HOUSE OF HORRORS

FUNDING FASCISM

Imagine the United States government as a plant — not a daisy on a windowsill, but the shrieking, bloodthirsty Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors. It started out small, a little seedling of “law and order,” whispering that it only needed a little attention, maybe some tax breaks and a dash of patriotism. Everyone thought it was cute. “Feed me,” it said, and Congress obliged. Every continuing resolution, every blank-check budget, every bipartisan handshake poured another gallon of blood into the pot.

Now it fills the greenhouse. Its vines wrap around the courts, the agencies, the airwaves. It hums the national anthem while digesting civil liberties. It gulps down inspectors general, coughs up executive orders, and smiles for the cameras while the legislature nervously waters its roots. The plant doesn’t want sunlight; it wants obedience. It thrives on the fertilizer of fear, propaganda, and the weary pragmatism of senators who still think they’re running a florist shop instead of a feeding operation.

That’s what “funding the government” means in 2025. It’s not paying the bills for a healthy democracy; it’s stocking the pantry for a fascist organism that already owns the plumbing. Each appropriation keeps the purges running, the loyalty tests humming, the propaganda printers spinning. The plant no longer asks permission to grow; it simply declares emergencies and spreads another root through the Constitution. And when it wants dessert, it orders a new tranche of “emergency powers.”

The humor of it—if you can still laugh through the vines—is that the gardeners keep pretending they’re saving the neighborhood. They wipe the green slime off their shoes and tell reporters they’re preventing chaos. But the chaos is what they’re feeding. The more money they pour in, the hungrier the plant becomes, and the smaller the shop feels.

Some still argue that shutting off the water would kill everything, that a little feeding is the price of stability. But stability inside a carnivorous plant is not safety; it’s digestion. The music might still be playing, but we’re inside the belly now. The only way out is starvation—cutting the hose, turning off the lights, letting the monster shrivel until real soil can breathe again.

So here we are, surrounded by leaves the size of courthouses and a stalk that hums “God Bless America” through a mouthful of judges. Every “aye” vote is another drop of blood down its throat. And somewhere beneath the Capitol dome, the plant leans toward the microphone, grinning with chlorophyll teeth, and says the same line it’s been singing for decades:

“Feed me.”

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Closer to the Edge exists because of you. We’re not here to sell you fertilizer — we’re here to point at the plant and say, “That thing’s eating the country.”