Ben Bankas pondered fascism as he waited for the Cybertruck.

His enemies on the left have branded his comedy “right-wing fascist” bigotry. They’re not entirely wrong: He is right-wing, and his comedy is bigoted. One of his taglines is “I’m racist.” And there’s his Chinese human-monkey hybrid character:

Bankas radiates a kind of unpredictable energy that either offends or enthralls people, as tonight’s crowd would soon discover.

But does that really make him a fascist?

Bankas slumped in a black hoodie on a bench outside the Hampton Inn where he was staying. November darkness had descended over Tulsa, layering the air with an autumn cold.

He sprang up when the metallic shape of my friend’s Cybertruck glided into view. Everyone in the parking lot froze and gawked. A mother yanked her curious child away from the vehicle, muttering about bad people.

“Definitely a Kamala voter,” said Bankas as he slid into the back seat. “Anything Elon does is automatically fascist to liberals, and she is definitely a liberal.”

He immediately began chattering with my two friends, as the official photographers.

Two days earlier, Donald Trump had won the 2024 presidential election. And now Bankas was in Oklahoma, where every county has been Republican since 2000, so people were even happier than normal. In my little town outside Tulsa, people set off fireworks every night for a week.

Bankas, a Canadian, recently moved to Austin, Texas. He was happy with the Trump win. For one, he has a toddler, a little girl, and a baby boy on the way. Liberal nonsense is personal to a family man.

At 32, he feels a growing presence, the itch of fame and its potential, amplified by the buzz from the release of his fourth special, “Elect This."

Early in his career, he was inspired by Trump's statements about how the cure for depression is just working really hard. He thinks about it any time he wants to rest, like earlier that day, when he took an afternoon nap.

Hustle

On the drive to the Loony Bin, Bankas asked about Oklahoma, pulling out tidbits of local culture that would reappear in his set. Any anxieties were offset by the shiny, almost alien presence of the Cybertruck gliding through Tulsa’s quiet streets.

The recent change back to Standard Time made everything darker, just a smidge off-kilter. This intensified when we arrived at the Loony Bin, which occupies the gap between a Halloween store and a Cinergy, with a whiff of Red Lobster.

The crowd in the lobby went quiet as we entered, heads turning nervously, maybe stealing a glimpse of tonight’s headliner.

It’s hard to tell, in part because Bankas, as a persona, radiates a kind of unpredictable energy that either offends or enthralls people, as tonight’s crowd would soon discover.

Stout and forward-tilting, Bankas resembles a warthog of a running back, swift but still fond of a bit of cruelty.

Greenroom

In the greenroom, we raided the beer fridge. Soon, the coffee table succumbed to empty Miller Lights and recording equipment. Within ten minutes, we had to start a tab.

The club owner told us his unbelievable origin story, so traumatic that it was confusing. He and Bankas shared a few winky jokes, but moved on to small talk about various comedians. Later, the owner would complain that he had actually lost money on the show. He probably did, but it was hard to tell what he really meant.

My friends were amazed by how normal Bankas was. One of them kept forgetting that the occasion was a proper interview. To be fair, we all did, and by the end of the night, the waitress at the steakhouse said, “Lord have mercy I’m about to earn my money.”

Thirsty to attack

The only usable part of our interview came before Bankas walked out of the greenroom and onto the stage. A few cigarette breaks, some more beers, lots of pregame pacing — he was calibrating the chemical and physiological equation for a feverish set.

This was his locker room, and he was about to step out into the light and compete. That shakes anyone up.

"It's not always about being funny," he confided. "It’s about not screwing up."

His muffled anxiety made him more likeable, a vulnerability that contrasted sharply with his persona as a flamethrower who lives to offend. Defenses down, he talked about his childhood and his mother.

He mentioned how he played the violin as a kid but quit because he thought it was "gay."

He added, “It was just me and a bunch of Chinese kids, and my parents made me wear stupid sweater vests with a turtleneck.”

Freed of his stuffy winter outfits, he joined the hockey team, “because that's where all the cool kids were.”

Oddly enough, the position he played was left wing. But he also briefly played defense and scored a ton of goals, a dynamic that appears in his comedy: Even when he’s receding, he’s thirsty to attack.

After high school, Bankas played hockey at various levels, including single A, which he described as “just a bunch of people who thought they were gonna go to the NHL and be a**holes.”

He still plays sometimes, but not competitively since college.

Then he said, “I used to sell photocopiers.” He repeated the sentence. And again. After a pause: “I lied on my resume.”

Capacity

Bankas’ opening act was a laid-back and delightful local comedian who also shot video footage at the club. His routine was clean — a lovely performance.

Loony Bin’s room seats 250 people, but that night, only about fifteen showed up. And they were all crowded around the stage.

Bankas peeked out of the greenroom: “Is that everyone?” he asked, then returned to the pre-fight hype session, an iPod in one ear blaring feel-good rap. The warthog was ready to feed.

The set

His entrance song puttered out of the house PA like the horn of a lowrider: “Can’t Take a Joke” by Drake. He paused for a couple of moments, as if he expected the audio quality to improve.

Once onstage, Bankas suppressed an “uh-oh” as the shape of the stage and the angle of the lights and the closeness of the crowd collided with his buzz from beers and Zyns.

His opening joke was more of a hemorrhage than a show-starter: “People have lost some f***ing minds because Trump won! And all the retarded people don't understand what's going on. By all the f***ing dumb women — the female, homosexual part of our society, right? They're all dumb, retarded, gay people and f***ing women that get like 40 abortions before they’re 30 years old.”

It just plopped out like vomit.

He was testing new material, following the recent release of “Elect This.” This should have been a neat moment when the audience gets to witness a comedian honing his craft.

Instead, he got sloppy. He told some great jokes. But the performance lacked flow, and Bankas had no poise.

Usually displaying great timing, with his pauses and sentence fragments, tonight Bankas fumbled through his material, prodding at his iPhone mid-set to scroll through notes. Dead air, marked by the unique silence of people looking down and scrolling.

This kind of set only works if the comedian steps away with an air of humility. “I failed a lot during that set, but I think I made some headway for the next special.”

Instead, Bankas leaned into warthog mode.

Hey, Joe

About 15 minutes in, he abruptly shifted to the audience. He’s known for his crowd work, especially hecklers. But tonight there was no heckling and hardly any crowd. Just a little gathering of friendlies, eager for a laugh on a Thursday night.

So Bankas torched them.

Over the course of his 90-minute set, the mood in the room soured.

Bankas berated a guy, an engineer. For the rest of the show, he didn’t laugh, and his wife occasionally rubbed his back supportively. I spoke with several audience members who felt the same.

Bankas’ meanness seemed like a crutch, a way to distract the crowd from his fumbling. And this approach was incredibly alienating for someone eager to build a giant audience. But he didn’t seem to notice this.

He believes that he should be part of Joe Rogan’s collective of famous comedians. Maybe he should. He mentioned Rogan a lot throughout the night. He actually closed his set by promising to fill the room next time he comes to Tulsa and to bring Joe Rogan with him.

Growing up

Bankas’ vituperative style has roots in hockey locker-room vulgarity and rebellion, which emerged when he attended Harbord Collegiate Institute in Toronto, a school known for the actors, comedians, and academics among its alumni.

His mom was a high school teacher. He threw wild parties at his house.

“The black kids loved it,” Bankas told me. “But they'd also trash … not really my house, but they'd run along cars on my street and just trash every car, and the cops would show up. Everybody was trying to sue my mom.”

His friend Jamal was one of the first people to compliment Bankas’ sense of humor, impressed by Bankas’ willingness to shout the N-word.

Bankas’ early career took him from Toronto’s local comedy clubs to his first professional gig in Sudbury, Ontario, where he performed in a sports bar and spent the night at a Super 8 motel.

Clique

In the polarized ecosystem of modern stand-up comedy, where subtle hints of conservatism used to be cloaked with disclaimers, Joe Rogan’s endorsement of Donald Trump marked a breakthrough. Comedians like Shane Gillis, Theo Von, and Tony Hinchcliffe also played a crucial role.

From the start, Bankas rejected this neutrality, planting himself squarely in the anti-woke camp without a whiff of hesitation or apology.

Bankas doesn’t just poke fun at liberals; he dismantles the “woke” worldview with a sledgehammer and finds humor in the debris. For him, the self-righteousness of progressive culture is a gold mine of contradictions.

These moralists are obsessed with identifying oppressors and victims yet fail to see their own hypocrisy. They denounce wealth but worship celebrity, preach representation while silencing dissent, and demand inclusivity but shame anyone who doesn’t comply with their dogmas.

Something about the way they squeal and whine amuses Bankas. He likes to see how far he can push the boundaries before they spaz.

Take Bankas’ own brief foray into politics. During a run for mayor of Toronto, he donned a rainbow suit and tie on the campaign trail, promising to “make Toronto fun again.”

He ran on a platform of unapologetic offensiveness, an approach that earned him a few hundred votes and the undivided attention of the Toronto Sun. His candidacy was a joke, but it was a joke with teeth. He had brought his anti-woke philosophy from the stage and unleashed it on the real world.

Turn on the lights

Back in the greenroom, Bankas was revved up like a prizefighter who just earned a belt. After a quick meet-and-greet, we all piled back into the Cybertruck and set course to B.J.’s Restaurant & Brewhouse. Bankas hadn’t been there, and I had promised steak. Everything fell apart after that, in an uninteresting way.

But the drive there was peaceful. No jokes, no laughter, just a glide, a drift.

“Turn on the Lights” by Future blared from the speakers. Windows open.

We floated through each quiet silhouette of Tulsa at night. Golf balls of cold air rushed into the Cybertruck. The pale yellow fabric of street lights flashed at us like paparazzi.

Performance review

I think, ultimately, I liked him, but he did make fun of every single person he interacted with all night, including me, repeatedly, with a bravado that I admire.

He wrestles with the offensive-funny ratio I wrote about in my profile of Gavin McInnes.

Offensive comedy is dangerous and beautiful. The more offensive the material, the funnier it has to be, a rule that Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, and George Carlin cemented.

But Bankas constantly risks excess that would make his offensive words hackneyed, much like the brilliant Ricky Gervais.

Bankas is an incendiary comedian with a talent for crowd work, but he’s still a few steps away from takeoff. It’s time for his comedy to mature. What his performance lacks most is storytelling. He needs to build scenes, characters, and anecdotes. Not by softening his approach, but by grounding it. A strong offensive joke doesn’t just shock; it spotlights the human condition.

From there, if he’s lucky, Bankas can become a philosopher-king like Chappelle, Burr, Carlin, and their ilk.

Of course, plenty of talented comics never make this move. Stephen Wright, Dimetri Martin, Mitch Hedberg, and Rodney Dangerfield all excel with one-two punch blitzkrieg delivery, but even they weave story into their sets.

Punching all around

In a world where liberal and conservative comedians are waging war over who gets to define what’s funny, Bankas’ commitment to punching in every direction reminds us that culture is athletic, something we have to engage with and perform.

The left wants Bankas to be held accountable; the right wants to claim him as its own, but Bankas resists either label, for the most part.

As a provocateur, his persona thrives in the tension between the audience’s expectations and his own refusal to cater to them. His persona doesn’t want applause; he wants the visceral response, the kind that shakes people out of their comfort zones.

Comedy has always had a communal aspect, a way of determining who belongs. Laughter is the signal; if you laugh along, you’re in on the joke.

So you either laugh with Bankas, signaling your willingness to challenge boundaries, or you sit stone-faced, unamused, excluded from the insiders’ club. This is the essence of Bankas’ style: communal in its alienation, cannonball architecture.

At a glance, this maneuver looks straightforward. But Bankas is pulling a ton of levers. Imitation is fundamental to his process. Mimicry can easily spike the offensive-funny ratio, especially if the impression features any kind of failing or disfigurement — terrain that Bankas uses for joyrides.

Henri Bergson observed that deformity is funny only when it can be convincingly mimicked by someone who is able-bodied. But this decree takes us right back to beauty of comedy’s paradox: The only comedians who can say “retarded” are the ones who can imitate retardation.

God's gunsmith: How Samuel Colt's wife reinvented him as a Protestant hero

Samuel Colt has been mythologized as a God-fearing man who invented the revolver. Some people insist it’s ironic that a devout man of God could create instruments of war.

It’s even in the Colt slogan: “God created man. Sam Colt made them equal."

Colt’s days as a laughing gas salesman taught him a lot about marketing. He learned that good salesmanship is often subliminal.

In a world of muzzle-loaders, the Colt revolver could fire multiple times without needing to be reloaded, earning its title as “The gun that won the West,” a motto that has been used elsewhere.

But was Samuel Colt truly the Bible-loving gunsmith of lore? He was not.

A widow's faith

The narrative of a deeply religious man shaping firearms in divine favor was largely crafted by his widow, Elizabeth Jarvis Colt, the daughter of an Episcopal minister. After Colt’s death, she built an enduring legacy around her husband, intertwining his inventions with Christian values. In doing so, she reshaped American culture, paving the way for John Wayne.

Samuel Colt’s early life was brutal. His mother died of tuberculosis when he was six, followed by the deaths of all three of his sisters.

But this didn’t drive him to a life of Christlike contemplation. Instead he obsessed over weapons and explosives. As a child, he showed more interest in science than scripture, preferring encyclopedias over the Bible. By his teens, he had embarked on a journey to India as an apprentice sailor, where he drew up plans for a handgun with an automatic revolving chamber. This early blueprint would later revolutionize firearms and accelerate the technologies of war.

Laughing all the way to the bank

Colt's natural flair for showmanship was as instrumental to his success as his inventions.

At 20, he toured the country under the alias "Dr. S. Colt," selling nitrous oxide — laughing gas — as a form of entertainment. Dubbed “The Celebrated Dr. Colt of New York, London, and Calcutta,” he mixed theatrics and spectacle to fund his early experiments, even performing pyrotechnic displays alongside an artist's wax-figure tour of "Dante’s Divine Comedy" in Cincinnati.

The money he earned on this unconventional tour allowed him to pay a gunsmith to produce a working prototype of his revolver.

In 1836, at just 22, Colt founded the Patent Arms Manufacturing Company. But by 1843, the company had declared bankruptcy. Colt's enterprise was saved only through the generosity of wealthy relatives.

A man of ambition, not devotion

Colt was, above all, an industrialist. He liked to work hands to the bone, and not necessarily his own. His reputation as “God’s gunsmith” is less reflective of his personal beliefs than of his business acumen. His factories ran around the clock, producing firearms at an industrial scale previously unseen.

Colt’s days as a laughing gas salesman taught him a lot about marketing. He learned that good salesmanship is often subliminal. He paid artists to feature his guns in their work, arguably one of the earliest examples of product placement. He avoided explicit political or religious messages in his advertising. Commerce is an art, not a soapbox.

Behind the scenes, he was unambiguous in his aims: profit and expansion. He succeeded at both.

The early, violent Wild West offered an excellent market for Colt's products. The Mexican-American War also proved lucrative. In a remarkably un-Christlike way, his dealings often prioritized sales over principles. Ahead of the Civil War, he sold firearms to both the North and the South, leading the New York Times to accuse him of treason.

Elizabeth Colt: Architect of the Colt legacy

By 1852, Samuel Colt was both wealthy and famous, yet his personal life lacked a woman’s grace. Then he met Elizabeth Jarvis, a woman of strong faith and social standing, American gentry in Hartford, Connecticut.

Elizabeth was 30 when they wed in 1956. Colt was almost 42, and these would be the final six years of his life: his greatest, but also his lowest.

The Colts suffered profound tragedies, losing four children. Samuel never got over the death of their first daughter.

Shortly after the Civil War began, Colt succumbed to exhaustion at 47, his relentless work taking a final toll. He stood no chance against gout. In the Victorian era, sickly burnout was an unexceptional way to die.

Carrying the torch

Elizabeth, widowed at just 35, became the keeper of Samuel Colt's fortune — and his story. Colt’s estate, valued at $15 million (equivalent to around $350 million today), provided her with ample resources to construct a public memory for her husband.

For the next four decades, Elizabeth would carefully manage Colt’s legacy, intertwining his name with the virtues of faith and patriotism. She commissioned statues, constructed monuments, and kept Colt’s name in the press. She published his biography on gilded paper.

Then the Colt Armory burned down under suspicious circumstances, possibly a case of Confederate arson. It was her chance to shed the Colt Company and retire. But she didn’t. Wouldn’t.

Her reconstruction of the armory elevated Colt’s reputation posthumously, as did the release of the Peacemaker, the company’s most famous gun.

Faith and handguns

Elizabeth’s devotion to her husband’s legacy went beyond preservation; she sought to sacralize. She commissioned portraits of Colt as a respectable, pious inventor and constructed the Church of the Good Shepherd in Hartford — a tribute to her husband and their lost children, adorned with design motifs drawn from Colt’s guns.

The church served not only as a memorial but as a moral statement, sanctifying Colt’s life work and symbolically bonding gun ownership with Christian duty. It also became a refuge for factory workers’ families.

Through Elizabeth’s efforts, Colt was immortalized as a Protestant American hero. Under her stewardship, the Colt name gained a symbolic association with moral virtue, reinforcing the cultural alignment between firearms and faith that would become a persistent theme in American identity.

The cowboy code

After Elizabeth sold the Colt company in 1901 at the age of 75, the gunmaker continued to innovate, creating iconic weapons like the Gatling gun, the Colt 45, and the M16.

So much of the company's success depended on branding and mythology. While Colt’s original formula had evolved, his brand endured, in part due to Elizabeth’s careful curation.

Even though the company would face challenges, Samuel Colt’s legacy in American culture was sealed. The Colt revolver became synonymous with the American spirit of rugged individualism, and thanks to Elizabeth, this spirit was one of both faith and gunpowder.

In making guns affordable and accessible, Samuel Colt changed the landscape of American self-reliance. Elizabeth intertwined that legacy with Christian imperatives: There’s nothing contradictory about a gun called the Peacemaker.

Disaster with a side of bacon: The Waffle House index

Ask any southerner: Waffle House doesn’t close. It’s open 24/7, even on holidays — in fact, Christmas is its busiest day of the year. Its never-ending breakfast menu is a staple of American life.

So when Waffle House does close — when the bright yellow lights dim and the doors lock — you know things have gotten serious.

When a storm passes and you smell those hash browns frying again, it’s not just a diner reopening — it’s a sign that things are getting better.

Anyone who’s spent time at Waffle House knows it’s a bare-bones operation — simple booths, an open kitchen, and a no-frills menu from which you can even order a T-bone steak.

Waffle House restaurants are often located along highways in cities and small towns. They have a bit of a reputation for rowdiness, thanks to videos of late-night altercations surfacing online.

Yet the chain also has another, more surprising claim to fame: It's uniquely well prepared for disasters.

Waffle House headquarters has a storm center and an entire operations and readiness team. Their extensive contingency plans include emergency response teams and pre-stocked supplies, making their closure or limited operation an indicator of something truly serious.

Scattered showers

The Waffle House Index is a term coined by the Federal Emergency Management Agency to measure disaster severity based on the operational status of Waffle House restaurants. It’s kind of similar to the Big Mac Index, which correlates the exchange rate of a country to the local cost of a Big Mac.

Waffle House has more than 1,900 locations nationwide. Yet they all share a devotion to their surrounding community.

If a serious hurricane spirals out of the Atlantic Ocean, it’s most likely going to be faced with dozens of Waffle Houses — in 2022, Hurricane Ian knocked out at least 35 locations. FEMA noticed that these diners are so resilient that their status during hurricanes correlates with the impact of the disaster. It’s a quirky yet effective metric that exemplifies the odd but vital relationship between Waffle House and FEMA.

The Index has three levels:

Green: Waffle House is fully operational with a complete menu. This indicates minimal damage.
Yellow: The restaurant is open but serving a limited menu. Power outages or supply issues likely impacted operations.
Red: Waffle House is closed. This is a serious situation, as these diners rarely shut down.

Seeing 'red'

The Waffle House Index first gained traction after Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Waffle House closures closely followed the storm’s path, with restaurants shutting down in the hardest-hit areas.

The correlation became apparent — when Waffle House closes, FEMA knows things are bad.

The “red” status was invoked across the Carolinas during Hurricane Florence (2018), as many locations shut down completely due to severe flooding and infrastructure damage

In 2021, Waffle House closures in Texas gave FEMA a critical indicator of the severity of the power grid failure and infrastructure breakdown across the state

And most recently, during Hurricane Helene, Waffle Houses across Florida’s Big Bend and inland areas hit "red" as the storm devastated the region, signaling the need for urgent relief efforts.

American water

I won’t dwell on the history and logistics of the Waffle House Index. Every time there’s a major hurricane, the news media is flooded with stories about it.

Instead, let’s consider the deeply American cohesion of a federal agency and a chain breakfast joint.

The dynamic is familiar: private and public sectors, industry and state, a corporation working alongside a government agency. In the wake of Helene and FEMA’s disastrous response, snarky memes flooded social media, insisting that Waffle House outperforms FEMA.

This is silly. Waffle House is not more prepared and equipped than FEMA. But that’s also the wrong comparison to make. The relationship is closer to the dynamic between local and federal. Waffle House is more American because it’s so personal and real. FEMA is more American in its budget, structure, and enormity. America is a beast with the wild heart of a high school dropout.

A symbol of recovery

Waffle House’s ability to remain open during disasters is due to its robust disaster preparedness. Each location has a crisis management plan, pre-stocked supplies, and emergency teams on standby. This level of preparation sets Waffle House apart as a symbol of community resilience during crises.

The faster a Waffle House reopens, the more resilient the area is. When a storm passes and you smell those hash browns frying again, it’s not just a diner reopening — it’s a sign that things are getting better.

After a few days of eating MREs, Waffle House is practically gourmet — warm food, shared with lines of fellow survivors.

In America, victory over nature is often celebrated with a greasy plate of eggs and hash browns. What could be more fitting?

Grill, baby, grill! All the best ways to cook a ribeye steak

As Hank Hill would remind us, "If you respect the meat, the meat will respect you." Whether you're grilling, smoking, or reverse searing, each method can bring you closer to steak heaven. And in that world, Hank Hill reigns supreme.

Hank Hill is a Christian, an American, and a Texan — in that order. He’s a father, a husband, a propane salesman, and, above all, a disciple of steak.

Buy some bacon ends or other fat chunks, or at least some thick-cut. Chop it up, crisp it up, and put it aside for a steakhouse salad or brussels sprouts or what have you.

He’s the kind of conservative who understands that grilling is not just a way to cook; it’s a moral imperative.

I say this because apparently, “right-wingers are going crazy about meat.”

In Hank’s world, steak is sacred. Apologies to President Trump, but in Hank's world, anyone wanting his ribeye well done is urged to take his barbaric palate elsewhere: "We ask them politely yet firmly to leave."

That's where our journey begins. We're here to honor steak the way Hank would — with respect, reverence, and a flame. And while there are many ways to cook a ribeye, each method must hold true to the sacredness of beef.

So I talked to as many people as I could about the best ways to cook a ribeye. Let’s start with a fun one.

'Nom Nom with the Guy Who Fought in Nam'

Josh Jennings is one of the funniest people alive. As a mutual friend put it, Jennings is one of the best creatives for coming up with comedy premises I’ve ever met.

Here’s his take on the revolutionary new way to cook a ribeye.

Joe Pappalardo, author/journalist

While researching an upcoming book about Judge Roy Bean and his brothers, science journalist Joe Pappalardo fell down a rabbit hole of research into the San Antonio street food of the era.

Cubed ribeye steak has become his go-to cut for making traditional Texas chili, with nods to the original San Antonio recipe of the mid-1800s.

The city's late-night food scene was dominated by female entrepreneurs called “Chili Queens” who set up and tore down street restaurants in the city’s plazas every night. Like modern late-night greasy-spoon diners, they became one of the few places where every strata of San Antonio society commingled.

Staying faithful to the Chili Queen recipe requires using plenty of ancho chiles and cumin — and leaving out the beans. Simmer for as long as you can stand it.

If you’re in San Antonio these days, don’t look for the Chili Queens. The city’s health department shut them down, after nearly 100 years of overnight service, in the early 1940s.

Gaston Mooney, Blaze Media president

For the true steak aficionado, there's smoking. Blaze Media President Gaston Mooney recommends a thick-cut ribeye, at least two inches, smoking it to 107°F before searing with compound butter. It's an exercise in patience, one that pairs beautifully with a cold beer and, if you’re feeling fancy, a cigar.

In Argentina, the art of wood-fire grilling includes a unique hand-measuring technique. Grill masters hold their hands over the flames to judge readiness — five seconds and you're good to go. Too hot? Pull back. Too cool? Wait it out. It’s primal, tactile, and rustic — everything Hank would appreciate.

Nathan Dahlstrom, author

I spoke with Nathan Dahlstrom about the wood-fire approach.

Nathan uses mesquite wood from his own property, grilling his ribeye the old-fashioned way. His process is simple but effective — there’s no thermometer involved, just the feel of the fire and the meat.

Grilling: Propane vs. charcoal

People claim that charcoal tastes better — Hank Hill himself was confronted by the time his wife and son developed a charcoal addiction. But it takes significantly longer and requires a more experienced hand. Whether you're grilling with propane for speed or opting for the deeper flavor of charcoal, both methods can elevate your steak — so long as it's not well done.

Lee Moore, Worth the Weight BBQ

This one uses mayo. It's from Lee Moore, who runs Worth the Weight BBQ.

In 2014, Moore moved from Phoenix to Houston, where trips to famed BBQ joints like Corkscrew BBQ and Truth BBQ fueled his ambition to craft food of a similar caliber.

Starting out with a Traeger from Costco, Moore began understanding the nuances of time versus temperature in BBQ. However, seeking a richer smoke profile, he soon upgraded to a traditional offset smoker he found on Facebook Marketplace, and he discovered the artistry of cooking with real wood.

After a year of hands-on experimentation, Moore encountered Trey at Heirloom Pits and was captivated by his craftsmanship. This led to a leap into a 375-gallon offset — a true piece of art in BBQ equipment.

For Moore, this upgrade underscored that the tools are as essential to the process as the seasonings; just like salt or pepper, quality equipment can elevate the flavors in food. With no formal training beyond BBQ YouTube channels, Moore’s journey reflects the passion and learning that trial and error can foster, turning a backyard cook into a self-taught BBQ aficionado.

Christopher Bedford, Blaze Media senior politics editor

The incomparable Christopher Bedford came through with some recipe gold.

Buy some bacon ends or other fat chunks, or at least some thick-cut. Chop it up, crisp it up, and put it aside for a steakhouse salad or brussels sprouts or what have you.

Buy a bone-in ribeye thick enough to stand on its edge. Don't forget: Bring your beef (or any meat, really) to room temp before you cook.

Decant your wine. Chill your martini glass. Salt your ribeye with good salt. You can add some garlic powder.

Cook it on its edge, fat down, for about five minutes on medium. Cast iron.

Now that the beef fat has melted into the bacon, put it on its side and cook 1-2 minutes per side, flipping often. Depending on your thickness, you're looking at a 10+ minute cook, easy. Don't be afraid. I use a ThermoPro after a while. Get that temperature right.

Baste it with a thick batch of rosemary in between turns, unless you're topping with bone marrow or blue or something strong-tasting; then just spoon it to keep your flavors from competing.

Take it off 10 degrees before your desired temperature. Place it on the cutting board. Don't move it for pictures. Don't do anything to it besides dropping a piece of butter or marrow on it that you need to melt. Don't even look at it. Ten minutes.
Then slice, platter, lightly flaky Maldon salt or something of similar quality.

Serve. Bask.

'Unconventional' methods

Blaze Media's own Rob Eno swears by sous vide.

He jokes that it’s “pre-Biden” cooking, but the method is solid: slow-cooking the steak in water, sealed in plastic, before searing. For traditionalists, sous vide may sound sacrilegious, but it works. And, as Eno would say, “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

Or what about deep-fried ribeye? Yes, you read that right — deep-frying. Laura Gingrich describes a backyard deep-fried steak as reminiscent of those explosive Thanksgiving turkeys from a decade ago. It's unconventional, but the end result is crispy, juicy, and indulgent.

Hear me out: A quality ribeye can even be enjoyed raw — think steak tartare. But we’ll save that discussion for another time.

While we’re on a tangent, I should mention that I also received feedback about steak sauce. American cattle rancher Shad Sullivan: “For a great steak, sauce is blasphemy! For a good steak, add a little salt. For overcooked cow leather … pass the A-1!!!!”

Shad’s wife disagrees: “A great steak needs no sauce, but sometimes I need some spice!”

Stoves and ovens

Top-tier steakhouses often use the broiler method. Mastro’s, for example, broils its steaks at 1,500°F and serves them on plates heated to 450°F. Snake-broiling, a hybrid of grilling and broiling, is another approach. First grill, then finish with a quick broil to create a perfect crust.

Pan-searing, especially in cast iron, is another tried-and-true method. The best steakhouses use a butter bath technique, basting with melted butter, garlic, and fresh herbs for that restaurant-quality finish.

If you want to impress someone without too much effort, Blaze News reporter Andrew Chapados suggests a simple technique: “Sear in an oven-safe pan on high for two minutes per side. Then add a tablespoon of butter and finish in the oven at 400°F for 10-12 minutes.”

Loren Poncia, Stemple Creek Ranch co-owner

Use a 1.5 inch thick ribeye. Set it out to room temp. Salt liberally.

Put on a grill or pan at low temperature, like 200-220 degrees, for about five minutes per side or until the center of the steak is 110 degrees.

Remove steak. Crank pan or grill to 500+ and cook steak for one minute on each side.

Reverse sear

This is the most popular response I got.

Home cooks everywhere have evolved their methods, and reverse searing is a testament to that. In the reverse sear, you cook low and slow in the oven till the steak reaches your preferred temperature, then sear in a hot pan on the stovetop to create the crust.

Blaze News staff writer Paul Sacca keeps it simple — season with salt and pepper, sear in olive oil, and baste with butter, smashed garlic, and thyme. It’s a method that can work for nearly any cut, and Hank would approve.

Andrew Patrick Nelson, film historian

I spoke with Andrew Patrick Nelson, the Western apostle himself. I wanted to know about John Wayne's steak preferences.

Interestingly enough, the Duke was rumored to prefer his steaks well done. There are even Wayne-branded cookbooks, like "The Official John Wayne Guide to Grilling," that seem to confirm his take on the art of steak. In "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance," we witness the most famous steaks in Western film history — massive cuts where the only option for cooking is to "burn 'em!"

Of course, for those who prefer precision, reverse searing is a fine art. As Nelson told me, “For me, rare is the only option. Anything else and you might as well eat a hamburger instead.”

Dark MAGA strikes back

Thirty-one days before winning the presidency Tuesday, Donald Trump looked out at the field of chanting people in Butler, Pennsylvania. Three months earlier, he had stood at that same spot and nearly lost his life in an assassination attempt.

The crowd gathered in hushed reverence, hanging on his words as he described the moment with an almost prophetic tone.

Dark MAGA is often labeled as sinister. Rather, it’s an ironic acceptance of the villain label: 'If the bad guys are claiming to be good, I guess we have to pretend to be bad.'

"For 16 harrowing seconds during the gunfire, time stopped as this vicious monster unleashed pure evil from his sniper's perch, not so far away. But by the hand of providence and the grace of God, that villain did not succeed in his goal."

Trump’s words struck a chord that night, underscoring resilience, faith, and a belief in something beyond mere politics. This wasn’t just a rally; it was one more victory for a movement that confounds the establishment.

Dark MAGA is emerging as the peculiar future of American politics, carrying a strange, dark energy that both intrigues and unsettles.

I’ve been to Trump rallies for the past nine years, and there is no experience quite like it. These events are part carnival, part cultural revolt, part wild yet neighborly party.

In Butler, there was silence and “Ave Maria.” The occasion held a sacred power, like an ordained victory.

The New York Times mocked it.

In that moment, the MAGA hat wasn’t just a symbol; it was an invocation, a shared ritual. And here was Elon Musk. Rocket man, robot builder, Twitter king, Cybertruck mastermind, campaigning for Donald Trump.

But in true Musk fashion, he sprinted out in the black MAGA hat, presumably his own invention. In this historic moment, his official coming-out as a Trump guy, he said, “I’m Dark MAGA.”

Dark MAGA fashion

While Dark MAGA has carved out its own look, the establishment scrambles to manufacture a relatable image, touting camo hats and forced smiles and ghoulish laughs. They hate shovels and apartments. Their inauthenticity is obvious, reptilian. They are the establishment. This shape-shifting is a tactic, a mechanism of control.

To them, Dark MAGA is a nuisance, a hindrance. They unleash their media goons more often, more openly.

A Washington Post fashion critic told NPR that the white supremacists co-opted the MAGA hat and it began “to represent a lot of really dark forces.”

In 2019, when the entire media bullied Nick Sandmann, CNN described MAGA hats as “a potent symbol of racism.” The Los Angeles Times went with MAGA hats “share a certain unfortunate DNA” with blackface. In 2020, the New York Times suggested that MAGA hats might soon become relics of a “lost cause,” representing a “threat” that could return, a movement lurking just beneath the surface.

In 2021, researchers determined that “in addition to racial resentment … white nationalism increased willingness to wear a MAGA hat.”

Evil cursive

Yet for Dark MAGA, the MAGA hat isn’t a threat to be contained but a symbol of defiance. It’s a challenge to the establishment, an unapologetic refusal to blend in, like Musk’s bold choice of an all-black MAGA hat with Gothic cursive at a Madison Square Garden.

Multiple news outlets offered this playful choice of font as “proof” that the rally was in fact a Nazi uprising. Hunter S. Thompson would be ashamed at the way Rolling Stone called the Madison Square Garden rally "a hate-filled takeover," disguised in plain sight.

Yet Dark MAGA leans into the mischaracterizations. Its symbols aren’t sinister; they are a tongue-in-cheek response to the establishment’s hysteria. The elite press calls Dark MAGAns “dark forces,” and they wear it as a title.

But even Joe Biden can't resist the MAGA hat allure.

Dark Brandon

Meme culture thrives in anonymity, beyond the reach of mainstream narratives, and Dark MAGA’s shadowy memes are no different. Yet the left-leaning establishment cheered on memes like “Dark Brandon,” depicting a “dark” Joe Biden in a positive light.

Dark MAGA is often labeled as sinister. Rather, it’s an ironic acceptance of the villain label: “If the bad guys are claiming to be good, I guess we have to pretend to be bad.”

The political philosophy underpinning Dark MAGA aligns with Nick Land’s “Dark Enlightenment,” a critique of democratic systems that pits power retention against meaningful action.

Land, an enigmatic philosopher, argues that democracy’s structural stagnation drives its leaders to make shortsighted choices to keep themselves in power.

Dark MAGA, whether directly or indirectly, channels this ethos. Dark MAGA is tired of a political machine that rewards complacency, of an elite that speaks of “good intentions” while silencing dissent. If the establishment claims the moral high ground, Dark MAGA is happy to be the contrarian force shaking things up.

The Dark MAGA rebellion

Dark MAGA has tapped into a deep-seated frustration, a feeling of disillusionment with politics as usual. It speaks for the “people” — the lowercase “p” people whom the establishment ignores.

Dark MAGAns argue that real change won’t come from reforms made to appease voters. It’ll come from breaking the machine itself, minimizing the influence of entrenched bureaucracies that cling to power.

Dark MAGA’s cynicism is rooted in the belief that meaningful progress has to begin with a clean slate, free from the elite’s self-preserving grasp. As Land critiques academia’s failure to understand capitalism’s unstoppable drive, Dark MAGA critiques a political class oblivious to the needs of the people.

The armor of God

Dark MAGA doesn’t see itself simply as a political insurgency. Its struggle goes beyond party lines; it’s a spiritual battle, a war against what MAGAns see as a darkness that threatens the soul of the nation. This isn’t merely about policies or power; it’s a deeper, more primal fight against forces they believe are actively working to dismantle truth and goodness. In their eyes, their opponents aren’t just political adversaries but “principalities and powers,” as the apostle Paul described, rulers of darkness that go beyond ideology (Ephesians 6:12).

For Dark MAGA, righteous politics is inseparable from Christianity. Without faith as a foundation, society will drift toward chaos. The Bible warns of angels cast into “chains of darkness” (2 Peter 2:4, Jude 1:6), a reminder to Dark MAGA that the stakes are cosmic.

The world is teetering on the edge of disorder, held steady only by the cross. In Thessalonians, Paul calls believers “children of the light.” Dark MAGA sees itself as that light, ready to endure even as the world seems to spiral into darkness.

Dark MAGA has proven that the “light of the body” (Luke 11:33) can only shine when the eye is fixed on truth, love, and goodness.

Luke Reichwalker

Dark MAGA doesn’t fear the darkness — it thrives in it, carrying a light of its own that MAGAns believe will outlast the decaying structures around them. For them, this isn’t about a temporary political gain. It’s a battle for the soul of the nation, a fight against the world’s spiritual malaise. In that darkness, they carry the light, refusing to let it fade.

Back when Trump first won the presidency in 2016, I was on a college campus, where hard-left activism dominated. Some classmates, reveling in their self-assigned roles as the “rebel force,” asked each person whether: “Rebel force or dark side?” My Trump-supporting friend and I exchanged a look and answered with a smirk: “If you’re rebels, that makes us the dark side.”

Bass Pro Shops vs. Patagonia: Choosing a side in the camping store divide

There's nothing particularly political about camping. People across the ideological spectrum enjoy overnighting under the stars.

But buying camping gear is a whole different story. Before you pitch your tent, you have to declare where you pitch your tent.

Nowhere is this divide more pronounced than in the rivalry between retail behemoths Bass Pro Shops and Patagonia.

Bass Pro Shops appeals to a consumer who views the wilderness as a place to hunt, fish, and uphold traditional values. Patagonia markets to people who see the outdoors as something fragile, something that needs protection from climate change and corporate greed.

Stroll into a Bass Pro Shops location, and you’re greeted with a rustic, log-cabin feel, stuffed bears, shotguns and rifles, and camo gear lining the shelves, soundtracked by the giant waterfall in the middle of the store.

Head over to Patagonia, and you’re met with minimalist designs, organic cotton, and racks that practically hum with environmental consciousness, under the tip-tap electronica designed to make the customer feel cool.

Both sell adventure, but they represent two radically different ideas of what the great outdoors and America really mean.

Guns or Gaia

Bass Pro Shops doesn’t just sell fishing rods and binoculars — it sells a glimpse of Americana steeped in tradition. Founded in 1972, the brand champions a rural ethos where hunting, gun rights, and personal responsibility hold sway. With deep ties to the NRA and Ducks Unlimited, Bass Pro is more than a retailer — it’s a cultural hub for conservative America, where gun ranges and family-oriented outreach embolden patriotism and self-reliance.

Patagonia, founded one year later in 1973, occupies the opposite end of the spectrum. Its identity is rooted in activism, environmentalism, and anti-consumerism. Patagonia isn’t just a clothing brand; it’s a social movement. From suing the Trump administration over public lands to promoting sustainable practices like its “Worn Wear” program, Patagonia’s mission is to challenge the status quo. Here, every purchase feels like an act of environmental justice, not just a transaction; hence the bloated price tags.

Where Bass Pro celebrates frontier independence, Patagonia speaks to urban environmentalists. One sells rifles; the other urges Congress to take “immediate action” on gun control.

Hoodie activism

Retail companies overall have become social agitators.

Wearing a brand’s gear has always been a highly expressive act, an infusion of political symbolism that has overtaken society the past 200 years but that stretches back to tribal war paint.

Nowadays, any logo or slogan is far more than a fashion statement. It is a political declaration.

Sporting a Patagonia jacket tells the world you care about climate change and social justice. Slipping into a Bass Pro hoodie signals you’re a fan of gun rights and personal freedom.

Logos used to be the fingerprints of design. Now they’re the knuckles of a closed fist. And as outdoor retail continues to grow, brands like Patagonia and Bass Pro Shops will feel even more pressure to align with political and cultural movements.

In an era when every purchase is seen as a vote, companies can no longer promise customer satisfaction.

Giving away the store

Ultimately, what we have is a crisis of authority. Most Americans have lost faith in the traditional institutions but still care about social and political issues and believe that they need to be addressed. Big business, like the state, is just a bad substitution for this need.

As Vivek Ramaswamy points out in "Woke, Inc.," “corporate political allegiance” is little more than a marketing ploy that manipulates democracy and capitalism in tandem.

Vivek’s solution is to rebuild a deep, unifying American identity rooted in excellence. He sees capitalism and democracy as the mother and father of America, where capitalism can save the American dream and democracy can achieve E pluribus unum.

Americans are searching for something more profound than a brand. We’re stung by our profound need for roots: family, community, faith — something real and local.

Meanwhile this twilight of authority has led to outbreaks of naked power, where the warlords inundate the socio-cultural institutions with hedonism and radical “equality.”

And we are left more isolated than ever in this cultural moment, this era of anxiety, infected with moral and spiritual estrangement. Hence the desire to go camping.

Bringing it home

But there is a solution to the political turmoil engulfing outdoor retail and everything it symbolizes.

Civilizations thrive when the family unit is strong. "In societies where the family tie is fundamental, the power of the government stops literally at the threshold of the house," writes sociologist Robert Nisbet.

Authority is constructed from the ground up by each family, each individual, not imposed through a state of exception.

Outdoor retail has turned into a microcosm of America’s broader polarization. Bass Pro Shops appeals to a consumer who views the wilderness as a place to hunt, fish, and uphold traditional values. Patagonia markets to people who see the outdoors as something fragile, something that needs protection from climate change and corporate greed.

Both brands are thriving because they’ve doubled down on their identities. They’ve realized that in 2024, you can’t be neutral any more. Nonpartisanship has become the exception, not the rule.

As corporations increasingly play the role of political actors, the real task will lie in rebuilding the foundations that have been eroded. So for now we pick a side, the retailer that speaks in our voice.

All we wanted was a sleeping bag.

EXCLUSIVE: 'People are starving' — prepper advocate brings aid to Helene-ravaged North Carolina

Jason Nelson texted me the Sunday after Hurricane Helene destroyed homes and lives throughout the East Coast. Nelson is the CEO and co-founder of Prepper All-Naturals, marketed at PrepperBeef.com. He’s also a combat-disabled vet.

As a Marine, he joined the civil affairs and psychological operations branch of the military, where he was assigned to humanitarian missions.

'The reason Western North Carolina is suffering right now is because they want them to. That's it.'

“I leave tomorrow morning,” he wrote. “People are starving.” He offered to pick me up on the way. Sadly, I couldn’t join, but after Jason returned home, we spoke via video about his experience. Here’s the entire interview:

Asheville or bust

Nelson drove $60,000 worth of freeze-dried beef — about 7,000 portions — from Waco, Texas, setting off at 7:30 a.m. on Monday morning. He arrived in Asheville at 2:30 a.m. on Tuesday, only to be back on the road by 3:00 a.m. after dropping off the supplies.

With the help of a volunteer who split the drive with him, Nelson made it back home by 11:30 p.m. that same day. Now, he's coordinating a range of services across Western North Carolina to ensure that aid reaches those who need it most.

Cracks in the system

Nelson has become a symbol of grassroots resilience, an advocate for food independence, and a man who backs up his beliefs with action.

His recent trip to North Carolina highlights his commitment not just to his business but to the broader mission of ensuring that people have food, no matter the circumstances.

Nelson saw the cracks in a system that many still take for granted — the globalized, centralized food chain.

For him, the North Carolina mission wasn’t just about handing out food; it was a microcosm of the larger battle he’s been waging through his company, Prepper Beef.

Nelson’s philosophy centers on localized supply chains, a concept that hits particularly close to home in disaster zones like those affected by Hurricane Helene.

Jason has years of experience with on-the-ground humanitarian crises from every angle. I asked him how severe the damage from Hurricane Helene is and the resultant chaos compared to what he’s seen.

“I mean, you'd be better off with a parking lot,” he told me. “You can work at a parking lot. That's it. I'd be better off in Afghanistan, where I've got to convince terrorists to come together and work together. Because the government cares about putting money into Afghanistan.”

Long lines

In the hurricane’s aftermath, people stood in long lines for basics — water, canned goods, and, in some cases, freeze-dried meals, including Nelson’s high-quality beef.

Prepper All-Naturals, marketed at PrepperBeef.com, uses 100% Texas-born and -bred cattle.

The aid may have come from multiple sources, but the message Nelson delivered to the people of North Carolina was clear: Localized food production isn’t just an economic model; it’s a lifeline.

He added, “The reason Western North Carolina is suffering right now is because they want them to. That's it.”

Supply chain risk

Hurricane Helene’s path of destruction left thousands without power, running water, or food. Flooded highways and downed communication towers slowed aid, leaving many stranded.

Working with local emergency responders, church groups, and community leaders, Nelson helped coordinate the distribution of essentials in towns that hadn’t seen relief in days.

“It’s devastating,” Nelson told me, "but it’s also a reminder of how fragile our system is. It doesn’t take much — a storm, an outage — for everything to fall apart. And if we’re relying on food shipped in from halfway across the world, we’re putting ourselves at risk.”

Nelson’s point is hard to argue with, especially when looking at the state of supply chains post-hurricane. With ports shut down and air transport delayed, imported goods were among the first to disappear from store shelves.

Localize it

What makes Nelson’s trip to North Carolina more than just another humanitarian mission is the depth of his conviction and his reasonable indignation.

“There's so much to this, and it's a complex thing,” he told me. “It’s not that they are ill funded, ill trained. The national resources we could bring to bear have been instead brought to bear to serve communities that have welcomed illegal immigrants instead.”

In Nelson’s eyes, the disaster response in North Carolina illustrates a larger societal issue. When a hurricane hits, people can’t rely on distant supply chains. They need food grown close to home, processed by businesses that understand local needs, and distributed without the bureaucratic hurdles that come with large-scale government aid programs.

The hopeful success of his efforts in North Carolina underscores his belief that decentralized, localized supply chains are key to weathering future crises, be they natural disasters or man-made economic disruptions.

Prepping for the future

In North Carolina, Nelson’s donations weren’t just meals — they were a symbol of self-reliance. Families who had lost everything found comfort in the freeze-dried beef, not just because it provided nutrition but because it embodied the idea that Americans can still take care of their own.

“We don’t need to rely on anyone else,” Nelson told me. “We have everything we need right here.”

His trip to North Carolina solidified that belief. Seeing the devastation firsthand only reinforced his mission: to protect America’s food supply chain by keeping it local, sustainable, and out of the hands of global corporations and governments

Food security

For Nelson, local food systems are the only way forward. His experience in North Carolina, amid the wreckage of Hurricane Helene, served as both a warning and a lesson: If the country doesn’t start paying attention to where its food comes from, it might find itself helpless when the next disaster strikes.

“I want you to think about supply chains,” he told me, “and how normal storehouses only have about two weeks' worth of supplies and they constantly depend on this resupply. Well, those are washed out. They're not just washed out. It's your primaries, your secondaries, your downstream supply chains.”

Nelson’s trip to North Carolina was more than an act of charity. It was a rallying cry for the kind of change he believes will protect America’s future.

As he loaded the last boxes of freeze-dried beef into the back of a relief truck, he must have thought: If we want to survive what’s coming, we need to start growing, processing, and consuming locally. Anything less is putting our freedom — and our lives — at risk.

“Food security is the next target,” Nelson told me. “And when it’s gone, it won’t just be about what we eat — it’ll be about who we are as a nation.”

AI has shown us the face of Christ. Will it bring more to the faith?

Every generation gets to choose whether or not to abandon Christianity. In 2,000 years, no generation has fully walked away.

The irony is hard to miss: The very tool we feared might render faith obsolete has given us the most human image of Jesus yet. Science, thought to replace God, is now part of the process that brings us back to Him.

Christianity isn’t merely a story that’s been retold for millennia; it is the story. It’s the one that never grows old, never fades with the times.

Sometimes, the new chapters of this story come in the most unexpected ways. A recent example is how the Shroud of Turin — a centuries-old relic long thought to be a medieval hoax — found its way back into the public conversation.

Best of all, it wasn’t a miracle that rekindled interest in the cloth. It was science.

From skepticism to wonder

For decades, modern skepticism relegated the Shroud of Turin to the realm of medieval forgery, debunked by carbon-dating tests in the 1980s.

Science was supposed to bring clarity, to expose the myths that faith had built. But here we are again. The Shroud has returned, and this time, it is technology itself that has reignited the mystery.

Former "Saturday Night Live" star and recent Catholic convert Rob Schneider was so inspired by his encounter with the relic that's he's making a movie about it. "It breathed life into me," he explains.

It’s not just Schneider. The Shroud’s reappearance on the world stage reveals something far bigger.

Science, which was once so sure it could unmask religion’s mysteries, is now revealing new layers. Tiny particles of pollen, identified through advanced equipment, suggest that the cloth’s origins trace back to the Middle East — specifically Israel. New scientific methods like wide-angle X-ray scattering dated the Shroud far earlier than previously thought — around A.D. 55.

The lines between myth and reality are blurring. Science, once believed to be Christianity’s greatest adversary, is suddenly taking a seat at the table of faith.

AI gave us the face of the Lord

But it’s not just relics like the Shroud that are undergoing a digital transformation. Technology is now playing a central role in how we encounter faith.

The face of Jesus — something people have dreamed of, imagined, and painted for millennia — has been recreated by artificial intelligence. Using data from the Shroud and other sources, AI systems have attempted to render what may be the most accurate depiction of Christ’s face.

It’s a face that’s both familiar and new. The long hair, the beard, the haunting eyes — eyes that seem to look into not just the world but each of us, individually, deeply.

As we hurtle deeper into the digital age, we’ve been conditioned to seek meaning in data, in pixels and screens, in algorithms that shape our reality.

And yet these same tools are leading us back to questions that are profoundly ancient. The face of Christ, now digitized and rendered in high definition, serves as a reminder: The divine is not so easily replaced.

Back to the heart of belief

For centuries, the Christian faith has thrived on a core paradox: to believe without seeing. When the apostle Thomas doubted the resurrection, Jesus appeared and offered his wounds as proof. "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed," He added (John 20:29).

He was talking about us. You and me.

Now, in the 21st century, science is offering glimpses of what once seemed impossible to prove.

While we may never confirm the Shroud’s authenticity beyond a shadow of a doubt, the mere possibility forces us to grapple with something bigger. Faith isn’t about what’s seen — it’s about what transcends sight. And sometimes, when technology allows us to glimpse the mysteries of old, it invites us to marvel rather than dismiss.

The resurrection has always tested human comprehension. It’s a story of victory over death, a promise at the heart of the Christian faith.

As AI constructs the face of Christ and science re-examines ancient relics, the digital world and the divine collide in unexpected ways. We aren’t abandoning faith; we’re rediscovering it through the very tools meant to replace it, tools that allow us to stare deeply into that unmistakable face, those never-ending eyes.

Satanists worship Satan for real, whether they believe it or not

Why does the media support satanic abortions?

The Economist is the latest outlet to celebrate Satanism and its nomination of abortion as a sacred rite. Like so many others, the article profiles the Satanic Temple's founder with a tone of reverence. The Washington Post indulges in similar coverage, exploring everything from its "revolutionary roots" to a live-blogged abortion, as though this were just another milestone in progressive politics.

Perhaps the most absurd claim from the Temple is that adherents don't 'really' believe in Satan. But how does an avowed satanist engage in satanic rituals without acknowledging Satan?

PolitiFact, part of Poynter's "fact-checking" empire, once again joins in with a fluff piece disguised as objective reporting. Over and over, media outlets portray the Satanic Temple as a champion of religious freedom and abortion rights.

Its telehealth service offers medication and "abortion care," which the press portrays as some bold exercise of liberty. Meanwhile, more honest sources see it for what it is: open antagonism toward Christian values, dressed up as mischievous rebellion.

The Economist claims the Satanic Temple is battling "Christian encroachment" in public life, while the Atlantic frames the movement as a "satanic rebellion," comparing it to Satan’s original fall from grace.

This is the language of warfare.

The Guardian applauds the Temple's "fight against the religious right.” Vice literally frames the issue as “Satanists v. Republicans.” In doing so, the outlets establish the actual dichotomy at play: In their fight against Republicans and Christianity, Democrats ally with Satan.

Devil in a blue dress

LGBTQ+ rights and the Satanic Temple go hand in hand, with the anti-religion placing Black Lives Matter and “social justice” at the forefront of its activism.

Adherents are pro-vaccine in the name of "science," one of their sacred idols. They protest Christian monuments like the Ten Commandments, often leaving satanic sculptures in their place, as if to mock traditional values.

They’ve even used loopholes to infiltrate public schools, supposedly to expose the overlap of church and state. But what exactly does that mean in the context of their anti-religious ideology?

The Satanic Temple’s stated mission includes a tenet about adhering to "scientific understanding."

It sounds reasonable, until you see its “scientific” understanding at work. Adherents are too selective in their data, too fantastical in their logic, too elusive in their methods, too uneven in their irony, too bitter in their discourse. Under these conditions, politics is merely a tool of the deceiver.

Ironic worship?

Perhaps the most absurd claim from the Temple is that adherents don't “really” believe in Satan. The Atlantic smugly informs readers of this point. But how does an avowed satanist engage in satanic rituals without acknowledging Satan?

They claim to be atheists or “non-theistic,” but their devotion to Satan — a mythological character, they say — is unmistakable. They hold religious services and rituals, and they pray, or a version of prayer. They also enjoy “satanic picnics, and the occasional orgy.”

If they were truly godless, they wouldn’t fixate so obsessively on Christianity. The Satanic Temple’s ultimate goal is to undermine Christ’s kingdom.

Adherents' true aim is secularism — a complete dismantling of Christianity, with abortion as their sacrament. They twist the literary and biblical Satan into a rebellious hero, ignoring the fact that this figure has always represented rebellion against God, the very source of life.

Because the Satanic Temple's assault is more than just political theater: It’s yet another reminder that Satan’s domain thrives on lies and deception. Followers of Satan have no problem with falsehoods. You won’t find any mention of “truth” in their screeds about “scientific understanding.”

As Paul writes in Ephesians, Christians must “put away falsehood" and speak truthfully. While Satan sows division and death, Christians must stand firm in the belief that truth, rooted in God, will ultimately set us free.

Exceptions for radicals

Satanism serves as a leftist parody of religion, thriving on mockery and inversion. Saul Alinsky's "Rules for Radicals" is their playbook. Alinsky dedicated his work to Satan, the "original rebel."

Rule 5: “Ridicule is man’s most potent weapon.”

This schtick is distinctly, well, satanic. Make it seem like “trolling,” a kind of political mockery. NPR even declared: “When they write the bible on the great trolls of history, the Satanic Temple should be on the cover.”

The media typically admire that satanists take ridicule to unprecedented heights, even gaining tax-exempt status and providing an official app available in Apple and Google app stores.

Or how the Satanic Temple is headquartered in Salem, Massachusetts, site of the Salem witch trials. The building includes an eight-foot statue of Baphomet, an early representation of Satan — the horned, goat-hoofed, angel-winged idol worshiped by pagans.

Ha ha ha … good one.

Ritual sacrifice

Their ridicule lacks all dignity and humor. Satanists twist everything upside down.

Their rituals mock Christianity; their philosophy contradicts the sacred. They hate not just Christians but Christ Himself. In place of faith, they celebrate pornography, euthanasia, and debauchery.

Their liturgical life is a parody of Catholicism. They “unbaptize,” they pray in reverse, they perform black masses. It’s all a perverse reflection of Christian worship, ending not with communion but with the sacrifice of the unborn, a deliberate inversion of birth.

It’s a strategy similar to the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, who mocked the Christian faith with impunity and were celebrated by the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Satanism’s only true “creed” is opposition. Its rituals are empty negations of Christian practices, its activism a hollow rejection of God’s law.

Defend us in battle

The Satanic Temple and other movements that promote abortion rights in the name of autonomy are in fact beholden to an anti-freedom.

Christians know that Satan cannot create life — he only destroys. He may offer seductive ideas cloaked in equality or liberty, but his goal is always to eradicate the value of human life, which stands at the core of God’s creation.

Scripture tells us that Satan "was a murderer from the beginning" (John 8:44), and his mission has never changed. His followers don’t realize that their master is a horrible accomplice; just ask Judas. Paul’s warning in 2 Corinthians is especially relevant here: Satan has “blinded the minds of the unbelievers,” keeping them from seeing the light of Christ.

But despite the satanists' chaos and noise, the Christian message is simple but profound: Love and life, rooted in God’s truth, will always triumph over the forces of chaos and death. Satan offers nothing but division and death. Christ offers redemption and love.

Tupperware: 1946-2024

Tupperware — America’s plastic kingpin, the Michael Jackson of kitchenware — is no more.

Earlier this month, the brand filed for bankruptcy.

Wise’s genius was in recognizing the untapped potential of housewives as both customers and salespeople. In living rooms across America, women were given new authority over their homes — and their finances.

Like Jackson, it was once a star, pioneering multilevel marketing and reaping profits in over 100 countries. No kitchenware made it big like Tupperware. But today, it’s more relic than revolution.

For decades, moms, grandmas, aunts, me-maws, and church ladies swore by their Tupperware, its cracked lids and warped bowls symbols of household lifetimes. In the 1950s, these inflexible bowls became a quiet catalyst for cultural change, advancing women economically and socially in ways few could have predicted.

The burping bowls that changed America

Forty years after the invention of plastic, Earl Tupper unveiled his airtight plastic containers. They must have looked like something out of science fiction. Vacuum-sealed with a "burping" lid, Tupperware reshaped the way food was stored. Suddenly, home cooks could keep ingredients fresh longer, experiment with their menus, and stock more diverse fridges.

But even a brilliant product needs more than innovation to survive.

The narrative goes that in postwar America, as men commuted to work, women felt marooned in suburbia, trapped in a loop of loneliness, grocery lists, and kitchen chores. By the late 1940s, clever minds at Tupperware decided on a radical marketing shift: They pulled the product from retail shelves and brought it straight to the consumer — one doorbell ring at a time.

Tupperware parties

By the 1950s, Tupperware wasn’t just a product; it was a movement. Brownie Wise, the savvy saleswoman who revolutionized Tupperware's business model, pioneered the “party plan.”

The majority of Tupperware customers were, and always have been, women. So instead of sending salesmen door-to-door, Wise mobilized the most powerful force of all — women gathered in each other’s homes to buy, sell, and chat. These parties weren’t just about bowls and lids; they were social hubs, a festive remedy for suburban isolation.

Feminism in plastic

The same forces that fueled Tupperware’s rise — the restlessness of suburban housewives and their hunger for autonomy — would soon lead to its decline.

The postwar isolation these women faced, compounded by the numbing glow of daytime TV and a potent cocktail of tranquilizers, fostered the "problem that has no name," at least according to the second-wave feminists who painted the entire era as hellish.

For a brief moment, though, Tupperware offered an escape hatch. These communal events were political, in the traditional sense, where Greek citizens would sit around gabbing. But for the 1950s housewife, Tupperware parties were so much more.

They transformed female friendship and offered women a glimpse of what it meant to be an entrepreneur, opening up a new space between housewife and "career woman."

Sealing the lid shut

Ironically, the very empowerment that Tupperware fostered helped hasten its downfall. By the 1960s, as more women had entered the workforce, the cohesive Tupperware gatherings lost their magic. The '80s brought microwave-safe containers, expired Tupperware patents, and the death of Earl Tupper.

Tupperware would never return to its mid-century heights. By the time the new millennium rolled in, the tides had fully turned.

Convenience culture demanded single-use, disposable packaging. The environmental movement painted plastic as a villain, and Tupperware found itself stranded on the wrong side of history.

The pandemic dealt the final blow to Tupperware parties. Once the brand’s lifeblood, they were now relics of a bygone era.

In June, the last Tupperware factory in the U.S. shut its doors. What once symbolized American ingenuity and entrepreneurship now seems a cautionary tale, a reminder of how easily the disruptors can become the disrupted.