An opinion by Larry Kirchoff, appeared in The City Pulse April 29, 2026
The Gospel According to the Golden Calf (All The Presidents Men 2026) Lo, my flock, in this age of “fake news,” a single voice has been anointed above all others—unyielding, unquestioned and forever echoing. All who speak against it ar branded heretics, their words cast into the wilderness, unheard and unseen. For truth is no longer something we seek, but something we are told—and told again and again—until even doubt begins to feel like sin.
Brothers and sisters, gather closer still—tight enough that doubt cannot slip between you. Today, we dispense with reverence entirely. Today we testify in the Church of Brazen Absurdity, where the wine is cheap, the symbolism is loud and the hypocrisy is served neat.
Can I get an amen?
And lo, Donald Trump stood before the congregation once more, robed not in humility but in confidence so thick it required no evidence. Now it came to pass that Donald Trump stood before the congregation and proclaimed unto them, “Behold, I am a doctor.” And lo, the people marveled—not at the claim, but at the image he had posted. For it was revealed that what he meant was not “doctor” but “doctored”. Yet the faithful did not stumble. And thus a new sacrament was born: the Holy Misstatement, where words need not mean what they say, only what they feel like they might have meant if interpreted generously enough.
And so he raised his sacred chalice—a sweating, sanctified Diet Coke—and drank deeply, proclaiming it a cure-all, a tonic, a miracle elixir capable of warding off all known ailments and perhaps even a few imaginary ones.
“Drink,” he said, “and thou shalt be spared.”
Amen?
Meanwhile, in the smoky backrooms of power—lit not by candlelight but by the flicker of screens and the glow of bad decisions—Kash Patel and Pete Hegseth raised their glasses.
Old fashioneds. Strong. Careless. They clinked ice like bells of reckoning and laughed—not the laughter of joy, but the hollow, echoing cackle of men mistaking recklessness for strength.
They partied like frat kings in a house built on borrowed legitimacy—hazing their own, chest-bumping through briefings, turning the machinery of state into a tailgate of testosterone and terrible ideas.
“Chug!” one shouted, though whether it was the drink or the consequences, no one could quite tell.
And between sips, Pete Hegseth once again reached for the sacred script of Pulp Fiction, delivering lines with theatrical concern—massaging the words just enough to sound like empathy without ever committing the sin of actually meaning it.
“I care about the troops,” he insisted, as if saying it often enough might make it measurable.
And those not in the room where it happened roared their approval.
Amen?
Behold previous warnings—thunderous, urgent, impossible to ignore.
“Nuclear threat!” they cried, voices rising like a choir of contradiction.
Though not long before, they had assured the same congregation that such threats had been obliterated……..neutralized, vaporized, turned to ash and memory. But consistency, as we know, is heresy here. And so Donald Trump spoke again, musing about the end of a civilization—as one might discuss casually canceling a dinner reservation.
Total destruction. Absolute devastation. The kind of language that should freeze the room.
But it didn’t.
“For strength,” the faithful whispered, “is the willingness to say the unthinkable without blinking.”
Amen?
Meanwhile, the collection plates were passed—digitally, of course. And the faithful gave generously, though their cupboards grew bare and their bills grew larger.
And while the faithful tightened their belts—while grocery bills climbed like insurmountable mountains and wages crawled like weary pilgrims—the offering plates grew heavier. And the coffers of the chosen few overflowed. Billions gathered like blessings, flowing upward in a reverse tithe—where the many give, and the powerful receive.
“It is prosperity,” they said, “if we say it is.”
Even as they paid more for less, they testified louder than ever: “We have never had it better.”
Amen?
Back in the revelry, Kash Patel and Pete Hegseth toasted again—another round, another roar—posturing like alpha prophets in a house of mirrors, unaware or unconcerned that beyond the walls, the world was watching with a mixture of disbelief and uneasy laughter.
Behind closed doors, whispers echoed. Not from the congregation—but from those who remembered what competence once looked like. From those who had seen these roles filled by steady hands rather than performative fists.
But such memories are inconvenient. And inconvenience is the first thing sacrificed at the altar of allegiance.
But that time, like so many inconvenient truths, has been declared reverently irrelevant.
Amen?
And finally, brothers and sisters, we come to the sacred scrolls that once burned in the public imagination—the files, the names, the unanswered questions. The things thatmattered deeply… until they didn’t.
“The Jeffrey Epstein files are no longer important,” they said.
And just like that, they weren’t.
For what is truth, if not a thing that can be reassigned? What is outrage, if not a faucet to be turned on and off at will?
The congregation nodded, relieved. No reckoning. No curiosity. Just a collective shrug wrapped in practiced indifference.
“For to remember is hard,” they said. “And to forget is divine.”
Amen?
So go now, my congregation of convenient belief. Go forth into the world armed with contradiction, fortified by spectacle, and comforted by the soft embrace of selective outrage. A toast is in order. And as the glasses were raised—some filled with old fashioneds, others with something more… medicinal—there emerged a new authority, an anointed expert by volume alone: Joe Rogan.
Not summoned by peer-reviewed data, nor tempered by discipline, but ushered in by audience size and algorithmic grace. And there he stood, shoulder to shoulder with Donald Trump, as the pen prepared to rewrite reality.
An executive order, they called it—a sanctification of speculation. A quiet suggestion that harm is merely a matter of opinion, that risk can be dissolved with enough confidence and a well-timed signature.
“For what is evidence,” they asked, “when conviction feels so much stronger?” And somewhere beneath the applause, buried deep where inconvenient truths are laid to rest, lingered the knowledge—at least one life already lost, not hypothetical, not debated, but real.
A cost of doing business in the marketplace of certainty without proof.
But the congregation did not stir.
“For the body is temporary,” they whispered, “but belief is eternal.”
Drink deeply from the well of convenient narratives. Sing loudly from the hymnal of half-truths.
“For anecdote is stronger than evidence,” they said. “And vibes shall set us free.” And above all, never let consistency stand in the way of devotion.
Can I get an amen?
Drink deeply. Question lightly. And above all, never let consistency stand in the way of devotion.
Can I get an amen?
Please email me at lansingallstar@gmail.com
Lansing All Star Mechanical Commentary
Can I get an amen?
An opinion by Larry Kirchoff, appeared in The City Pulse April 29, 2026
The Gospel According to the Golden Calf (All The Presidents Men 2026) Lo, my flock, in this age of “fake news,” a single voice has been anointed above all others—unyielding, unquestioned and forever echoing. All who speak against it ar branded heretics, their words cast into the wilderness, unheard and unseen. For truth is no longer something we seek, but something we are told—and told again and again—until even doubt begins to feel like sin.
Brothers and sisters, gather closer still—tight enough that doubt cannot slip between you. Today, we dispense with reverence entirely. Today we testify in the Church of Brazen Absurdity, where the wine is cheap, the symbolism is loud and the hypocrisy is served neat.
Can I get an amen?
And lo, Donald Trump stood before the congregation once more, robed not in humility but in confidence so thick it required no evidence. Now it came to pass that Donald Trump stood before the congregation and proclaimed unto them, “Behold, I am a doctor.” And lo, the people marveled—not at the claim, but at the image he had posted. For it was revealed that what he meant was not “doctor” but “doctored”. Yet the faithful did not stumble. And thus a new sacrament was born: the Holy Misstatement, where words need not mean what they say, only what they feel like they might have meant if interpreted generously enough.
And so he raised his sacred chalice—a sweating, sanctified Diet Coke—and drank deeply, proclaiming it a cure-all, a tonic, a miracle elixir capable of warding off all known ailments and perhaps even a few imaginary ones.
“Drink,” he said, “and thou shalt be spared.”
Amen?
Meanwhile, in the smoky backrooms of power—lit not by candlelight but by the flicker of screens and the glow of bad decisions—Kash Patel and Pete Hegseth raised their glasses.
Old fashioneds. Strong. Careless. They clinked ice like bells of reckoning and laughed—not the laughter of joy, but the hollow, echoing cackle of men mistaking recklessness for strength.
They partied like frat kings in a house built on borrowed legitimacy—hazing their own, chest-bumping through briefings, turning the machinery of state into a tailgate of testosterone and terrible ideas.
“Chug!” one shouted, though whether it was the drink or the consequences, no one could quite tell.
And between sips, Pete Hegseth once again reached for the sacred script of Pulp Fiction, delivering lines with theatrical concern—massaging the words just enough to sound like empathy without ever committing the sin of actually meaning it.
“I care about the troops,” he insisted, as if saying it often enough might make it measurable.
And those not in the room where it happened roared their approval.
Amen?
Behold previous warnings—thunderous, urgent, impossible to ignore.
“Nuclear threat!” they cried, voices rising like a choir of contradiction.
Though not long before, they had assured the same congregation that such threats had been obliterated……..neutralized, vaporized, turned to ash and memory. But consistency, as we know, is heresy here. And so Donald Trump spoke again, musing about the end of a civilization—as one might discuss casually canceling a dinner reservation.
Total destruction. Absolute devastation. The kind of language that should freeze the room.
But it didn’t.
“For strength,” the faithful whispered, “is the willingness to say the unthinkable without blinking.”
Amen?
Meanwhile, the collection plates were passed—digitally, of course. And the faithful gave generously, though their cupboards grew bare and their bills grew larger.
And while the faithful tightened their belts—while grocery bills climbed like insurmountable mountains and wages crawled like weary pilgrims—the offering plates grew heavier. And the coffers of the chosen few overflowed. Billions gathered like blessings, flowing upward in a reverse tithe—where the many give, and the powerful receive.
“It is prosperity,” they said, “if we say it is.”
Even as they paid more for less, they testified louder than ever: “We have never had it better.”
Amen?
Back in the revelry, Kash Patel and Pete Hegseth toasted again—another round, another roar—posturing like alpha prophets in a house of mirrors, unaware or unconcerned that beyond the walls, the world was watching with a mixture of disbelief and uneasy laughter.
Behind closed doors, whispers echoed. Not from the congregation—but from those who remembered what competence once looked like. From those who had seen these roles filled by steady hands rather than performative fists.
But such memories are inconvenient. And inconvenience is the first thing sacrificed at the altar of allegiance.
But that time, like so many inconvenient truths, has been declared reverently irrelevant.
Amen?
And finally, brothers and sisters, we come to the sacred scrolls that once burned in the public imagination—the files, the names, the unanswered questions. The things thatmattered deeply… until they didn’t.
“The Jeffrey Epstein files are no longer important,” they said.
And just like that, they weren’t.
For what is truth, if not a thing that can be reassigned? What is outrage, if not a faucet to be turned on and off at will?
The congregation nodded, relieved. No reckoning. No curiosity. Just a collective shrug wrapped in practiced indifference.
“For to remember is hard,” they said. “And to forget is divine.”
Amen?
So go now, my congregation of convenient belief. Go forth into the world armed with contradiction, fortified by spectacle, and comforted by the soft embrace of selective outrage. A toast is in order. And as the glasses were raised—some filled with old fashioneds, others with something more… medicinal—there emerged a new authority, an anointed expert by volume alone: Joe Rogan.
Not summoned by peer-reviewed data, nor tempered by discipline, but ushered in by audience size and algorithmic grace. And there he stood, shoulder to shoulder with Donald Trump, as the pen prepared to rewrite reality.
An executive order, they called it—a sanctification of speculation. A quiet suggestion that harm is merely a matter of opinion, that risk can be dissolved with enough confidence and a well-timed signature.
“For what is evidence,” they asked, “when conviction feels so much stronger?” And somewhere beneath the applause, buried deep where inconvenient truths are laid to rest, lingered the knowledge—at least one life already lost, not hypothetical, not debated, but real.
A cost of doing business in the marketplace of certainty without proof.
But the congregation did not stir.
“For the body is temporary,” they whispered, “but belief is eternal.”
Drink deeply from the well of convenient narratives. Sing loudly from the hymnal of half-truths.
“For anecdote is stronger than evidence,” they said. “And vibes shall set us free.” And above all, never let consistency stand in the way of devotion.
Can I get an amen?
Drink deeply. Question lightly. And above all, never let consistency stand in the way of devotion.
Can I get an amen?
Please email me at lansingallstar@gmail.com
Ann Developer Siegle, Administrator
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