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This week, Malcolm Gladwell, the very wealthy bestselling author and staff writer for the New Yorker, said he’d been forced to say trans women belonged in women’s sports.

And wow, poor little baby. Malcolm, are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital? Should we call your mom to come pick you up?

What did the bullying look like, Malcolm? Is the bullying in the room with us right now?

Gladwell, whose work has been repeatedly debunked by legions of exhausted social scientists, but who somehow still gets heralded as a genius, went on “The Real Science of Sport” podcast with host Ross Tucker and sports journalist Mike Finch.

In the interview, Gladwell talked about being on a panel about trans women in sports hosted by Tucker in 2022. Tucker, who is a vocal opponent of trans women competing in women’s sports, voiced his opinion at the event, but Gladwell said that he felt too “cowed” and “ashamed” at the time to say he agreed with Tucker.

This explanation, much like The Tipping Point, is a bunch of gilded word turds — crack the shiny surface and it’s just a bunch of shit.

Gladwell already tipped his hand in 2019 by retweeting Tucker’s long-winded analysis of the issue, calling it “smart.”

Then, three years later, Tucker had Gladwell on a panel to talk about the issue, and Gladwell, a wealthy man who has yet to suffer any sort of consequence for churning out takes with the intellectual rigor of a conversation at RFK Jr.’s dinner table, felt “cowed” into silence?

The man wrote a whole book praising military tactics that target civilians. He glorified military atrocities! No one asked him to. Everyone was just minding their own business, and Malcolm Gladwell, Kool-Aid Man, burst through the wall and was like, “Hey! Here is a book about how I think bombing cities is genius!”

If you are ashamed of something, my guy, be ashamed of yourself.

A major part of Gladwell’s career has come from convincing legions of dinguses that they could overcome any lack of talent by simply spending 10,000 hours doing something and becoming an expert. Repeated studies have debunked all of this.

Also, Gladwell’s latest opinion really undercuts his own theory, because even if he spent 20,000 hours studying this issue, he’s still wrong. Nevertheless, he persists.

Also, how is this dingus’s tipping point common decency?

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I have written about this topic before, so I won’t bother repeating myself. There is no threat posed by trans women competing in sports. But you know what does threaten women? The fact that I have fewer rights in 2025 than I did five years ago.

It’s truly distressing that in 2025, as our cities are invaded by a tyrannical despot who is actively rotting in front of our eyes, the purported great minds of our era are too busy rotting in a stew of transphobia to do anything about it. Who convinced these absolute losers that targeting less than 1 percent of the population with unfounded hate made them interesting and anti-orthodox?

Kids are dying of gun violence at school and these absolute TED Talk-pilled poster boys for Dunning Kruger are like, “Well, actually, it makes me interesting and not a total creep to talk about a stranger's hypothetical hormone levels on a podcast.”

Also, how is this dingus’s tipping point common decency? Like, people said to him, “Hey, this is a complex issue that doesn’t really affect many people at all. Let’s let trans women play and not spread transphobic rhetoric?” And one of the wealthiest writers in the world responded by curling into a ball and crying, “Help, help! I’m being repressed!”

There are truly no bounds to the desperation of the planet’s most fortunate people. So hungry are they to experience one actual minor inconvenience so they can crow about being victimized that they’re forced to pull fake problems out of the ether. Yes, the wealth enjoyed by certain prominent authors would surely buy a lot of therapy. And yet! Here we are.

I can’t wait to explain this period of history to my grandchildren as we sit around a campfire, armed to the teeth, fearful of the roving hordes of sentient AI-bots coming for our potable water. “Yes, sweeties, women were dying of sepsis in hospital parking lots, but Gavin Newsom and Malcolm Gladwell really hated trans women, so we had to talk about how one swimmer got a fifth-place win over some blond girl while they passed laws taking away our vaccines, and we died from the measles. But hey, at least a subpar college athlete got to take fourth place.”

Last week, after I wrote an incredible (if I do say so myself) newsletter roasting the attendees of Burning Man — or as I like to call them, “All my friends’ ex-husbands” — I got no fewer than three very long emails explaining Burning Man to me. All the emails were basically, like, “Burning Man is about inclusion and acceptance, you stupid slut!” Even more people reached out on Substack notes to call me humorless and boring.

Which, yes, definitely, ranting at a stranger online makes you the fun one. That’s right. No, no, keep explaining in 900+ word emails about how Burning Man attendees aren’t the most exhausting chuds on the planet. This all makes perfect sense, you absolute haboobs.

To quote Coldby in the Discord, what we have here is infinite nesting dingii.

Another day, another lawsuit.

Republican Sen. John Barrasso of Wyoming is “deeply concerned” about RFK Jr.’s handling of the CDC. And yeah, my man, it’s very concerning. Maybe stop clutching your pearls and do something?

Women should not have to talk about the worst things that happened to them to make everyone care. That said, I am always so grateful when survivors tell their truths.

A court ruled that Trump’s tariffs were illegal. Now, the actively decaying president is asking the Supreme Court to intervene.

Let’s all bully our politicians a little more.

Dinosaur body armor? DINOSAUR BODY ARMOR!

Please don’t make me beg. I mean, I will beg, but don’t make me! Just take the survey.

This week, I got very sick and spent a lot of time sitting in bed, high on cold medicine, watching Department Q, which is a dark British crime drama full of a lot of mean people. And I loved it.

I also made this potato soup recipe, and it received rave reviews from my kids, which is the highest of praise.

Also, despite feeling like my throat had been stuffed with flaming pieces of straw, I am enjoying that it is shorts and sweater season.

Five years ago, I was fired from my newspaper job for telling the editor not to publish an op-ed that argued unarmed Black people deserved to be shot by the police. They never published the op-ed, but I was fired for “insubordination.”

As a single mom living in Iowa — where there are not a lot of jobs for writers — with no backup income, I was terrified of losing my house, my livelihood, and my voice.

I started this newsletter, and in five years it has grown from just a couple of hundred readers into a community of more than 72,000 readers.

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We made a fiery, feminist manifesto a bestseller; we launched a podcast with over 100,000 downloads; we’ve raised thousands of dollars for abortion access in Iowa and for trans mutual aid.

And as I get ready to make some very exciting new changes to this space, I want to hear from you.

So, please fill out my survey. I promise I am listening.

Take the survey

No, really, take the survey 😭

On Wednesday, I got a text message from my brother telling me about a school shooting two blocks from my niece’s school.

“She’s okay,” he wrote.

But she’s not. Not really. None of us are.

Today’s Dingus of the Week was handpicked by newsletter reader Tom. Tom has been a longtime reader of MYAM, a supporter of Team Corn Sweat, a Democrat in Iowa, and an active member of the Flyover Discord, and has been lobbying me for years to make Burning Man the Dingus of the Week. In sum: Tom is out here doing the work. Tom’s persistence paid off, because I’m exhausted and I simply cannot fight another man this week. Also, it’s a good pick. Tom is a paying subscriber to this newsletter, and if you, too, want to wear me down and lobby me to take on your own personal grudges (Stefany from HR?) in an email that is blasted out to nearly 72,000 people, become a paying subscriber.

Also, be it known: I do listen to men, sometimes. And it might take four years. BUT I DO LISTEN.1

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Have you ever wanted to do MDMA with a bunch of tech bros in an outdoor stewpot of mud and piss, with the vibe set by the worst electronica imaginable, and some guy named Trey is demanding to take you to the consensual Orgy Dome while a totem pole of precariously stacked vehicles looms above you? Well, get your ass to Burning Man.

Burning Man is Fyre Festival for people on ketamine.

Burning Man is like a trade show for DJs, where men who have nicknamed themselves “Lampshade” and “Cheeze” will tell you that The Matrix is a good idea, actually.

Burning Man began in 1986 and was initially conceived of as a weeklong countercultural festival in Nevada's Black Rock Desert, at a spot that Burners call the Playa, that centered art and free expression. Now, it’s basically glamping for every man who was behind the 2008 market crash and their third wives.

To be fair to Burning Man, the Orgy Dome, which was destroyed this year by a massive dust storm called a haboob (I know — you can’t make this shit up), is still more stable than the housing market these men built.

But at Burning Man, these men are not concerned with consequences or what evil AI robots they’ve currently unleashed upon humanity, squaring our electricity bills, sucking up our water and convincing the worst person you know that ChatGPT is Jesus and they should definitely become a prophet. No, they’re too busy shirtcocking.

Don’t know what that is? It’s walking around with a shirt but no pants on.

This is Disneyland for fucksticks.

Back to the Orgy Dome, which is a real thing. You can have an orgy on a bunch of mattresses floating on a mud swamp* with a bunch of strangers who think #MeToo went a little too far. (*Actually, given the haboob situation this year, it may have been more like a pack of horny chinchillas writhing around in their dust bath.)

If that doesn’t sound sexy, then wow, are you contributing to the male loneliness crisis? Treyvis Williamford McMuffin III (his playa name is Panty Dropper) has to vote for Trump now because you’re so uptight.

Don’t worry, though, the Orgy Dome organizers vow to rebuild. And I for one find that to be an inspiring testament to the strength, resiliency and potency of their will. And their dicks.

Burning Man is the EPCOT of Trump’s deregulatory agenda. And if your dream is to be mansplained to about the paleo diet and have a 56-year-old man contemplate the nature of reality while he grabs your ass, then it can be your EPCOT, too.

Young people at Burning Man? A bunch of nepo babies cosplaying as Marxists. Their family money comes from strip-mining Appalachia, but they’re going to go on shrooms and tell you about how they’ve found strength and inner peace in these trying times by going offline, eating organic food, connecting with nature, and drinking raw milk.

Also, Burning Man is dangerous. People die there. And injuries are so common SFGate reports that attendees can come out with piles of medical debt. And like, imagine your name is Pepper McFadden and you have to create a GoFundMe because you broke your arm falling from the top of a 70-foot-tall Labubu made from Poppi cans while high on nitrous, wearing a My Little Pony backpack and no pants.

I know all of us are God’s children and we all deserve lifesaving medical care, but this does make it challenging to stand on principle.

While researching Burning Man, I discovered that in 2023, Diplo and Chris Rock evacuated (along with many others) because of heavy rainfall. The two said they walked for six miles before hitching a ride out in someone’s truck. Apparently, that was a very controversial move! Let me quote from Zapper Jones, your Reddit guide to Burning Man:

Last year, when someone had turned on a lightning effect at the Fluffy Cloud stage, Diplo stopped the music, dropped his headphones and started running away like Forrest Gump into the darkness of Deep Playa. The Reason was that apparently he is terrified of rain and has massive cloud cover anxiety. Look, anyone who Bailed out early because of the rains of 2023 should have never been allowed back. I have ZERO respect for anyone who turned their backs on the community and ran away. There was no valid reason for anyone to leave. Work is not a valid reason for leaving. If you got fired from your job because you went to Burning Man, then you need to get a different fucking Job. Did you need to leave early because you brought kids? If your kids can't spend a few extra days in the rain then you should have never fucking brought them along in the first place. Or maybe you just need to get new kids. Either way, None of Ya'll should ever be welcomed back.

Petition to give Zapper a Pulitzer. Because that is the funniest paragraph I have ever read in my entire life. The whole post is absolutely incredible.

Don’t Diplo out, fucksticks. Not even for your kids.

In Iowa, Catelin Drey, a Democrat, won a special election for a House seat, breaking the Republican supermajority. They still have a majority. But Drey’s win, I think, is a model of what an outspoken woman can do with a social media platform, an incredible ground game, and an actual strong liberal stance. People want to vote for people who stand for something.

Kari Lake has been barred from removing the head of Voice of America.

Whoever is heckling Susan Collins, keep it up.

Tina Smith.

This week, I got to do a lot of exciting behind-the-scenes MYAM work that I will talk about very soon. In the meantime, I got to scream my head off at my daughter’s first high school swim meet and watch her win every single one of her events.

My god, the adrenaline rush. I totally understand Tonya Harding’s mom now.

Also, I haven’t had much to drink lately. But on Tuesday night, I did break open a bottle of Bødalen Whiskey, which is made in Minnesota, and had a small glass on my back porch and enjoyed the cooler weather.

Also, this review was one hell of a way to learn that Elizabeth Gilbert was the inspiration behind the most perfect movie ever made.

Diplo, out.

This is a joke because Tom's Dingus nominations are often the winning ones. I'm sure he has a tally somewhere.

Nearly 72,000 people subscribe to this newsletter. But under 10 percent are paying subscribers. If you like this newsletter and support it, become a paying subscriber. I promise, this is the only time I’ve written about Taylor Swift and will most likely be the last time. (Unless you’d like me to write about her more. In which case, let’s talk.)

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Where were you when you heard the news that one of the most talented and wealthy single women in America was getting married? Me? I was trying to read a book, just 24 hours after getting dumped by a guy who was uncomfortable with my career.

The deluge of posts, hot takes, videos, and memes already beginning to flood the internet have little to do with Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce themselves. Grown women posted that they were crying. The Wendy’s account on Threads posted, “I can’t believe we got Travis Swift before we got gta6.” The New York Times did a push alert; so did ESPN. The president wished the couple “a lot of luck” during a Cabinet meeting at the White House.

From the wedding of Isabella and Ferdinand to the union of Mr. and Mrs. Swift, every highly publicized union is idealized because it makes a fairy tale feel like it’s within reach. Sometimes that fantasy is wealth, beauty, glamour, or a distraction from poverty. In this case, what resonates for many women — who will undoubtedly be scolded for fawning over this royal American wedding — is that this fairy tale features an ambitious and successful woman actually finding a supportive partner.

I don’t know either of these people. And I am not convinced this isn’t some sort of very successful business deal. But who cares? Taylor Swift writes great songs about shitty men and profits from it; good for her!

Also, most of our parents married for worse reasons than record sales.

I am also not trying to project into the interiority of the lives of these celebrities. But the image they are projecting to us is that a successful woman has found a supportive partner, one who eagerly fawns over her new album cover while interviewing her for his own podcast.

This reality is far from reality for most American women.

Since January, 212,000 women have left the workforce, while 44,000 men have joined it. Women’s participation in the workforce peaked as flexible work-from-home policies allowed them more readily to juggle career and family. But under the Trump administration, those policies are being rescinded. Meanwhile, laws that gut reproductive rights and narrow access to childcare, healthcare, and SNAP benefits will do more to push ambitious, educated women out of the workforce and limit their economic power and personal freedom. And a spiritual leader who opposes women having the right to vote has the ear of the president’s Cabinet.

Women who do succeed are often punished for it. Studies show that women who out-earn their husbands are 33 percent more likely to be victims of domestic violence and 22 percent more likely to be victims of emotional abuse.

Women who out-earn their husbands still do more childcare and domestic labor. And overwhelmingly, studies show that male partners, no matter how much they earn or how little they earn, how much they work, or no matter how flexible or inflexible their jobs are, are still not doing much domestic labor or childcare.

These are all passive forms of punishment for women who seek career success and financial security. Women who speak out are often met with outright misogyny or cutting remarks.

And all of this is happening as social media posts and think pieces declare the end of ambition, from #girlboss to #girlmoss. Author Stefanie O’Connell, who has a new book about ambition coming out in 2026, observed in her newsletter:

As a millennial woman reckoning with my own disillusionment with the 2010s girlboss era, its obsession with hustle culture, and the broken promise that getting what you want is as easy as asking for it, I too became obsessed with this reevaluation of ambition. During the five years I spent researching and writing my own book about it (out in 2026), I watched as these anti-ambition trends took hold… and evolved — from the #softlife to #feminineenergy to the #tradwife (short for “traditional” wife) — each promising to unlock a new layer of leisure, satisfaction and meaning as it limited women’s ambitions to a smaller and smaller window.

I, too, have struggled with ambition. I have a lot of it and it isn’t going away. But I am also exhausted. I’m so sick of succeeding in spite of everything around me. I’m tired of having a job and still doing the majority of the emotional and domestic labor for my kids while my ex, who is remarried, complains about how I maintain the shared calendar.

Every time I succeed, there’s a downside. The hate mail gets worse. The man I am dating backs away. A tabloid publishes a scathing story about me. I’m so, so tired.

The fantasy that Swift and Kelce are selling isn’t romance; it’s not even equality. It’s a fantasy world where a woman can be successful and her partner won’t be mad about it.

This Tuesday, my daughter will start high school.

This is a huge milestone for us for all the normal reasons. Somehow, the baby that had to be vacuumed from me is making jokes about the Epstein list and giving me the finger. She’s almost as tall as me.

She’s exchanged pull-up diapers for pull-ups on the bar. She’s just two months away from getting her school permit. And already her days are filled with practices and activities that have nothing to do with me. So much of her life these days is not for me to write about. It’s her life and her journey, and I am so lucky I get to tag along.

In so many ways, I became a writer because of my kids. I had been writing for years before they were born. I’d been working for different websites for years and went to graduate school all in the years before she was born. But I found my voice when I had my kids. I am not saying this is necessary for all writers. I am saying, for me, having my daughter fundamentally changed something in me. I think it made me hungrier and sharpened my sense of purpose.

There isn’t much bipartisan consensus in Texas these days. Still, both parties can agree that the Dallas Cowboys have a snowball’s chance in Laredo of winning the Super Bowl, and Speaker of the Texas House of Representatives Dustin Burrows is a little weasel.

Burrows became speaker after winning more Democrats over to his side than Republicans — 49 Democrats and 36 Republicans.

According to the Texas Tribune, “In his acceptance speech after winning the gavel, Burrows promised to protect the House as an independent institution, where lawmakers could disagree with each other without fear of repercussions and get a fair shake, even if they’d opposed him.”

*whomp whoooomp*

Let’s see how that promise is working out.

As speaker, Burrows has pushed through every item on the GOP-led agenda; is overseeing the incredibly gerrymandered redistricting process; and imprisoned a Texas representative inside the Capitol building.

This week, Democratic state Rep. Nicole Collier wasn’t allowed to exit the Capitol after she refused to be shadowed by an armed escort. Collier and other Democrats fled the state to delay a vote on the redistricting process in Texas. This is a time-honored protest tactic in Texas.

And it was deployed this time to draw attention to the craven power grab happening in the state.

According to the Texas Tribune, “...the map dismantles Democratic strongholds around Austin, Dallas, and Houston and makes Democrat-held seats in South Texas redder — all without seriously jeopardizing any of the 25 districts Republicans already control. The proposed map also would push a handful of Democratic members of Congress into seats already represented by other Democrats, setting up possible primary battles between long-serving members of the Texas delegation and younger newcomers.”

Collier and other Democrats fled the state and delayed the vote for two weeks. They returned after lawmakers in California vowed to do the legislative equivalent of “I’m rubber, you’re glue” in their state and gerrymander right back — this time for the Democrats.

When Collier returned, Burrows insisted that she and other lawmakers could only leave the Capitol building if they were followed by a 24-hour police escort. Tell me more about the party of small government, will you? Collier refused those terms and was imprisoned on the Capitol floor until the vote happened on Wednesday.

Remember what Burrows said about being fair and letting people disagree with him? Turns out what he meant was, “Fall in line or I’ll detain you and violate your constitutional rights.”

It’s arguable that Burrows’ actions are not supported by law.

But what is not arguable is that he’s a smarmy bottom-feeder with the moral integrity of dog vomit.

I’ve seen mollusks with more spine than Dustin Burrows.

And listen, I wasn’t present in the back-door negotiations that led to Burrows being elected speaker. Perhaps there was the idea that a Burrows-brand House would hurt less than one led by a more hard-line Republican.

But if 2025 has taught us anything, it’s that there is no negotiation with terrorists, or the whiny little cave-dwellers who promise they are reasonable and then just go about treating habeas corpus like a roll of Charmin. There isn’t a softer, gentler, more sane Republicanism that you can deal with. When your choices are being smothered to death with the flag or choked out on the Constitution, does it really matter? If your murderer says sorry at the end, does that make you any less dead?

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In a normal week, trying to bribe a reporter by putting $160 in a chip bag would make you the top-tier dingus. But in 2025, that level of crispy, idiotic corruption barely ranks. My favorite is the lawyer essentially saying, “Let’s just forget this all happened. Friends just give each other money in chip bags. It’s normal. No worries!”

This week, James Dobson joined Hulk Hogan in the league of dinguses who died before they could be properly roasted here on Earth. But that’s okay, because I know he’s roasting in hell. Where Lyz fails, the devil prevails.

Dobson was the head of Focus on the Family, an Evangelical nonprofit that is responsible for at least 65% of what is wrong with most American adults. Turns out, we needed him to focus a little less on the family.

Dobson, a homophobic misogynist with a face like God turned it in at 11:59 on the sixth day of creation, spent his one wild and precious life arguing that parents should beat their children and their dogs. And I know, because it was his books that led to my being terrorized by a wooden spoon that had “Spare the rod, spoil the child. Proverbs 13:14” written on the bowl, which over the years became cracked and broken from being used to hit me and my siblings.

But that’s not his only contribution to America’s evils; Dobson did everything he could to make the lives of gay people worse. Sir, the only thing threatening about the gay agenda is that you might have to use some moisturizer.

He lived 89 years too long. And I hope he’s found a home in that great gender-neutral bathroom in the sky.

I do not know this woman, but she is innocent.

The Onion is bringing print back.

Every day Alex Jones gets closer to losing his empire, we all get closer to returning to the warm light of God’s love.

Maryland is rejecting the Trump administration’s efforts to censor what schools can teach.

And Gavin Newsom is working really hard to shake those dingus allegations. I am not retracting his title, as he is the No. 1 winner of the Rahm Emanuel Award for Politicians With Heads of Hair and Hearts of Craven Ambition, but I am appreciating the memes.

And a judge ruled that Florida needs to shut down Alligator Alcatraz.

It’s the week before school starts, and I’ve spent the summer running an abortion fund.

And I am exhausted. I took most of the week off to parent my kids — back-to-school shopping, endless appointments for eyes and teeth and, well, everything else. Then, next week, I begin working on some VERY exciting changes at this newsletter.

Which I hope to be able to tell you all about soon. In the meantime, I took Wednesday off to do laundry, fold clothes, drink red wine and scream-sing Celine Dion.

My favorite fair food is the spicy pickle dog from the Pickle Dawg truck. It’s a dill pickle covered in spicy cream cheese, wrapped in pastrami, covered in batter, and deep-fried.

The first bite is crisp, warm, and crunchy with a little bit of peppery heat. I look forward to it every year.

When we talk about the foods of American fairs, we talk about excess and quantity. It’s novelty, nostalgia, and class, all deep-fried and put on a stick for our collective consumption.

So many of the foods are designed to make us laugh, to invert expectations, like deep-fried butter, fried beer, and fried jelly beans. They also seem to mock us by deep-frying cultural stereotypes. In 2022, a vendor at the Iowa state fair was selling the Iowa Twinkie, which was a jalapeno filled with pulled pork, corn, and cream cheese, wrapped in bacon, smoked with sweet and sticky BBQ, then finished with ranch

And while these foods can seem indulgent and exciting, they may also elicit disgust and disdain. I think that is on purpose. Fair foods bait you to try them with novelty, mocking you if you hate them. The foods almost invite you to moralize about nutritional value, fats and carbs and caloric consumption and in response, these foods laugh at you with their fried profligacy. They are not real foods in the sense that you would eat them every day. They are surreal foods — excessive, bizarre, and delightful, existing only in one world: the world of the fair.

Fair food is America inverted, a mirror image reflected back to itself in its greasy plenty, mass-produced and served up hot.

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Fair foods find their origins in the celebration of abundance that drove attendance to fairs around the turn of the 20th century. In her article “Eat Me at the Fair,” historian Francine Kirsch describes how food installations at fairs were in part an advertisement for a state to attract people to move there. Look at us, Iowa could declare with an attention-getting palace of corn. We are a land of growth. A land where you can harvest enough corn to build a kingdom.

Historically, it has been through food exhibitions that new foods have captured the American imagination. Fairs are sites of cultural exchange and cultural flattening, a place where, through humor, we negotiate who and what we are through what we eat.

Kirsch writes, “If the food exhibits at later fairs were particularly lavish, their genesis can be seen in drawings made at the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial.” Here in the Agricultural Building, Mary Todd Lincoln’s favorite confectioner Henry Maillard displayed a 15-foot-tall sugar spire covered with edible historical figures. At one booth, a mammoth grape vine from California grew toward the ceiling. The New Hampshire booth displayed stuffed hogs that when they were alive had weighed 1,307 and 1,253 pounds. And this was the same fair that launched the butter sculpture trend when Caroline Shawk Brooks delicately carved Iolanthe.

Taken together, these food exhibits “reflected America’s exuberance at its coming of age best,” Kirsch writes. “And that desire to have and be the biggest would truly take hold in more ways than food in the century to come.”

But were they only about size, scale, and excess, I don’t think state fair foods would have nearly the grip they do on our culture. They are also about humor and desire.

Mikhail Bakhtin, in his writings on the carnival, described it as a space outside the everyday, one that is both temporary and freeing for lower classes often oppressed by the usual social order. Here, laughter is a key element, and is built on the subversions of expectations. Whereas in the outside world, we are expected and cautioned to eat more salads, in the world of the fair, that salad is on a stick. Cows are made of their own butter. It’s silly. It’s fun. It’s dark. It’s complicated. Who cares? It’s the fair. And how often is food allowed to be fun? How often are we just allowed to eat and enjoy it and eat some more?

In the oppressive superego of keto, Weight Watchers, protein goals, carb-free, and Noom, state-fair food is our culinary id — a grotesquely joyous display of all that is forbidden and still desired. Waffles and Snickers, battered and fried and put on a stick. Bacon dipped in chocolate. It’s fried and sugary and, unless it’s corn or coleslaw, there is rarely a vegetable to be found.

While fair foods reinforce American identity, they also reveal that our identity is changing.

Because beyond the smorgasbord of deep-fried consumption, fair foods are also the space in which our cultural identity is mediated, processed, put on a stick, and sold back to us.

In Trump’s America 2.0, where DEI is under attack and masked ICE agents are rounding up immigrants, food is both a negotiation of identity and exploitative capitalism.

And, like the food, these conversations can feel a little gross. Last year, at the fair, I went to find a hyped-up Korean BBQ vendor, only to find it was run by a very white couple. I made assumptions. They profited. And I wondered at the people who would take a culture’s food, sell it, and then vote for a president who vowed to deport the same immigrants who brought that food to America in the first place.

Are people more likely to try new foods at a fair? Will it make them more open to other cultures and foods? It’s hard to know. But despite the moralizing, it won’t go away. Egg rolls with bacon and ranch are here to stay. Fiesta wontons. Korean corn dogs.

I can’t tell you if this is good or if it’s bad, only that this is America.

In this world already turned on its head, it’s easy to introduce new foods and change the narrative about who and what America is. The safe space of the familiar fair, combined with the gleeful embrace of novelty foods, creates an environment rich for experimentation.

Every year, new foods are introduced to the fair. This year, at the Iowa State fair, amid all the usual fried concoctions, there are also bacon chicken ranch egg rolls, potato half & half Korean corn dog, and a Saigon lobster dog. The Minnesota State Fair offers a variety of foods that fuse cultures and traditions, like a steamed bun with lutefisk and hoisin sauce, hot honey cheese sticks, and a dill pickle cheese curd taco.1 Other state fairs, too, are embracing and selling more diverse ranges of food, offering a safe environment for people to try new things and experience new flavors.

Fair food is America inverted, a mirror image reflected back to itself in its greasy plenty, mass-produced and served up hot.

This essay is an edited and updated version of a newsletter that I wrote in 2023.

"Toward a Theory of American Festival Cuisine” (Eater)

“Fried, Fatty, and Fanciful: State Fair Foods” (Modern Farmer)

“Eating While Politicking Is Harder Than It’s Ever Been. Here’s Why.” (Politico)

This week, one of the world’s greatest television shows ended.

And Just Like That was over-the-top, bizarre, goofy, and wonderful. And people would not stop criticizing it.

Kim Davis, that Duggar family reject with hair so dry it has its own red flag warning, is back.

If you don’t remember Davis, lucky you and I’m sorry. Davis was the Rowan County, Kentucky, clerk elected in 2014. In 2015, after the Supreme Court legalized gay marriage in Obergefell v. Hodges, Davis refused to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples. She was sued and ordered to issue the licenses. She continued to refuse and spent five days in jail for contempt of court; a judge and jury later ordered her to pay a total of $360,000 in fees and damages.

Davis lost her 2018 reelection bid and has clearly spent the past decade or so doing what Jesus would do — stewing in the juices of her own hate-filled heart. Now she’s bursting back into the American political consciousness like a poorly dressed Kool-Aid man.

Davis recently petitioned the Supreme Court to overturn Obergefell (and also, separately, to overturn an appeals court ruling earlier this year that she really does have to pay that money). While it’s unlikely that the Supreme Court will rehear the case, the fact that this homophobic bridge troll who cosplays as a Christian freedom fighter is rearing her brittle head of hair again is truly a recession indicator. Don’t we deserve a new set of villains — not just the run-through ghouls of the past?

Not to mention gay people and their allies deserve a better enemy than a woman still sporting a Bumpit and a missionary’s reject-pile jean jumpers.

Kim Davis claims she was fighting for her religious freedom, but if that was the case, she should have just resigned from the job. If your job is to dig holes, and then you convert to an anti-hole religion, you don’t get to insist on being paid for not digging holes and then compare yourself to Jesus Christ himself.

Sorry, Kim, you aren’t a freedom fighter. You are using your religion as a tool of oppression rather than a tool of liberation.

As Larry Wilmore pointed out nine years ago, “Going to jail for what you believe in does not necessarily put you on par with Martin Luther King. Jeffrey Dahmer was in jail because he believes in eating people. That doesn’t make him a freedom fighter!”

I am not the first to point out all this sanctity of marriage business is a bit ironic coming from a woman who has been married four times to three different men. I’m not against divorce! I am very pro-divorce. But if you have such a literal interpretation of the Bible, Kim, your divorces count as multiple sins. I mean, per Evangelical math, three divorces? That’s like a butt sex and a little manslaughter.

Also, as Andrew L. Seidel writes in his book American Crusade, Davis also got her job in the first place from a healthy dose of nepotism.

So to recap, the woman who got a nepo baby government job and has had more spouses than Father Abraham is still out here acting like some paragon of holiness. And in the entire decade, she hasn’t bought one bottle of conditioner. I’m honestly not sure which is more offensive.

Anyway, my religion says that I can discriminate against raggedy bitches named Kim Davis, and if you say I cannot, then you are oppressing me and I will take it all the way to the court of Christ himself.

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The Vikings have two male cheerleaders. And that’s great.

But what’s really amazing is how mad it’s making some Vikings fans.

Listen, male cheerleaders have been around for a long time. My little brother was one and the guy is in the Army. He is not what anyone would call “woke.” And he hates when I write about him, so I will stop because he’s better with weapons than anyone else in the family. Except, for me, weirdly, which is a long story that goes back to growing up in Texas and winning a lifetime membership to the NRA at the age of 10 because I won a shooting competition. ANYWAY.

George W. Bush was also a cheerleader! And last season, according to Outsports, seven NFL teams had a total of 18 different male cheerleaders — some gay, some bi, some straight. Additionally, the Panthers had a trans cheerleader.

None of these things has stopped Owen Shroyer, a radio guy who I refuse to learn any more about, from being so mad that he’s spitting. And honestly, I love it. Are you made that your game with the men in tight tights where they pass balls back and forth and between each other's legs might be a little gay? Are you worried that a male cheerleader is going to ruin your view of the scrum of heaving, sweaty bodies of men?

You — a man who cheers for men in sports — are mad that other men are cheering for men in sports, but they have better hair and pom-poms? Are you just furious they have such nice skin? What’s going on?

Actually, I don’t really care. Don’t tell me. Just hire the gayest, cuntiest boys, and put them on the squad. And then let me bask in the impotent outrage of these men. Inject it straight into my veins.

Taylor Swift announced a new album. And she did it on the Kelce brothers’ podcast, which I think is a sign that the patriarchy comes for us all. A new album means that the Swifties now have a new little project and I love that for them. I think Swifties could find and release the Epstein files if they thought Taylor left an Easter egg in there.

Gen Z is making my eye bags trendy.

Last week, I wrote about my newfound love of Trail Mixers, a powdered form of low-dose CBD and THC that my dear friend Megan and her husband created through their company Yonderbound. It combines three of my favorite things — supporting friends, Iowa businesses, and a little THC. And apparently you all loved the idea of them so much that last Friday, Trail Mixers had their biggest sale day ever.

As a “thank you” to the MYAM readers, Trail Mixers is giving us a little deal. Use the code DINGUS10, and it's good for 10% off their entire order. Right now, it'll combine with the free shipping code GETRADICAL for a limited time, so double whammy. Megan says she doesn’t know when the free shipping will end, so order now.

Get Trail Mixers

Summer is always rough as a single mom with no summer childcare. This summer has been even more overwhelming as I have been managing the Iowa Abortion Access fund, hiring a new executive director, starting work on a new book project, and doing some very exciting behind-the-scenes stuff with this newsletter that I think you will all be very pleased to hear about.

This week, my kids asked to make some tea and sit on the couch and talk. This was a tradition that started in 2020 as a way for us to wind down together. We don’t do it every night, but whenever we need some deep heart-to-hearts, the signal is, “I’m going to make some tea, do you want some?”

So, they made tea and we sat on the couch. My daughter asked her brother if he was worried about starting sixth grade and she listened to him and gave him advice on the teachers he will have. And they laughed and talked some serious shit about their school, commiserating together, and there was only a light amount of physical violence.

And despite everything, I just felt so lucky – like I was the richest woman in the world to have these two people and my two dogs, my work, our community, and our little house.

I could use a nap, though.