ball dropped - the calendar flipped over - and you promised yourself that this year you were going to hit the ground running. 

No more bad food, no more mistakes, no more flaws. You were going to track your biometrics and cut out seed oils and get good sleep and drink gallons of water a day and consume less alcohol (and only clear liquors) and make a vision board and put together steps - actionable steps this time, not just pie-in-the-sky steps - for you to take on your brave journey to a newer, better you in this, the year 2026.

But then January happened.

All of your plans have been blown to hell by this. You know: this. You know exactly what this is because you are alive right now and you are living through this and some version of this seems to happen every year.

And so, may we make a humble suggestion?

Tiny Cookies.

We know, we know, we know. “Tiny Cookies” is the kind of thing you’re trying so very hard to avoid - there’s no supergreens in Tiny Cookies. The protein content is basically nonexistent. What possible good could Tiny Cookies do for your gut biome?

None. No nutritionists were consulted before the writing of this piece, but still the editorial staff feels pretty confident that Tiny Cookies can do nothing for your gut biome.

What can Tiny Cookies do for you? That’s easy. 

They can delight your mouth. 

They can reawaken, if only for a brief moment, the part of your soul that actually enjoys living.

‘Will it destroy everything I’m working for?’ you ask. 

‘No, child,’ we say, as we brush the hair back from your forehead. ‘That’s why they’re tiny. Tiny Cookies could never hurt you. Tiny Cookies are too tiny. We’re not talking about Big Cookies here. We’re talking about the itty bitty little Tiny Cookies that could never hurt a flea, much less your overly complicated, insanely impossible diet. Look how tiny these Tiny Cookies are! They’re so very, very tiny!

They’re just Tiny Cookies and they want to love you.

Think of it like this: you spend all day struggling and striving and pushing and pulling and once the sun goes down, you look and see that you’ve not moved a single inch towards becoming that mythical Actualized You. 

Who do you turn to for comfort? The professional shills trying to sell you life coaching nonsense and dating strategies and protein shakes and supplements and self-help books and dick pills and hair growth treatments and botox and plugs and fast fashion and stock advice and Oh Dear God, are we living a lie? Are we even living?

Relax, baby. Just turn to the simple pleasures of life: Tiny Cookies and a glass of milk or coffee or tea. Maybe you can invite a couple of likeminded, exhausted friends to share them with you. Have a Tiny Cookie or two, regroup and come back the next day looking for some other way to extract meaning and love from this cold, cold world.

Tiny Cookies, baby.

This article was paid for by Nabisco.

Just kidding. Nobody paid me for this. I just believe in Tiny Cookies.

Hey, how about a short story?

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

Martin bought a toy cement truck, figuring what little boy doesn’t like a good plastic truck? 

Truthfully, he didn’t know much of anything about what a little boy might or might not like. It had been a long time since he’d been a little boy, and he had a notoriously bad memory to begin with, so much of his thinking process was guesswork. What little he actually knew came from his wife, Luisa, and most of what she knew came from her two older sisters and their kids.

“Weird, isn’t it?” remarked Luisa as she finished getting dressed. “We don’t really know anyone in the neighborhood yet. To be invited to a kid’s birthday party right out of the gate is a strong move.”

“Think of it as a chance to meet some people,” said Martin. “These are our neighbors now. ‘Would be good to put our best foot forward.”

“Speaking of, you’re not really gonna wrap it like that, are you?”

Martin looked down at the job he’d done on the truck. He had to admit, he’d mangled it a bit: taping over holes as best he could and patching the places where he’d underestimated how much paper to use. The whole package had a Frankenstein aesthetic going for it.

“I mean, it’s a kid. How much does it matter?”

Luisa confiscated the scotch tape and the scissors from her husband. “If we’re putting our best foot forward? A lot.”

~~~~~

They walked past the Beemers and the Teslas and the Audis parked along the wide suburban street, carrying their present down pristine sidewalks and past immaculately manicured lawns until they reached a large adobe-style McMansion bedecked in balloons and tinsel. A banner hanging above the garage door proudly announced in glittery silver letters: “JOHN-BOY’S 10.”

Luisa shifted from foot to foot. Martin rang the doorbell.

A perfectly pleasant white woman swung open the door. “Hello! You must be the Machados.”

“Guilty as charged,” joked Martin.

“I figured as much - you’re the only two I don’t recognize. It’s a tight-knit community around here. Nice to meet you. I’m Derna,” said the woman with a smile, although Luisa couldn’t help but notice a hint of strain in the corners of her mouth. “Please, won’t you come in?”

As Derna led Martin and Luisa through the house, they passed little pockets of partiers. Like their host, each seemed perfectly pleasant and yet something felt off to Martin. He tried waving to a couple of partiers and received back wan smiles and furtive glances.

While he didn’t know many kids and hadn’t gone to many of their birthday celebrations, Martin had been to other parties before. Usually when people go to parties they go for the purpose of having fun. Laughs and smiles and backslapping… affection. You get the sense that people like one another. And yet, the vibe here did not strike Martin as affectionate or congenial. 

It also struck him as odd that there didn’t seem to be any other kids present.

Martin tried to shake off the strangeness of his surroundings. “Thank you so much for having us. It’s tough, you know, being new to the neighborhood and everything. Luisa and I can’t wait to meet the kid! Was it John…?”

“John-Boy,” confirmed Derna, “and he’s so very much looking forward to meeting you too.”

“Oh?” said Luisa. “That’s very flattering, especially for a ten year old. When we visit my sisters, my nephews couldn’t care less about us. We may as well be sacks of flour.”

“Yes, well, one thing you should know about John-Boy is that he’s very advanced for his age,” said Derna with a wan smile before opening the sliding glass back door and leading them out onto the patio.

As Martin and Luisa stepped out, they were met by a perfectly pleasant white man with fashionable round glasses as well as a shock of blond hair that seemed to stick straight up from his scalp.

“Ah! You must be the Machados. Here. You’re gonna need these,” he said, as he handed them both glasses of punch.

Derna put her hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is my husband, Cherstopher.”

Luisa squinted as though that might retroactively boost her hearing. “I’m sorry. Christopher?”

“Cherstopher,” confirmed Cherstopher, “but my friends call me Cherst.” Luisa noted a certain shine coming off of his face - his skin exceptionally smooth, almost like his dermis consisted of a thick layer of plastic.

Martin sniffed the punch. “What is in this? Paint thinner?”

Cherst laughed. Martin wanted to press him for an answer, but Luisa cut in, “Your son must be very excited for his birthday. Ten is a big year.”

“Oh, he’s not our son. No no no,” said Cherst.

“John-Boy’s parents passed away,” noted Derna. “Dementia.”

“Oh. Uh. What a tragedy,” said Luisa. 

Cherst and Derna just sort of shrugged. “They lived full, happy lives,” assured Cherst. Luisa raised an eyebrow.

“So where is the little tyke anyway?” asked Martin.

Suddenly, they heard a commotion coming from behind the pool house. The fronds from a few tropical ferns parted.

Out of the flower bed stepped an old man, no younger than mid-eighties, dressed up in a speedo and a t-shirt that read “Birthday Boy.” The propeller on his multi-colored beanie slowly spun atop his head. The man carried a squirrel by the tail.

“Speak of the devil,” said Cherst, his voice clenching up just a little bit.

“DERNA,” shouted the Birthday Boy, “I CAUGHT ONE. I CAUGHT THE SQUIRREL. I WANT TO KEEP IT.”

“Of course, John-Boy! Good job! Say, why don’t you come up here and meet the Machados. If you like.”

“Oh what?” blurted out Martin. “What’s going on now?”

John Boy trundled up the back steps to the patio. He inspected Martin and Luisa, his wrinkled face cascading into a severe scowl.

His mind desperately searching for a way to deal with the shock of whatever this was that was happening to him, Martin could only sheepishly hold out his present as an offering. Luisa forced a polite smile onto her face and said, “It’s, uh, it’s a pleasure to meet you, John-Boy.”

John-Boy sniffled. He chewed at the corners of his mouth as his eyes moved back and forth between the two. A low grumble emanated from the depths of his throat.

“YOUR PORES. BOTH OF YOU. THEY’RE SAD. I DON’T LIKE THEM” 

Then he stared up into the sky for a few moments. Finally, he growled the words “HAVE FUN” - more a command than a wish - before turning back to the yard. The poor squirrel let out a yelp as John-Boy bounded down the steps.

“Hey! That wasn’t so bad!” noted Cherst before downing a cup of punch in one quick gulp. Then he gestured with his empty cup towards Martin’s present. “There’s a gift table set up inside. Also, take advantage of the food while you can. Sometimes John-Boy throws a fit and takes it out on the buffet table, so. You’ve been warned.”

~~~~~

Luisa and Martin hovered over the cheeseboard, placing slices of muenster and sweaty pepperjack onto their tiny paper plates as though everything were perfectly normal. They each added a couple of mundane water crackers. Luisa placed a cornichon on her plate, then turned to Martin and said, “What the actual ff-”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Martin shook his head back and forth. “I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what we’ve stepped into here, I mean, this is… uh.”

“Surreal?”

“I mean, that’s an old, old man right? You’re my wife - you’re obligated to tell me if I’m crazy.”

“I see what you see,” announced Luisa. “This is very distressing, Martin. Everyone is pleasant but nobody’s having fun. It looks like everyone has had a ton of plastic surgery. There’s a super old guy pretending to be a cartoon version of a ten year old, and I don’t know if it’s his ideas or theirs.”

A perfectly pleasant looking man with an aggressively tanned complexion sidled up to the buffet. Martin and Luisa went silent. The man smiled, although the rest of his face barely registered the necessary wrinkles to make that facial gesture seem natural.

“You must be the Machados,” he said. “I’m sure this is all very disorienting for you. It’s nice to meet you, by the way. I live across the street.”

“I’m Martin,” said Martin, “and this is Luisa. We’re new to the neighborhood, but then you probably…”

“Already know that,” smiled the man as he started to pile pigs in a blanket onto his plate.

“And you are…?” asked Luisa.

“The name is Derg Jergens. I saw the two of you over here and it reminded me of my first time attending a John-Boy 10th Birthday Party. ‘Thought I would do the neighborly thing and come greet you, since this,” Derg gestured widely to the whole room, “can be a bit much.

“The first thing you should know is that you’re not crazy. That is an eighty-seven year old man who goes by the name John-Boy. Yes: we all know it. No: none of us are happy about this.”

Derg’s pile of pigs in a blanket quickly became a mound as he added and added and added to it.

“I’m happy to know we haven’t lost our minds,” said Martin with a relieved chuckle.

“But why put up with it?” asked Luisa. “Why pretend?”

“Well, you see, through some series of complicated machinations and byzantine legal work, it turns out that John-Boy there effectively runs the neighborhood HOA - runs it with an iron fist. Nobody knows how it happened, but it did and has happened and is now the case. 

“I don’t know if you’ve been homeowners before or if this is your first time, but if you want to do anything at all in this neighborhood then you need the approval of the HOA. If you want to put in a hot tub or a porch, if you so much as want to change the shingles on your roof, then you need his approval. And so, we put on this insane charade for that sadistic old fart right over there,” he said, pointing with the tip of a pig in a blanket at a poster board picture of John Boy set up by the gift table.

“Now, one thing you should know is that it’s been a dream of Mrs. Jergens’ and mine to build an outdoor sauna,” said Derg as he began to remove pigs in a blanket back from his place and place them back onto the buffet. “My joints are achy, and Derborah thinks this will revive our sex life.”

“Your names are Derg and Derborah?” asked Luisa.

“And I will be goddamned,” continued Derg, his eyes growing cold, “if two newby dipshits ruin the birthday boy’s mood just as I’m about to get sign off on construction. So, play ball. If that ‘kid’ says jump, you better strap your leg braces on and start working out your calves because you’re about to do your best impression of a pogo stick. Do you understand?”

Derg dumped the last of his pigs in a blanket back onto the serving tray.

“You’re not keeping any of those?” asked Martin.

“I don’t eat meat,” sneered Derg as he headed off to get some punch.

Luisa turned to Martin. “Well, I don’t like that.”

Martin picked up one of the soiled pigs in a blanket. “Why did I buy a plastic truck? I feel like an idiot. We’re so screwed. What a terrible idea. I don’t even know if kids like plastic trucks anymore, much less an eighty seven year old man.”

Luisa took the pig in a blanket out of Martin’s hand. “What are you talking about? We’re leaving, right?”

“And upset the entire neighborhood? Did you see Derg’s eyes just now? I don’t know about you, but the last thing I need are those bulging, psychotic pupils peeking in on us from behind the boxwoods. Let’s just play ball, make it out of here, and then we can just find excuses to never come back again.”

~~~~~

The afternoon became an unrelenting exercise in humiliation - for Martin, for Luisa and seemingly for everyone else in attendance.

Martin nearly dislocated a shoulder inside the bouncy castle. John-Boy laughed and laughed as Martin applied a make-shift ice pack.

Luisa almost drowned bobbing for apples, and when she finally managed to snag one she found razor blades embedded in the side. Her lips missed severe injury by mere millimeters.

A perfectly pleasant woman with plumply botoxed lips named Jerne had the great misfortune of playing the donkey upon which John-Boy pinned a tail.

“Ow, hahaha!” said Jerne. “That really hurts haha! But it’s okay! It drew blood and it really hurts a lot, hahaha!”

John-Boy howled and slapped his knee and screamed. “YOU’RE A STUPID IDIOT! HAA! YOU’RE DUMB! YOU’RE A DUMMIE!” Then he announced, “PEEN-YEEEATA!”

Cherst and Derg helped a perfectly pleasant man named Herctor into a harness. Before long, Herctor hung suspended below an awning while holding armfuls of Wethers’ Originals.

John-Boy took a wooden dowel and he swung and swung and swung at Herctor, who yelped with every successful strike.

“I’m okay with this!” laughed Hercter, “It’s perfectly fine! Just remember me when my plans for the in-ground pool come up for review!”

Luisa met Martin by the punch bowl. Paint thinner or no, they both needed beverages, if for no other reason than to feel the comforting sensation of cold liquid going down their throats.

“We’re trapped,” said Luisa, dazed. “We’re trapped in some lunatic’s geriatric make-a-wish death cult.”

Martin grimaced as the punch burned its way down his esophagus. “We’re almost there. We can do this. We just have to make it through presents and cake and we’re done.”

“Is it going to be enough?” asked Luisa. “Will they leave us alone?”

“How should I know? I’m just trying to put one foot in front of the other right now. We can talk about the future if we get there. Hey: I love you,” said Martin with conviction as he poured the remaining ice from his cup onto his twisted shoulder.

~~~~~

The cake was distributed among those in the living room - a dry, vanilla sheet cake with a custom black and white photo printed into the icing of what Luisa and Martin could only assume was John-Boy from seventy five years ago. Even then, back in his younger and tinier and nominally more innocent days, his eyes betrayed a sort of vaguely malevolent emptiness, as though the boy was stalking the neighboring shih tzu while also sitting for his portrait.

The partiers did their best to choke down the chalky confection. To Luisa, it felt as though the cake dissolved into some sort of vanilla paste that coated the tongue. After two bites, she set aside her paper plate.

John-Boy paused from swinging his poor captive squirrel around by the tail just long enough to notice.

“YOU’RE NOT EATING,” said John-Boy. “EAT THE CAKE.”

Luisa politely dabbed the crumbs from the corners of her mouth with a glittery, silver cocktail napkin. “It’s delicious. I’m trying to savor it, you know. Take my time.”

John-Boy dropped the grateful squirrel, who took the opportunity to flee through the open glass sliding door into the backyard. He toddled a few steps closer to her.

Martin crammed the rest of his piece of cake into his mouth and made an exaggerated MMMMMMMMM noise, hoping to make some sort of distraction.

John-Boy crinkled his nose, then pronounced, “LERISA. THAT’S YOUR NAME NOW. EVERYONE CALLS YOU LERISA NOW.”

The rest of the partiers nodded in approval. Derg even managed some polite applause for the christening. Martin shared a look with his wife.

“No,” said Luisa. “No, we’re not doing that. I’m sorry. My name is Luisa. It’s been Luisa ever since the moment I burst forth from my mother’s womb, and I’m going to insist on being called who I am.”

“LERRRRERISA,” challenged John-Boy.

Luisa crossed her arms.

John-Boy turned to Martin. “CALL YOUR WIFE LERISA.”

“Boy, this cake is really something, huh?” answered Martin. “Hey, what say we change the subject, huh? Anyone got any good dad jokes? I love a good pun.”

John-Boy wheeled around, grabbing the remains of the cake and hurling it at an unsuspecting fiddleleaf fig plant, the warm icing running down the leaves in drips. The eighty-five-year-old ten year old snapped at Cherst and Derna.

“BRING ME THE GIFT. I WANT IT.”

“The… from the Machados? That gift?” asked Cherst. John-Boy growled and gnashed his teeth, which he took as a yes. Cherst grabbed the gift from the table and handed it to John-Boy.

“THIS WRAPPING IS GARBAGE,” noted John-Boy. Martin cast a quick look at Luisa, whose pride might have been hurt if she weren’t already so consumed with distaste. John-Boy tore at the wrapping like a rat diving into a discarded pastrami sandwich, then brandished the truck.

“YOU GOT THIS? A PLASTIC TOY TRUCK? FOR AN EIGHTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD MAN? JERNE GOT ME A ROLEX,” shouted John-Boy.

“We thought you were ten years old,” rejoined Martin, “which by the way, welcoming committee, thanks for the invite and the warning.”

“So, wait, so you’re aware of your real age?” asked Luisa, perplexed.

John-Boy waved away both comments and then brandished the plastic truck. 

“PEE ON THIS TRUCK,” he demanded of Martin.

“I’m sorry?” replied Martin.

“I WANT TO SEE YOU PEE ON YOUR PRESENT. IN FRONT OF EVERYBODY.”

Martin cast a look around the room at all of the perfectly pleasant people with the perfectly plastic faces and the perfectly desperate looks in their eyes. His gaze eventually landed on his wife.

“IF YOU WANT A MOMENT’S PEACE IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD,” stated John-Boy in his most measured tone, “THEN YOU WILL TAKE OUT YOUR WEEWEE AND YOU WILL PEE ON THIS PLASTIC TRUCK.”

Martin let out a sigh. He spit whatever remained of the cake-paste into a cocktail napkin, which he plopped onto his paper plate.

“Nuts,” said Martin.

John-Boy cocked his head to the side.

Martin elaborated: “You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think we Machados are going to bow to your tantrums. I don’t care who you are or how much sway you have with the HOA. The rest of you can grovel all you want - I’m not here trying to tell you how to live your lives - but we’re not bowing to some senile nutjob in a beanie and I’m sure as hell not urinating on a perfectly good plastic toy truck. You are all out of your damned minds. With all due respect, and I hope we can all be friends.”

John-Boy seemed to look at Martin and Luisa for the first time, his jaundiced eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. The corners of his mouth lifted just slightly into what looked like a smile.

“DERG,” said John-Boy, “IF YOU WANT YOUR SAUNA THEN I WANT THEIR HEADS ON A SILVER PLATTER.”

Derg considered. “What kind of silver platter?”

Martin turned to Luisa and said, “We should probably be going now.”

IN CASE YOU MISSED IT - here are some other things that I wrote this month! Check them out if you haven’t yet, or read them again if you like!

A LOVE FEST, 6TH OF JANUARY

I don’t know what you remember, but I’m pretty sure it was a love fest and why are my eyes bleeding?

THE BOARD OF PEACE | GAZA

Everything they’re doing is above “board,” right? Right? Isn’t that right, MBS?

THE GOSPEL OF TRAVIS

We’re ten chapters in and already we’re negotiating with demons over here!

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Hope you’ve enjoyed!  Remember to love and take care of each other!