Click by Pimm Fox

On the rise of antisemitism in American public life

There is something almost mathematically precise about the persistence of antisemitism: every civilization that has indulged it has sooner or later found itself diminished, barbarized, or destroyed. 

One might have supposed this lesson — written in the ash of a continent — would have been sufficient instruction for the ages. 

One would, of course, be wrong.

Tennessee spent ninety minutes turning an execution chamber into a trembling medical farce — a grotesque national ritual where bureaucracy, vengeance, and incompetence merged into a bloody theater

There are countries that build bridges. Countries that cure diseases. Countries that place telescopes into orbit to study galaxies older than language itself.

And then there is the United States of America, where highly paid adults gather in fluorescent government chambers to spend ninety minutes trying to stab a condemned man in the neck while arguing about whether the doctor knows how veins work.

How America turned children’s lungs into a revenue stream, regulators into ventriloquist dummies, and nicotine addiction into just another patriotic growth industry wrapped in mango flavor and campaign cash.

The great genius of the modern American state is not merely that it permits suffering, but that it industrializes it with the bored efficiency of a clerk stamping parking tickets during a flood. 

Pain in this country is no longer a bug in the system. 

It is the product. 

Civilization has reached that magical stage where a coffee mug can overthrow a corporate executive before lunch.

This week in South Korea, the head of Starbucks Korea was fired over a promotional campaign featuring insulated drink tumblers and the catastrophic misuse of the word “tank.” Somewhere in Seattle, a room full of marketing executives is now hiding under ergonomic desks whispering, “Dear God, check every adjective.”

The campaign, innocently — or catastrophically, depending on your blood pressure — was called “Tank Day.” 

Which, in most nations, sounds like either a clearance sale at Home Depot or a forgotten Steven Seagal movie. 

But in South Korea, it collided headfirst with the memory of the 1980 Gwangju massacre, when military tanks were used to crush pro-democracy protests.

Then came another phrase: “Thump it on the desk.”

Waymo’s driverless cars can map fog, detect rain, and identify flooded roads — before driving straight into them, all while Silicon Valley congratulates itself for eliminating the last remaining human beings from daily life.

Let's just start with the facts, shall we? 

Because the facts — bless their stupid, beautiful hearts — require absolutely zero embellishment.

On April 20th, a Waymo robotaxi drove into a flooded road in San Antonio, Texas, at forty miles per hour. 

The vehicle "detected flooding." 

And continued. 

At forty miles per hour. 

Into the flood. 

Now, I want you to find the dumbest cab driver in America — find him, the guy who once drove the wrong way on a one-way street while eating a burrito and arguing with his ex-wife — and I promise you, that man would not have driven into a flood at forty miles per hour. 

The World Is Running Out of Sand and Nobody Gives a Damn

Let me tell you something that will ruin your morning coffee and possibly your will to continue pretending civilization is a good idea: we are running out of sand.

Sand. 

The stuff beneath your beach towel. 

The stuff your kid stuffs into a bucket. 

The foundational grit of every concrete tower, every highway overpass, every glass window through which you stare blankly at a world we are systematically dismantling with the focused stupidity of a species that never met a commons it didn't immediately plunder.

On the great American achievement of failing to fix a puddle

There are civilizations that build aqueducts, cathedrals, observatories, and systems of law. 

Then there is modern America, a republic so spiritually exhausted it cannot repair a leaking reflecting pool without transforming the effort into a carnival of vanity, no-bid contracts, algae, lawsuits, and patriotic turquoise.

The Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool — the long, solemn ribbon of water connecting Lincoln to Washington, grief to aspiration, marble to memory—has now been repainted “American flag blue” because the President of the United States apparently looked at one of the most iconic civic spaces in the Western Hemisphere and thought: Needs more resort energy.

There is something uniquely grotesque about watching a nation that cannot fix its infrastructure decide instead to cosmetically redecorate its symbolism. 

Rome, at least, waited until the aqueducts collapsed before going mad.

America solves its postal revenue crisis the only way it knows how

Ladies and gentlemen, your federal government — that shining city on a hill, that beacon of democratic genius — has arrived at a solution so magnificently, catastrophically stupid that it deserves not merely opposition but a moment of awed, slack-jawed silence before the screaming begins. 

The United States Postal Service, which cannot deliver a birthday card reliably, which is hemorrhaging nine billion dollars a year, which is reportedly months from running out of cash entirely, has been handed a bold new revenue strategy by the Trump Justice Department: mail the guns.

Yes. 

You read that correctly.

Read it again. 

Pour yourself something. 

Go ahead — I'll wait.

New York wrapped Manhattan in a congestion-pricing girdle, declared victory over pollution, and then quietly rerouted the exhaust to children in the Bronx — before funding asthma programs to cope with the fumes.

New York, in its infinite municipal wisdom, has accomplished what generations of urban planners, traffic engineers, and chemically enhanced futurists only dreamed possible: it has discovered a way to move pollution three miles north and call it progress.

This miracle arrives courtesy of congestion pricing, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority’s gleaming technocratic invention that wrapped a tollbooth girdle around Midtown Manhattan beginning in January 2025. 

The theory sounded magnificent in PowerPoint presentations: charge drivers nine bucks to enter below 60th Street, reduce traffic, clean the air, save civilization, and fund $15 billion in transit improvements.

Instead, the city appears to have performed the environmental equivalent of shoving dirt under the rug and congratulating itself on cleaner floors.

On the FDA’s noble crusade to suppress the very data it paid to produce

It takes a particular species of genius — one neither Aristotle nor Darwin anticipated — to fund a scientific study, wait for it to conclude that something is safe, and then bury it as though the truth were a corpse requiring a shallow grave.

Yet here we are, citizens of the most expensively governed nation on Earth, watching our federal health apparatus perform precisely this feat with the confidence of men who have never once been asked to explain themselves.

The Food and Drug Administration — that venerable institution whose mandate is, one had naively presumed, the safety of food and drugs — has in recent months been suppressing its own research.