STOP BELIEVIN’

Holy shit. We are not okay.

Donald J. Trump — the man currently squatting in the Oval Office like a Florida possum in a tanning bed — just posted an AI video of himself performing Journey.

That’s not a metaphor. It’s not satire. It’s not even parody anymore because the parody ran away screaming five exits ago. It’s him, deepfaked to hell and back, smashing out “Don’t Stop Believin’” on a piano wrapped in an American flag, while a fake crowd of algorithmic meat-puppets cheers like it’s the Second Coming of Christ.

He didn’t retweet it.

He didn’t wink at it.

He posted it himself.

The President of the United Fucking States shared a hallucination of himself as a rock god. In an imaginary stadium. Playing a nostalgia ballad from 1981. Like some kind of fascist arena tour fever dream produced by Satan, Pixar, and whoever ghostwrites his Truth Social posts when they’re high on expired Sudafed and ketamine.

And it worked.

It actually worked.

Because here we are — writing about it, reeling from it, trying to understand how the hell this is real life when it absolutely should not be.

THE AI KARAOKE COUP

This is not a campaign. This is not branding. This is not meme warfare.

This is state-sponsored fucking karaoke — authoritarianism with a Keytar and a fog machine. A regime that no longer needs to silence the press when it can just drown us in deepfakes, confetti, and performative delusion.

This isn’t propaganda with a purpose.

It’s masturbation with a backing track.

And the soundtrack? “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Because of course it is. Because we’re trapped in a psychotic motivational poster and the president just turned it into a dystopian halftime show.

We’re not being governed — we’re being fucking hypnotized.

PAULA WHITE, JOURNEY, AND THE GATES OF HELL

Oh, and you want more weird? Guess what: Trump’s spiritual advisor — the screeching televangelist who once tried to summon angelic backup from Africa — used to be married to Journey’s goddamn keyboardist.

That’s right. Paula White. Jonathan Cain. MAGA’s messianic mouthpiece and the man who co-wrote the very song Trump is now deepfaking himself into.

Journey, the band, has already imploded from the inside over MAGA in-fighting. Neal Schon (guitarist) literally tried to sue Cain for using Journey’s name to promote Trump. And now, years later, the song is resurrected by AI as the official theme of Trump’s American Idol nightmare presidency.

It’s like QAnon wrote a jukebox musical and somehow it got greenlit by the Department of Defense.

NO ONE IS OKAY.

NOT EVEN A LITTLE.

We are not in a rational place anymore.

This is not a democracy. This is a simulation running on bad Wi-Fi and spiritual rot, where the Commander-in-Chief is starring in fan-cams of his own fascist fantasies and daring the world to keep a straight face while the Constitution burns behind him.

People are going to detach from reality overnight. Some already have.
The rest of us? We’re clinging to the edge of the goddamn stage trying not to vomit on our shoes.

You’re not weak if you feel sick.

You’re not broken if you want to scream.

You’re not “too sensitive” if this made your soul dry-heave.

You are alive in a country that just replaced truth with a Spotify playlist and a deepfake daddy who shreds guitar in front of Jesus lasers and evangelical fog.

And it’s only getting worse.

Because next week? It’ll be Trump doing “Eye of the Tiger” while missiles fly over Taiwan.

Next month? He’s AI-twerking to “We Didn’t Start the Fire” while pardoning Jared with confetti cannons.

Next year? He is the jukebox. Just a red-suited, glitching avatar barking slogans while Paula White prays over his animatronic pelvis.

And us?

We’ll either scream.

Or surrender.

So stop. Stop believing.

Stop clapping for the hallucination.

Stop pretending this is remotely fucking normal.

We are not okay.

But if we’re going to lose our minds — let’s at least do it loudly. Together. Sober or stoned. Screaming the truth while there are still people left to hear it.

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Closer to the Edge is still here. Still pissed. Still holding the line with a mic stand made of spite and a spotlight aimed straight at the stage.

Subscribe if you’re done believing.

We sure as shit are.