DEPORT NANCY MACE

Nancy Mace isn’t a politician; she’s a defective smoke alarm — shrieking at all hours, useless in a real fire, and impossible to shut off without ripping her off the ceiling. She has turned Congress into her stage show, where she plays the villain, the victim, and the heckler all at once, and somehow still manages to trip over the curtain cords.

THE XENOPHOBIC SPECTACLE

When Mace told Ilhan Omar to “go back” to Somalia, she wasn’t debating policy — she was handing out flyers for her own ignorance. Omar has been a U.S. citizen since 2000, which makes Mace’s tantrum sound less like political strategy and more like the drunk lady at the airport screaming at the gate agent about a flight that left hours ago. She tried to censure Omar, lost by a single vote, and ended up like a magician who pulls a rabbit out of a hat only to discover the rabbit is dead.

SLURS AS STAND-UP

Mace drops transphobic slurs like they’re punchlines, except the only people laughing are the kind who still think “yo mama” jokes are edgy. It’s not courage, it’s not wit — it’s the political equivalent of hurling a drink in someone’s face just to hear the glass shatter. That’s her brand: cruelty in drag as conviction.

THE BURNER ACCOUNT CANDIDATE

Former staffers say she had them spinning up burner accounts to boost her image online. That’s not savvy — that’s the political version of stuffing the ballot box at your own high school prom and still losing. It’s desperation disguised as digital strategy, a bad cover band trying to cheer itself on in an empty bar.

HYPOCRISY AS PERFORMANCE ART

Mace preaches “family values” with all the sincerity of a televangelist caught in a strip club. She claims to champion women while turning their struggles into props. She wraps herself in the flag, then uses it as a drop cloth for her mudslinging. Every contradiction is another brick in the monument she’s building to herself — a gaudy, hollow statue destined to collapse under its own cheap plaster.

THE SENTENCE

Nancy Mace deserves no pedestal, no podium, no platform. Deport her — not to Somalia, not to some foreign land, but to the landfill of public life where washed-up opportunists go to rot among the junk mail and broken appliances. Let her future be the political equivalent of static on a dead television channel: endless noise, no signal, forgotten as soon as the dial turns.

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