#exaggerations

This boy still has baby formula breath.

A DOGE official in his 20s testified today that he canceled federal research grants based on personal judgment. No peer review. No subject matter expertise. No formal process. Just him. And books he had read. He flagged a grant studying HIV in prisons during the Reagan and Clinton era — decades of academic research — as “one of the craziest” because it mentioned LGBTQ in the description.

He flagged a grant examining the military service experiences of Black, Native American, female, and immigrant veterans as crazy.

His qualification for making these calls: “A person can have enough judgment from reading books.” He was then asked if he regretted cutting programs that may have led to people dying. “No.” Did DOGE reduce the deficit?

“No.” A person in their 20s. Reading books. Canceling peer-reviewed academic research. Deciding what knowledge the American government is allowed to fund. No experience. No regret. No results. Under oath.

Plywood Drive; a large monument to the early '50s with a sprawling courtyard and garden, wrapped up in a large thicket of squat trees and marshland. It's everything it's supposed to be, imposing, beautiful, and hauntingly dark. Its light bricked walls are like a beacon among the dark trees that crest its edges and it's winding drive slips between trees and water like a serpent sliding towards the city. High gates prevent the outside from getting too close to the building, but a small, sullen shack sits outside with a guard who - no doubt - is ready to turn in for the day.

On occasion, the gates open to allow one of Plywood's signature ugly grey buses in and more often than not, those buses are toting someone who can no longer take care of themselves. You are one of those people. Mind you, you are not unable to care for yourself, but the state [and your kin] think it best that you stay at Plywood Drive. An asylum, to put it bluntly. A 'safe haven' for people 'like you'.

You'd scoff if you weren't so busy chewing on your lip and eyeing the dull, ugly green seats in the bus. You aren't the only one on the bus, but you seem to be the quietest, the other person being a middle-aged female who keeps claiming that she needs to see her Uncle at the ball. She seems amenable enough, docile if a bit loud and more than happy to tell you stories of her youth as you both are carted down the winding drive.