War Secretary Pete Hegseth directed Army Secretary Dan Driscoll to remove Col. Dave Butler from his position as chief of Army public affairs and senior adviser to the Army Secretary. The order came last week while Driscoll was overseas in Geneva working on negotiations aimed at ending the war in Ukraine.
Driscoll confirmed that Butler will retire after 28 years of military service, issuing a statement that praised the colonel's career:
"We greatly appreciate COL Dave Butler's lifetime of service in America's Army and to our nation. Dave has been an integral part of the Army's transformation efforts and I sincerely wish him tremendous success in his upcoming retirement after 28 years of service."
Fox News, which first reported the story, indicated that Driscoll initially resisted Hegseth's demands before ultimately complying. The Pentagon directed press inquiries to the Department of the Army, which did not respond to a request for comment.
Butler's removal is the latest in a series of leadership changes Hegseth has driven since taking over the Pentagon in 2025, the New York Post reported. Under President Trump, he has pushed out or forced into retirement several top military leaders, including the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and multiple service chiefs.
The pattern is consistent and deliberate. New leadership. New direction. A military refocused on its core mission rather than the bureaucratic and cultural priorities that defined the previous administration.
Critics familiar with Butler's ouster told the New York Post that the move has more to do with internal administration politics over ridding the Pentagon of the last holdouts from the Biden administration than with any specific failing on Butler's part. That framing is worth examining, but not for the reason those critics intend.
Every incoming administration faces the same challenge: a federal workforce populated by appointees and career officials whose institutional loyalties were shaped under the previous regime. The Pentagon is no exception. If anything, the sheer scale of the defense bureaucracy makes it one of the hardest places to execute a genuine change of direction.
Unnamed critics casting Butler's removal as mere "internal politics" are doing exactly what you'd expect defenders of the status quo to do. They reframe personnel accountability as pettiness. They treat any leadership transition as inherently suspicious rather than inherently necessary. They ignore the simple reality that a War Secretary has every right to install people he trusts in positions that shape how the military communicates with the public.
The chief of Army public affairs isn't a potted plant. The person in that role shapes messaging, manages crises, and serves as a senior adviser to the Army Secretary. That requires alignment with the current leadership's vision, not residual loyalty to the last one.
The reporting that Driscoll initially pushed back on Hegseth's directive before ultimately agreeing deserves context, not breathless interpretation. Cabinet-level officials occasionally disagree on timing, process, or personnel decisions. That's governance, not chaos. Driscoll was in the middle of sensitive diplomatic work in Geneva. Raising concerns about the timing of a personnel move while conducting negotiations is reasonable, not rebellious.
What matters is the outcome: Butler is retiring, Driscoll confirmed it publicly, and the Army moves forward.
Butler served 28 years. That's a long and honorable career by any measure. But the broader significance of his removal lies in what it represents: a Pentagon leadership that is serious about installing its own team at every level that touches public communication and strategic decision-making.
Butler had traveled with Driscoll to Ukraine in late 2025 as part of diplomatic efforts to jump-start peace talks. He was embedded in consequential work. Replacing someone in that position signals that Hegseth isn't content to simply swap out the generals and admirals at the top while leaving the supporting infrastructure untouched.
This is how institutional change actually works. Not through speeches about transformation, but through the unglamorous, often controversial work of putting the right people in the right seats. The left spent four years doing exactly this across every federal agency. They just never got criticized for it.
The question now is who fills Butler's role, and whether the broader leadership overhaul begins producing measurable results in military readiness, recruitment, and strategic posture. Personnel moves are means, not ends. They matter only insofar as they enable a different kind of Pentagon.
Hegseth has made his theory of the case clear through action: the military's senior ranks needed a reset. Whether the reset achieves its aims will be judged by outcomes, not op-eds.
Twenty-eight years of service earn respect. But no single career outweighs the prerogative of civilian leadership to shape the force it commands.
President Trump declared Monday that the federal government will not cover a single dollar in cost overruns on the Gateway tunnel project, the massive rail infrastructure undertaking connecting Newark and New York City. The announcement, posted on Truth Social, put state and local officials on notice that Washington's checkbook has a limit.
Trump compared the project to California's infamous high-speed rail debacle, warning that without serious oversight, Gateway could follow the same trajectory into financial oblivion.
"I am opposed to the future boondoggle known as 'Gateway,' in New York/New Jersey, because it will cost many BILLIONS OF DOLLARS more than projected or anticipated, much like Gavin Newscum's 'Railroad' to nowhere, which is many times over budget, with no end in sight."
The president followed that shot with a clear ultimatum:
"Under no circumstances, will the Federal Government be responsible for ANY COST OVERRUNS – NOT ONE DOLLAR!"
He did, however, leave the door open to negotiation, saying the federal government "is willing to meet" to ensure fiscal discipline on the project.
Gateway has been a political football for over a decade. The Obama administration deemed it one of the most important infrastructure projects in America, and local politicians have long touted the federal funding they secured for it. The existing tunnels between New York and New Jersey are more than a century old and took serious damage from Superstorm Sandy in 2012. Nobody disputes that the tunnels need work.
What's disputed is whether this project can be delivered without ballooning into another open-ended fiscal catastrophe. And that's a fair question. The history of large-scale public infrastructure in the Northeast is a history of cost overruns treated as inevitable, then forgiven, then repeated. Trump is signaling that the cycle ends here.
The project spans five work sites across New York and New Jersey and carries $16 billion in federal funding, the New York Post reported. This past fall, during the government shutdown fight, the administration froze those federal funds after Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer and House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries pushed for a suspension of operations. On February 6, a Manhattan federal judge ordered the $16 billion restored, the same day the project's line of credit ran out.
Gov. Kathy Hochul's spokesperson, Sean Butler, responded with a statement that tried to frame Trump's warning as unnecessary:
"Great news for President Trump: the federal government is already off the hook for any cost overruns on Gateway and before funding was illegally suspended, this project had been a tremendous success, moving perfectly on time and on budget."
There's a lot packed into that sentence, and most of it deserves scrutiny. Butler's claim that the project was "perfectly on time and on budget" before federal funds were frozen is doing an enormous amount of heavy lifting. Major infrastructure projects do not simply pause and resume without consequence. If the project were truly running so smoothly, the insistence that federal money flow without conditions should raise fewer hackles, not more.
And the phrase "illegally suspended" is a legal conclusion Butler drops without citation. A federal judge did order funding restored, but the spokesperson's framing conveniently skips past the political gamesmanship that led to the freeze in the first place. Schumer and Jeffries pushed for a government shutdown. The funds got frozen. Cause and effect are not mysterious here.
Trump also addressed reports that he wanted to rename Penn Station after himself. He rejected the idea that it was his initiative:
"The naming of PENN Station (I LOVE Pennsylvania, but it is a direct competitor to New York, and 'eating New York's lunch!') to TRUMP STATION, was brought up by certain politicians and construction union heads, not me."
Reports had surfaced that during a private discussion about unlocking Gateway funds last month, the topic of renaming both Penn Station and Dulles International Airport after the president came up between Trump and Schumer. Schumer reportedly rejected the idea. During his second term, Trump has had marquee federal buildings renamed after him, including the Kennedy Center and the Institute of Peace, so the idea was hardly implausible. But Trump's point stands: floating the concept and demanding it are different things, and the media's eagerness to turn a sidebar into the headline tells you everything about their priorities.
This isn't an isolated stand. Trump has shown a consistent willingness to use federal leverage on infrastructure projects that lack fiscal accountability:
You can debate the wisdom of any individual decision, but the throughline is unmistakable. The administration is treating federal infrastructure dollars as leverage, not entitlements. That's a posture Washington hasn't seen in a long time, and it's clearly making the people who've grown comfortable with unlimited federal generosity deeply uncomfortable.
Here's what the Gateway fight actually comes down to: Who bears the risk? For decades, the answer has been the federal taxpayer. Projects get approved with optimistic budgets, costs spiral, and Congress quietly backfills the difference. The people who green-lit the estimates never face consequences. The contractors get paid regardless. The only losers are taxpayers in states that will never ride the train.
Trump is forcing a different answer. If New York and New Jersey want this tunnel, they can have it. But they own the budget. They own the overruns. They own the accountability.
That's not obstruction. That's how adults manage money.
President Trump took to Truth Social on Saturday to torch television host Bill Maher, calling a prior White House dinner with the Real Time host a waste of time and lumping him in with the rest of late-night television's anti-Trump lineup.
The post came in direct response to Maher's Friday broadcast, where the host criticized Trump over a Truth Social post about China, Canada, and ice hockey. Trump wasn't having it.
"Sometimes in life you waste time! T.V. Host Bill Maher asked to have dinner with me through one of his friends, also a friend of mine, and I agreed. He came into the famed Oval Office much different than I thought he would be."
What followed was a detailed — and characteristically vivid — account of a dinner that took place at the White House at the end of March 2025, one that Maher himself had requested through a mutual friend.
According to The Hollywood Reporter, Trump painted a picture of Maher as a man utterly out of his element in the Oval Office. According to the president, Maher was rattled from the moment he walked in — asking for a vodka tonic within seconds of arriving.
"He was extremely nervous, had ZERO confidence in himself and, to soothe his nerves, immediately, within seconds, asked for a 'Vodka Tonic.' He said to me, 'I've never felt like this before, I'm actually scared.' In one respect, it was somewhat endearing!"
Trump acknowledged the dinner itself went well — quick, easy, even pleasant. And he noted that Maher's first show after the meeting reflected that.
"Anyway, we had a great dinner, it was quick, easy, and he seemed to be a nice guy and, for his first show after our dinner, he was very respectful about our meeting — But with everything I have done in bringing our Country back from 'OBLIVION,' why wouldn't he be?"
That's the part worth paying attention to. Maher left the White House and told his audience exactly what he saw. On the April 11 episode of Real Time, he described Trump as "gracious and measured" — someone entirely different from the caricature cable news constructs nightly.
"Trump was gracious and measured and why he isn't that in other settings, I don't know and I can't answer, and it's not my place to answer. I'm just telling you what I saw and I wasn't high."
Maher even acknowledged the disconnect between the man he met and the online persona, noting that Trump had posted negative comments about him the night before the dinner — then welcomed him warmly in person.
"The guy I met is not the person who the night before the dinner shit tweeted a bunch of nasty crap about how he thought this was a bad idea and what a deranged asshole I was."
"But when I got there, that guy wasn't living there."
So Maher saw the real thing. Said so publicly. And then — like clockwork — drifted right back to the script.
This is the part that matters more than any dinner anecdote. Maher had a firsthand experience that contradicted the dominant media narrative about the president. He admitted it on air. He told his audience he wasn't lying.
And then he went right back to mocking the president on the next convenient pretext — in this case, Trump's Monday Truth Social post joking that China would terminate all ice hockey in Canada and eliminate the Stanley Cup.
Trump made clear the hockey comment was a joke. He said so explicitly in his response:
"I jokingly stated in a TRUTH that, 'The first thing China will do is terminate ALL Ice Hockey being played in Canada, and permanently eliminate The Stanley Cup.' Well, he went on and on about the Hockey statement, like 'What kind of a person would say such a foolish thing as this,' as though I were being serious when I said it"
This is the cycle. A media figure encounters Trump in person, finds him nothing like the monster they've been selling their audiences, says so — and within months is right back to treating every post as a psychiatric exhibit. The gravitational pull of the entertainment-media ecosystem is stronger than any single honest moment.
Maher himself said it best in April: "You can hate me for it, but I'm not a liar." The problem isn't that he lied then. It's that honesty had a shelf life.
Trump's sharpest line landed at the end. After recounting the dinner, the hockey joke, and Maher's apparent desire to return to the White House — even requesting an invite to the Christmas Party — Trump delivered the verdict:
"Fortunately, his Television Ratings are so low that nobody will learn about his various Fake News statements about me. He is no different than Kimmel, Fallon, or Colbert but, I must admit, slightly more talented!"
For years, Maher cultivated a brand as the liberal who would say what other liberals wouldn't. The one who pushed back on progressive orthodoxy, who called out wokeness, who occasionally gave conservatives a fair hearing. That brand earned him a White House dinner. It earned him a level of respect from people across the political spectrum who were tired of the monoculture of late-night television.
Trump just revoked the distinction. In one sentence, he collapsed the space Maher spent years carving out — reducing him to just another member of the late-night chorus. Kimmel. Fallon. Colbert. Maher. Same product, slightly better packaging.
Whether that's entirely fair is beside the point. What matters is that Maher had an opportunity almost no media figure gets: a private dinner with the president, a genuine human interaction that he publicly acknowledged shattered his expectations. He could have built on that. He could have used it to model something different — a media figure capable of disagreeing with a president without defaulting to the same exhausted contempt.
Instead, he went back to the greenroom and picked up right where he left off.
Trump called the dinner a waste of time. He's probably right — but not for the reason he thinks. The waste isn't that Maher reverted to form. That was predictable. The waste is that Maher proved, on camera, that the media's Trump caricature doesn't survive contact with the actual man — and then decided it didn't matter.
That tells you everything about the incentive structure of modern political entertainment. Honesty about Trump doesn't get clips shared. It doesn't trend. It makes your audience uncomfortable and your bookers nervous. So you tell the truth once, collect your credibility points, and quietly shelve it.
Trump, meanwhile, moves on to the next negotiation, the next policy fight, the next rally. He doesn't need Bill Maher's validation. He said as much:
"I'd much rather spend my time MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN than wasting it on him."
The dinner happened. The truth came out. And then the machine swallowed it whole.
The Virginia Supreme Court ruled Friday that a Democrat-backed redistricting plan can go before voters in an April 21 special election, overturning a lower court's decision that had blocked the measure. The ruling keeps alive a power play by Virginia's Democrat-controlled legislature that could reshape the state's congressional map — and potentially flip four seats in Democrats' favor heading into the fall midterms.
Virginia Democrats already hold six of the state's eleven congressional seats. If the new maps survive legal challenges and pass the referendum, that advantage could swell to ten out of eleven. In a cycle where Republicans are defending a narrow House majority, the stakes could hardly be higher.
Last October, the Democrat-controlled Virginia Legislature passed new district maps in what Republicans have called an illegally rushed maneuver. Senate Minority Leader Ryan McDougle framed it in blunt terms:
"Last October, Democrats took an unprecedented step to illegally pass a constitutional amendment at the 11th hour. The judiciary agreed and the Supreme Court has taken up and fast tracked the case. Make no mistake, the rule of law will prevail."
A state court agreed — at least partially — and blocked the redistricting effort last month. That should have been a stop sign. Instead, the Virginia Supreme Court stepped in, overturned the lower court, and let the referendum proceed.
Here's the critical detail: the Supreme Court is still considering the legality of the new maps. A final ruling won't come until after the April 21 special election. Virginia voters may cast ballots on a redistricting plan that could ultimately be struck down as unconstitutional. Democrats are betting the political momentum of a public vote will be harder to unwind than a quiet legislative maneuver, as New York Post reports.
Virginia House Speaker Don Scott, one of the architects of the redistricting push, wasted no time declaring victory:
"Today the Supreme Court of Virginia affirmed what we already know, Virginians will have the final say."
That line sounds democratic in the small-d sense — until you examine the process that got the question onto the ballot. Passing new maps at the eleventh hour, having them blocked by a court, and then getting a higher court to override the block so voters can weigh in before the legality question is even settled — that's not "letting the people decide." That's engineering an outcome and wrapping it in populist language.
If Democrats were confident in the legality of their maps, they wouldn't need the political insurance of a referendum vote before the courts finish their work. The sequencing tells you everything.
Virginia isn't operating in a vacuum. Redistricting fights are erupting across the country as both parties position for the midterms.
Both parties gerrymander when they can. That's the uncomfortable reality. But Virginia's gambit stands out for its procedural aggression. Passing maps that may violate the state constitution, losing in court, and then racing to get a public vote locked in before the legal question is resolved isn't standard-issue redistricting hardball. It's an attempt to create facts on the ground that make judicial intervention politically radioactive.
Four seats are not a rounding error. In a House where control has hinged on margins of five or fewer seats in recent cycles, Virginia alone could determine which party holds the gavel. Republicans defending their majority now face the prospect of a map drawn explicitly to erase them — in a state where Democrats already hold the advantage.
The fall midterms will be fought district by district. But some of those districts may be drawn by the very people trying to win them. McDougle's insistence that "the rule of law will prevail" isn't just rhetoric — it's the only firewall Republicans have left in Virginia. If the courts ultimately uphold the maps, the damage will be structural and lasting.
Watch the language Democrats use in the coming weeks. Every objection to the maps will be recast as an attack on voters' rights to decide. Every legal challenge will be framed as elitist overreach. The referendum itself becomes the argument — not the substance of the maps, not the process that produced them, not the constitutional questions still unresolved.
It's a familiar playbook. Engineer the outcome, then dare anyone to overturn it. Call the engineered result "the will of the people." Accuse anyone who objects of being anti-democratic.
April 21 is less than a referendum on maps. It's a test of whether process still matters — or whether speed and political will are enough to redraw the rules of the game while the referees are still deliberating.
Rosie O'Donnell quietly slipped back into the United States for a two-week visit — more than a year after she packed up and moved to Ireland because Donald Trump won re-election. She told almost no one.
Fox News reported that the 63-year-old actress disclosed the covert homecoming during an interview on SiriusXM's Cuomo Mornings, where she told Chris Cuomo she wanted to test the waters before potentially bringing her teenage daughter back for a visit.
"I was recently home for two weeks, and I did not really tell anyone. I just went to see my family. I wanted to see how hard it would be for me to get in and out of the country. I wanted to feel what it felt like. I wanted to hold my children again. And I hadn't been home in over a year."
She wanted to see how hard it would be to get in and out of the country. An American citizen, born in New York, returning to the United States — and she treated it like a reconnaissance mission.
O'Donnell moved to Ireland with her teenage daughter in January 2025, just before Trump's second inauguration. She framed it as survival — not protest, not politics, but existential necessity. She claims she doesn't regret leaving and that she did "what I needed to do to save myself, my child, and my sanity."
But here she is, sneaking back for two weeks to hug her other kids and gauge whether America is still habitable. The dramatic collapse under their own weight. If the country were genuinely dangerous for Rosie O'Donnell, she wouldn't have waltzed through customs without incident. If it weren't, then the original departure was exactly what it looked like — a tantrum dressed up as moral courage.
O'Donnell told Cuomo that being in Ireland changed her perspective on America:
"I've been in a place where celebrity worship does not exist. I've been in a place where there's more balance to the news. There's more balance to life. It's not everyone trying to get more, more, more. It's a very different culture. And I felt the United States in a completely different way than I ever had before I left."
A celebrity complaining about celebrity worship while conducting a media tour about her feelings. The irony writes itself.
O'Donnell's assessment of her brief visit home was bleak, at least by her telling:
"And I'm very happy that I'm not in the midst of it there because the energy that I felt while in the United States was — if I could use the most simple word I can think of — it was scary. There's a feeling that something is really wrong, and no one is doing anything about it."
This is a woman who left a country of 330 million people, relocated to the west coast of Europe, traveled to London for a performance of "Evita" in July, posed in front of the Sydney Opera House in October, and now sits for interviews about how terrified she is of America — while freely entering and leaving it at will.
The word "scary" is doing a lot of heavy lifting for someone whose experience was an uneventful two-week family visit.
O'Donnell has said her daughter blames Trump for forcing their family's move out of America, though she hasn't offered specifics about what exactly made the move necessary beyond her own political distress. No threats. No legal jeopardy. No concrete danger. Just vibes — and the conviction that the wrong person occupying the Oval Office constitutes a personal emergency.
Millions of Americans lived through eight years of Obama and four years of Biden without relocating to another hemisphere. They went to work. They raised their kids. They voted in the next election. That's what citizens of a republic do.
The bad blood between O'Donnell and Trump stretches back roughly 20 years, to when she criticized him while appearing on "The View." They've traded jabs ever since. Trump escalated the exchange in his characteristically unsubtle fashion, posting on Truth Social in July 2025:
"Because of the fact that Rosie O'Donnell is not in the best interests of our Great Country, I am giving serious consideration to taking away her Citizenship. She is a Threat to Humanity, and should remain in the wonderful Country of Ireland, if they want her. GOD BLESS AMERICA!"
He followed up in September 2025:
"She is not a Great American and is, in my opinion, incapable of being so!"
O'Donnell fired back, correctly noting that a president cannot strip citizenship from a natural-born citizen under the Constitution:
"He can't do that because it's against the Constitution, and even the Supreme Court has not given him the right to do that. ... He's not allowed to do that. The only way you're allowed to take away someone's citizenship is if they renounce it themselves, and I will never renounce my American citizenship. I am a very proud citizen of the United States."
She's right on the law — citizenship for those born in the country is protected by the 14th Amendment, and no formal action was ever taken. No executive order, no legal proceeding. This was a social media feud between two people who've been feuding since the mid-2000s.
O'Donnell also told an Irish radio show that Trump "uses me as a punching bag and a way to sort of rile his base." That may well be true. It's also true that she has spent the better part of two decades volunteering for the role.
O'Donnell shared with the U.K.'s Daily Telegraph in October 2025 that she was applying for Irish citizenship — dual citizenship, she clarified, so she could remain an American while living abroad. White House spokesperson Abigail Jackson responded to Fox News Digital with a four-word review:
"What great news for America!"
O'Donnell insists she loves Ireland — its politics, its people, its pace of life:
"I am also getting my citizenship here so I can have dual citizenship in Ireland and the United States because I enjoy living here. It's very peaceful. I love the politics of the country. I love the people and their generous hearts and spirit. And it's been very good for my daughter. But I still want to maintain my citizenship in the United States. My children are there. I will be there visiting and go to see them. And I have the freedom to do that, as does every American citizen."
Note what's happening here. She left America because she couldn't bear to live under Trump. She's applying for Irish citizenship because Ireland is peaceful and balanced. But she also insists she's a proud American who will never renounce her citizenship and will visit whenever she pleases.
This isn't exile. It's a vacation with a narrative.
Every four or eight years, a certain class of celebrity threatens to leave the country if the Republican wins. In 2016, the promises flowed freely. Almost none followed through. O'Donnell, to her credit, actually left — which puts her ahead of the pack on commitment, if nothing else.
But the move reveals something the cultural left never quite reckons with. Their attachment to America is conditional. It depends on who holds power.
When their side governs, the country is worth fighting for. When it doesn't, the country becomes unbearable — not because anything in their daily life has materially changed, but because the symbolism is wrong.
O'Donnell wasn't deported. She wasn't charged. She wasn't harassed at the border. She entered the United States, spent two weeks with her children, and left again without incident. The America she describes as "scary" welcomed her home and let her go, because that's what free countries do.
She'll be back. The question was never whether she'd return — it was how long she could sustain the performance.
Senate Democrats voted Thursday to block a House-passed bill funding the Department of Homeland Security, tanking the motion 52-47 and all but guaranteeing a partial government shutdown by Saturday. Funding for TSA, FEMA, and the Coast Guard will lapse without further congressional action — and Democrats made clear they have no intention of acting without concessions on immigration enforcement.
Only one Democrat, Sen. John Fetterman of Pennsylvania, crossed the aisle to vote for advancing the measure. Senate Majority Leader John Thune voted no for procedural reasons, preserving his ability to bring the bill back to the floor later. The motion needed 60 votes. It wasn't close.
When Sen. Katie Britt of Alabama tried a fallback — unanimous consent on a simple two-week stopgap — Sen. Chris Murphy of Connecticut killed that too.
More than 260,000 federal employees now face a partial shutdown because Senate Democrats decided that leverage over ICE operations matters more than keeping the lights on at the agencies Americans depend on for airport security, disaster relief, and maritime safety.
Democrats aren't hiding the ball here. This is about ICE — specifically, about using the threat of a shutdown to force restrictions on immigration enforcement.
According to The Hill, Senate Democratic Leader Chuck Schumer framed the blockade in dramatic terms:
"Democrats have been very clear. We will not support an extension of the status quo, a status quo that permits masked secret police to barge into people's homes without warrants, no guardrails, zero oversight from independent authorities."
"Masked secret police." That's the language of a party that has abandoned any pretense of good-faith negotiation and is instead auditioning for cable news segments. Schumer isn't describing a verified agency protocol — he's painting a picture designed to justify an extraordinary tactic: shutting down homeland security funding during an era when the agencies in question have finally been resourced to do their jobs.
Last week, Democrats unveiled a 10-point plan for what they called reforming immigration enforcement operations. Among the demands:
Some of these sound reasonable in isolation. Body cameras and identification standards are ideas with bipartisan support in other law enforcement contexts. But packaged together and wielded as a precondition for funding the entire Department of Homeland Security, they become something else entirely: a legislative straitjacket designed to hamstring enforcement operations that Democrats spent years pretending to support.
Here's the part that deserves attention. Senate Republican Whip John Barrasso made a point on the floor that Democrats have not credibly answered:
"What we see are Democrats flip-flopping on funding the government. This was a bipartisan bill. Democrats helped negotiate it."
He's right. Just last month, Democrats signed off on the Homeland Security appropriations bill. Sen. Patty Murray — ranking member of the Appropriations panel — defended it publicly at the time, arguing that blocking the measure wouldn't even affect ICE and CBP operations in Minnesota, the flashpoint that has since consumed the Democratic caucus.
Now Murray stood on the Senate floor Thursday and declared:
"It is clear to just about everyone in every part of the country that ICE and CBP are out of control and must be reined in."
A month ago, she defended the bill. Now she's blocking it. The bill didn't change. The politics did.
What changed the politics was the fatal shootings of two individuals in Minneapolis last month and, specifically, the Jan. 24 emergence of video footage showing two federal officers shooting and killing Alex Pretti, a 37-year-old nurse. According to reporting, Pretti was holding his phone and his glasses while kneeling on the ground when the first shots were fired. Another officer had already confiscated a concealed pistol that Pretti was licensed to carry.
The shooting demands an investigation. If the facts are as described, serious questions about the use of force deserve serious answers. No conservative argument for strong enforcement requires defending officers who shoot a kneeling, disarmed man. Accountability and enforcement are not in tension — they're prerequisites for each other.
But Democrats aren't pursuing accountability. They're pursuing leverage. There is a vast distance between demanding a transparent investigation into a specific shooting and holding hostage the funding for every TSA agent, every FEMA responder, and every Coast Guard crew member in the country.
Sen. Jeanne Shaheen of New Hampshire — described as a key moderate — made the strategy explicit:
"I'm not going to vote for a CR until we see some progress on reforms. It's not acceptable that we have a federal agency killing American citizens in the streets and we're not taking any action."
Shaheen previously voted in November to end what was described as a record-breaking 43-day government shutdown. Apparently, shutdowns are unconscionable when Democrats want them to end and perfectly acceptable when Democrats want something in return.
The White House didn't stonewall. Earlier this week, it sent a one-page letter offering concessions, followed by legislative text to Democratic negotiators. On Thursday, White House border czar Tom Homan announced the administration was ending its surge deployment of ICE officers in Minnesota — a direct response to the political pressure point Democrats had been hammering.
Schumer's response to Homan's concession was revealing:
"We need legislation to rein in ICE and end the violence." "Without legislation, what Tom Homan says today could be reversed tomorrow on a whim from a Donald Trump."
Murray was equally dismissive, telling The Hill that the White House proposal didn't address major concerns:
"They did not address our major concerns. We're going through it right now and intend to offer a counteroffer."
The administration offered concessions. Democrats moved the goalposts. The administration pulled back a surge deployment. Democrats said it wasn't enough. At some point, a reasonable observer asks whether the goal is reform or whether the goal is the shutdown itself — a way to manufacture a crisis they can blame on Republican governance.
It's worth remembering the backdrop here. ICE and CBP received tens of billions of dollars through the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, signed into law by President Trump. These agencies are better resourced than they've been in years — because the law demanded it. Democrats who voted against that law are now demanding oversight of the spending it enabled, which is a convenient inversion: oppose the funding, then claim the funded agencies are "out of control."
Meanwhile, TSA agents, FEMA personnel, and Coast Guard members will continue working in some limited capacity during a shutdown — but the full scope of that limitation is still being assessed by Senate appropriators. These are the people who screen your bags, respond to hurricanes, and patrol American waterways. They're collateral damage in a fight over whether ICE agents in Minnesota need to wear standardized uniforms.
Thune's procedural vote preserves the ability to bring the bill back quickly. Democrats say they'll offer a counteroffer. The White House has shown willingness to negotiate. But the clock runs out Saturday, and Democrats have now blocked both the full funding bill and a two-week bridge.
Asked what the White House is willing to do to rein in ICE officers, Shaheen offered a telling answer:
"Nothing that I've heard."
That's not an indictment of the White House. It's an admission that Democrats aren't listening. A one-page letter of concessions, legislative text, and the withdrawal of a surge deployment apparently don't register as "something."
Senate Democrats helped write this funding bill. They defended it a month ago. Now they've blown it up, blocked the backup plan, and told 260,000 federal workers that the real priority is rewriting immigration enforcement on their terms — during a shutdown, under duress, with Saturday's deadline as the hammer.
That's not governing. That's hostage-taking with better press coverage.
At least nine Democrats who served in the Biden administration are running for Congress or governor this cycle — and almost none of them want voters to know it.
Across campaign websites, launch videos, and promotional materials, Biden alumni are performing a coordinated vanishing act on the man who gave them their most prominent jobs. No photos. No name drops. No trace of the 46th president, except where absolutely unavoidable — and even then, wrapped in enough euphemism to make a press secretary blush.
The pattern is unmistakable. These aren't obscure staffers hoping nobody Googles them. These are ambassadors, cabinet secretaries, and senior White House officials who now treat their own résumés like classified documents, as Axios reported.
Start with Bridget Brink, Biden's ambassador to Ukraine, now running for a Republican-held House seat in Michigan. In her announcement video, she told voters she proudly served "under five presidents, both Democrat and Republican" — while photos of Obama and George W. Bush flashed on screen. The president who actually appointed her as ambassador? Nowhere to be found.
Michael Roth, Biden's interim leader of the Small Business Administration, is challenging Rep. Tom Kean Jr. in New Jersey. His website describes him as a leader "trusted by senators, governors, mayors, and a president." Which president? He'd rather not say.
Then there's Deb Haaland, Biden's Interior secretary, now running for governor of New Mexico. Her website refers to her cabinet tenure only as holding the position "for the past four years" — no mention of who put her there. In a revealing twist, her site does mention Trump, boasting about her work with him in getting seven House bills she introduced signed into law. Biden gets erased; Trump gets a highlight reel.
Xavier Becerra, Biden's Health and Human Services secretary, is running for governor of California. Biden appeared in neither his campaign launch video nor his website. Doug Jones, the former senator who served as Biden's "sherpa" guiding Ketanji Brown Jackson's Supreme Court nomination, left Biden off his website and kickoff video for his Alabama governor's race.
A national Democratic strategist, who requested anonymity, explained the calculus plainly:
"Joe Biden's lingering unpopularity is proving to be a serious drag on Biden alums running in swing districts across the country."
The strategist went further:
"They're unable to talk about their most recent and often most high-profile job experience without alienating general election voters."
Read that again. These candidates cannot mention the most significant line on their résumé without hurting their chances. That is the Biden legacy, distilled to a single strategic verdict.
The reversal from recent history makes the silence louder. In the 2018 midterms, Democratic candidates tripped over each other to associate themselves with Barack Obama. Biden himself was a sought-after surrogate on the campaign trail. Haaland said at the time that she wouldn't have had the courage to run if she hadn't worked for Obama's campaigns.
Obama was an asset. Biden is an anchor.
Ryan Vetticad, a former presidential management fellow at the Department of Justice, now running for a House seat in Illinois, was asked about leaving Biden out of his campaign materials. His response was diplomatic but unmistakable:
"It's not the priority for me."
He elaborated:
"There's a lot of things that Democrats did wrong in the 2024 cycle, so I want to chart a new way forward."
"Chart a new way forward" is the kind of language you use when the old way led somewhere catastrophic. Vetticad isn't wrong about 2024. He's just not willing to say the quiet part any louder than he has to.
Only one candidate among the group leaned into his Biden service. Christian Urrutia, running for a House seat in New Hampshire, highlighted his work at the Pentagon under Biden on his website, arguing that "people are hungry for folks that are authentic." The key detail: his seat is viewed as solidly or likely Democratic. He can afford the association because he doesn't need swing voters.
In competitive districts, Biden's name is poison. In safe blue seats, it's merely irrelevant. Neither scenario reflects well on the former president's political standing.
The implications stretch beyond the midterms. Kamala Harris and Pete Buttigieg — both Biden administration alumni — are cited as potential 2028 presidential candidates. If midlevel appointees running for House seats can't afford the Biden association, the problem compounds exponentially for anyone seeking the presidency on the strength of that same administration's record.
A former Biden White House official dismissed the whole pattern as "a manufactured, press-driven narrative." A Biden spokesperson declined to comment at all. These are not the responses of people who believe the narrative is wrong. They're the responses of people who have no good answer for it.
Meanwhile, Republicans are doing exactly what you'd expect. Rep. Mike Lawler of New York wasted no time tying his Democratic challenger, Cait Conley, to Biden on social media, calling her "the director of counterterrorism on the Biden National Security Council during the fall of Kabul and the disastrous withdrawal from Afghanistan." Conley did not respond to a request for comment.
The candidates can scrub their websites. They can film slick launch videos that mention every president except the one who hired them. But opponents have Google, and voters have memories. The Biden record doesn't disappear because a web designer omitted it.
Doug Jones, at least, tried to split the difference. He told Axios he was "proud of the work I did for my friend President Biden," then added that "as the campaign evolves, so too will our website and future materials." Translation: the website will eventually mention Biden — once the campaign calculates the least damaging way to do it.
This is what a historically unpopular presidency looks like in its aftermath. Not a single one of these candidates is running on Biden's record. Not one is making the case that his administration improved the lives of the voters they're courting. The silence is the review.
Democrats salivate at the prospect of major gains in November. They may even get them. But they'll do it by pretending the last Democratic president doesn't exist — which tells you everything about what that presidency actually delivered.
The Washington Post didn't just trim its newsroom. It carved out nearly half of it.
Updated figures now place the Post's layoffs between 350 and 375 journalists — not the roughly 300 that early reports suggested. That initial number was already staggering. The revised one is something else entirely.
Guild steward and Post Metro reporter Sarah Kaplan, as reported by the Washingtonian, provided the fuller accounting after days of piecing together the actual scope of the cuts:
"the paper is dropping between 350 and 375 journalists"
The reason earlier numbers fell short? Post employees were informed individually that their jobs had been eliminated, and the initial tally only captured union-covered staff. As the Washingtonian reported:
"Previous reports said that nearly 300 union members were among those laid off last week. That figure did not account for dozens more layoffs among Post journalists who aren't covered by the Guild's contract, including staffers in its foreign bureaus and editors and managers in Washington."
So the foreign bureau reporters and the editors and managers outside the Guild's umbrella were quietly disappearing from the ledger while the press ran with a number that already sounded catastrophic.
The Post's pre-layoff newsroom stood at 790 people. Losing 350 to 375 of them means somewhere between 44 percent and 47.5 percent of the entire newsroom is gone, according to Breitbart News.
Not a quarter. Not a third — which is where early reports pegged it. Nearly half.
People were already calling the initial round one of the biggest bloodbaths in media history when they thought it was around 300. The reality is measurably worse. And because employees were notified one by one rather than in a single announcement, it took Kaplan and the Guild several days just to assemble a coherent picture of the damage.
That piecemeal approach — whether intentional or not — had the convenient effect of keeping the full scale of the collapse out of the initial news cycle.
There's a temptation to treat this as a simple business story. Advertising revenue down, digital subscriptions plateauing, billionaire owner finally pulling the ripcord. And those factors are real.
But they don't explain why nearly half a newsroom vanished. Plenty of publications face financial headwinds without amputating half their editorial staff in a single stroke. What makes the Post's situation distinctive is that it spent years burning through the one asset that was supposed to justify its existence: credibility.
The Post branded itself as the indispensable check on power — "Democracy Dies in Darkness" stamped right there on the masthead. But the paper increasingly operated less as a news organization and more as an advocacy shop with a printing press. Readers noticed. Subscribers made choices. And now 350-plus journalists are paying the price for an editorial culture that confused activism with journalism.
That's the part the industry postmortems will skip. They'll talk about the "challenging media landscape" and "digital transformation." They won't talk about what happens when a legacy institution decides its job is to tell readers what to think rather than what happened.
The Post isn't dying in isolation. Legacy media outlets across the board are hemorrhaging staff, influence, and audience. The common thread isn't technology or generational shifts in media consumption — those are accelerants, not causes. The common thread is that institutional media decided to cater to a narrow ideological audience and then discovered that audience wasn't large enough to sustain the operation.
Conservative audiences left first. Then moderates. Then, even some liberals who simply wanted straight reporting grew tired of being lectured. What remains is a shrinking base that already agrees with every editorial premise baked into every "news" story — and that base doesn't generate enough revenue to keep 790 journalists employed.
So now it's 415. Maybe fewer, once the next round hits.
The Post will likely attempt to rebrand whatever emerges from this gutting as a leaner, more focused operation. Expect language about "prioritizing digital" and "investing in core strengths." That's what every media company says when it's contracting.
But a newsroom cut by nearly half isn't pivoting. It's surviving. And the journalists who remain will work under the shadow of knowing that their institution's choices — editorial and financial — led directly to the elimination of their colleagues' livelihoods.
Seven hundred and ninety people walked into that newsroom. Fewer than half still have a desk.
Democracy doesn't die in darkness. Newspapers die in self-delusion.
The Trump administration locked in a consent decree last week that does what congressional gridlock never could: it declares one of President Biden's mass migrant "parole" programs unlawful and binds the federal government for the next 15 years from resurrecting it. The settlement was signed off by Judge T. Kent Wetherell in a federal court in northern Florida.
The decree emerged from a lawsuit Florida filed in 2023, and the language leaves little room for creative reinterpretation. The federal government agreed not to use the Secretary of Homeland Security's parole authority under Section 1182(d)(5) to create any categorical processing pathway for aliens at the border designed to alleviate detention capacity concerns or improve DHS operational efficiency. That includes any policy that would shift removal proceedings from the border to the interior or postpone them altogether.
In plain English: the pipeline Biden built to wave millions through the border is sealed shut — and the next president who tries to reopen it will have a federal court order standing in the way.
As The Washington Times noted, parole was never designed to be a mass-entry program. It exists as a narrow tool allowing the Secretary of Homeland Security to admit individuals on a case-by-case basis for urgent humanitarian reasons or significant public benefit. The Biden administration turned that scalpel into a firehose.
Under Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas, categorical parole programs welcomed tens of thousands of Afghans, hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians, and millions more from other countries. Former immigration judge Andrew "Art" Arthur calculated that nearly 3 million migrants were paroled into the United States during the Biden era — a figure he says accounts for a large portion, if not an outright majority, of the illegal immigrants who successfully settled in the country.
The mechanics weren't subtle. Biden didn't want to maintain the stiff controls President Trump left in place. Rather than work through Congress to change immigration law, the administration turned to parole to alleviate pressure at the border — pressure that its own policy reversals had created.
A 2022 deposition proved how deliberate this was. Florida Attorney General Ashley Moody's office deposed Border Patrol Chief Raul Ortiz, who admitted that Biden policy changes had made it tougher to detain and remove illegal immigrants caught at the border. Arthur put it bluntly:
"When Moody deposed Raul Ortiz, the entire Biden administration catch-and-release scheme, which up to that point had been operating under the wire, was exposed."
That deposition became the foundation for Florida's 2023 lawsuit — and ultimately, this consent decree.
The consent decree doesn't merely reverse a Biden-era memo. It constrains executive discretion for 15 years, a timeline that stretches across at least three presidential terms. Arthur framed the stakes clearly:
"This consent decree will prevent a future administration from abusing DHS's limited parole authority in the way that the Biden administration did."
Under the decree's terms, Arthur estimated parole numbers would drop to maybe a couple of hundred per year, which is far closer to what the statute actually contemplated. Case-by-case, not categorical. Individual, not industrial.
Jae Williams, press secretary for Florida Attorney General James Uthmeier, who finalized the decree as Moody's successor, connected the legal victory to the broader enforcement picture:
"We thank the Trump administration for working with our office to obtain this result, which ensures that the next Democratic administration cannot abuse the parole system to allow another invasion of illegal aliens into our country."
The Trump administration had already moved to suspend the Biden parole programs upon taking office and is now working to remove those who entered through the legally questionable pathways. The consent decree ensures that the suspension isn't just a policy preference of one administration — it's a judicially enforceable commitment.
Critics will note the tactic at work here: "sue and settle," where a plaintiff files suit against a sympathetic administration and both sides agree to a binding resolution that bypasses Congress and the standard rulemaking process. Left-leaning activists have been the most prolific users of this approach for decades, leveraging friendly administrations to lock in environmental regulations, housing mandates, and immigration expansions that would never survive a floor vote.
Now it cuts the other direction, and the discomfort is already audible. Jennifer Coberly, a lawyer with the American Immigration Lawyers Association, objected to the decree's reach:
"The biggest thing about this is it's directly contrary to law. Generally, [the law] does provide discretion to the administration, and this is saying you can't do that for 15 years."
The irony is rich. For years, the immigration bar cheered as the Biden administration stretched "discretion" past its statutory breaking point to parole nearly 3 million people into the country. Now that a court has drawn the line, discretion is suddenly sacred. The argument isn't really about legal principle — it's about who gets to exercise the power.
Coberly did note that some Biden parole programs might fall outside the decree's scope, pointing to the pathway that allowed Cubans, Haitians, Nicaraguans, and Venezuelans to skip the southern border and fly directly into American airports without visas. That interpretation hasn't been confirmed by either party to the settlement, and it remains to be tested. But even if that narrow carve-out survives scrutiny, the core architecture of Biden's border parole regime is gone.
Executive orders are temporary. Regulations can be rewritten. But a consent decree is a court order, enforceable through contempt proceedings. A future administration that wanted to revive categorical parole at the border wouldn't just need to issue a new memo — it would need to go back to a federal court in northern Florida and convince a judge to dissolve the agreement. That's a fundamentally different legal obstacle than anything a policy reversal alone could create.
This matters because the Biden playbook was always about exploiting the gap between what the law says and what an administration can get away with before courts intervene. Parole authority existed in statute. The Biden team simply decided that a tool meant for individual cases could be scaled to millions. By the time courts caught up, the people were already here.
The consent decree closes that gap preemptively. It doesn't rely on the next Republican president remembering to reverse the policy on day one. It doesn't depend on Congress passing legislation that Senate rules would likely kill. It creates a durable, enforceable boundary that exists independent of who holds the White House.
Nearly 3 million people entered the country through a system that a federal court has now declared unlawful. The programs that admitted them have been suspended. The legal mechanism that enabled them has been locked for 15 years. And the administration that built them never responded to a request for comment.
The decree speaks for itself.
Former MSNBC host Joy Reid unleashed a string of racially charged attacks on rapper Nicki Minaj during an appearance on "The Don Lemon Show," calling her a "house pet" for the Republican Party and accusing the GOP of using her to "put blackface on MAGA."
The tirade — dripping with the kind of language that would end careers if a conservative uttered it — targeted Minaj for her growing alignment with President Donald Trump and the broader Republican agenda.
Reid didn't just disagree with Minaj's politics. She went after her worth as an artist, her identity as an immigrant, and her standing among Black Americans — all because a Black woman dared to think for herself.
The comments are worth reading in full because paraphrasing them would soften what Reid clearly intended to be a public shaming. As Fox News reported, he framed Minaj's entire relationship with the Republican Party as a transaction built on desperation:
"The reason they want her on a leash as their house pet cuddled at Donald Trump's feet, the reason she is the new house pet is because they need, N-E-E-E-D Black people to give them 'cultural cool.' Black 'cultural cool' has always been a powerful, powerful element in the country."
"On a leash." "House pet." "Cuddled at Donald Trump's feet." This is the language Reid chose — not to describe a political disagreement, but to describe a Black woman who made a choice Reid didn't approve of.
She then dismissed Minaj's entire career by measuring her against other artists:
"She'll never be Rihanna. She'll never have a brand like Rihanna. She'll never be Beyoncé. She's a 40-some year-old, Black female rapper who clearly don't care that much about Black people or immigrants, even though she was an undocumented immigrant."
And she wasn't finished. Reid aimed at Minaj's fanbase directly:
"So the Barbs, you know, you know Nikki ain't s--- and she ain't saying nothing. And a 100 little Barbs can't tell me nothing. Y'all mad about it, be mad about it."
This is a former cable news anchor. On a podcast. Talking like this. About a woman whose crime is attending a policy summit.
Strip away the theatrics, and Reid's argument reduces to something conservatives have watched play out for decades: a Black public figure supports Republicans, and the left's cultural enforcers arrive to revoke their credentials.
Minaj joined President Trump on stage at the Treasury Department's Trump Accounts Summit on January 28 at the Andrew W. Mellon Auditorium in Washington, D.C. She has condemned cancel culture. She has aligned with the Trump administration on stopping the killings of Christians in Nigeria. She has taken on California Gov. Newsom in a scathing interview.
None of that earned a serious policy rebuttal from Reid. Instead, it earned "house pet."
Reid even preemptively attacked the next Black artist who might step out of line:
"Their next gambit is to get the Trinidadian who doesn't care about the killing of Trinidadian fishermen, the female rapper who hates other female rappers, who hates on women who are more popular than her, Cardi B."
The message to any Black artist, entrepreneur, or public figure considering a rightward move could not be clearer: we will come for you. We will question your Blackness, your relevance, your worth. The left doesn't argue with Black conservatives. It punishes them.
A thought exercise that never gets old because the double standard never changes: imagine a conservative commentator calling a Black liberal entertainer a "house pet" on a leash, "cuddled at" a Democratic president's feet. Imagine them declaring that entertainer "ain't s---" and dismissing their fans as irrelevant.
The segment wouldn't survive the hour. Advertisers would flee. Apology tours would be demanded. The word "dehumanizing" would trend for days.
Reid faces none of that. She won't, because the rules that govern racial rhetoric in American media apply in one direction only. When a liberal commentator uses imagery rooted in slavery — leashes, pets, ownership — to describe a Black woman's political choices, it's treated as sharp commentary rather than what it plainly is.
Reid mentioned "other examples of Black cultural icons who have been publicly friendly with the Republican Party in recent years," though she didn't name them. She didn't need to. The playbook is familiar enough.
Every Black figure who breaks ranks gets the same treatment — their intelligence questioned, their motives reduced to money or manipulation, their identity challenged. The left's version of diversity has always had a terms-of-service agreement: think what we tell you, vote how we instruct you, or lose your membership.
Minaj, to her credit, has shown no sign of caring. A rapper who built her career on defiance turns out to be — defiant. The left assumed the rebellion was aesthetic. It wasn't.
The White House offered a brief and pointed response to Reid's comments:
"Reid's takes are so bad even MSDNC fired her."
Short. Accurate. Reid is, after all, a former host — a detail that makes her rant land less like media criticism and more like a person shouting from the parking lot of a building she no longer works in.
Reid told on herself with one line buried in the middle of her diatribe:
"They wouldn't want her if they didn't need cultural cool. Their problem is she ain't cultural cool no more."
This is the fear. Not that Minaj is irrelevant — if she were, Reid wouldn't have spent a segment trying to destroy her. The fear is that she's relevant enough to matter. That a Black woman with a massive platform choosing Trump signals something the left's coalition cannot afford: permission.
Permission for other Black Americans to consider that the party demanding their loyalty hasn't earned it. Permission to attend a policy summit without being called a pet. Permission to care about the killings of Christians in Nigeria without having your racial identity revoked by a former cable host on a podcast.
Reid didn't attack Nicki Minaj because she's irrelevant. She attacked her because the left's grip on Black political identity is slipping — and everyone in that room knew it.