The results are in, the car horns have all honked, and by the width of a pencil thin mustache, the competent stewards of a failed system have defeated the real estate grifter and his racist minions. Sort of. On November 3, voters said the name: Rumpelstiltskin! all right, but to no one’s surprise, that short-fingered vulgarian refuses to leave the Tower, and instead soils the presidential bedsheets while gorging on filet-o-fish sandwiches. And for the next four years? The soul of America will dad dance to the unlistenable schlock of Hall and Oates 80s studio pop. Yeah, say the Saucy Boys, it’s a bitch girl.

The whole revolting spectacle finds us in a contemplative mood, thinking about the lies we tell ourselves as a country and the true names we refuse to speak. Are we really a shining City Upon a Hill, or just the unabomber’s cabin burning in the light of another wildfire?

Listen in with episode 29 as we toggle between joy and despair, between the sensible centrists and baskets of deplorables. We can only conclude friends, that Mad Magazine had it right all along: the soul of America really is blecch.