Car ownership used to come with an unspoken assumption: You bought the vehicle, and it was yours to maintain, repair, and service in any way you saw fit. That assumption is quietly eroding. And one of the clearest signs doesn’t involve software updates or subscription features.

It involves a screw.

Tasks once considered routine — such as clearing fault codes or accessing safety systems — now often require dealer-level credentials or paid subscriptions.

BMW has filed a patent for a proprietary fastener shaped like its iconic roundel logo. It is not a Torx, not a hex, and not a Phillips head. The circular screw is divided into four quadrants mirroring the BMW emblem. Two quadrants are recessed to accept a matching tool, while the others remain flush, making it impossible for standard tools to grip. The BMW logo is embossed around the outer edge, ensuring the branding remains visible even after installation.

From a design perspective, it’s distinctive. From a functional perspective, it is proprietary by design.

Tightening the screw

According to BMW’s patent filing with the German Patent and Trade Mark Office, conventional fasteners are considered too accessible. Common tools, the company argues, allow “unauthorized persons” to loosen or tighten screws in sensitive areas of the vehicle. The purpose of the logo-shaped fastener is explicit: restrict access by requiring a specialized tool.

What has drawn the most concern is not just the screw itself but where BMW suggests it could be used. The patent lists applications beyond cosmetic trim, including seat mountings, cockpit assemblies, center consoles, and interior-to-body connections. These are components that already demand precise torque and careful installation. Adding proprietary fasteners to those areas raises obvious questions about who will be able to perform even routine work.

BMW also notes that some of these screws could be installed in visible parts of the cabin — meaning owners would be regularly reminded that parts of their own vehicle are effectively off-limits without brand-specific tools.

Dealer's wheel

The patent does not define who qualifies as “authorized” or “unauthorized,” but the repair industry has little doubt who would be excluded. Independent mechanics, collision repair shops, and do-it-yourself owners would likely need BMW-specific tooling to perform work that was once straightforward. Removing a seat for interior repairs could become a dealer-only task.

That concern is not hypothetical. Repair advocates and automotive media have long warned that proprietary designs widen the gap between modern vehicles and hands-on ownership. Independent shops may be forced to buy specialized equipment to remain competitive, while some repairs may no longer make economic sense outside dealership networks. For owners, the result is fewer choices, higher costs, and less control.

To be fair, proprietary tools are not new. Independent repair facilities already invest heavily in manufacturer-specific equipment as vehicles grow more complex. Advanced driver-assistance systems, electronic steering, and modern powertrains require specialized knowledge and tools. Even critics acknowledge that BMW’s logo-shaped screw is visually clever and consistent with the brand’s design philosophy.

But the issue isn’t aesthetics. It’s what the design signals.

Sepia Times/Getty Images

Bad 'Gateway'?

BMW’s patent arrives as other automakers publicly emphasize repair-friendly engineering. Mercedes-Benz, for example, has discussed modular designs intended to simplify service. Against that backdrop, BMW’s approach appears to move in the opposite direction — favoring exclusivity and control over accessibility.

It’s also important to note that the fastener exists only as a patent. Automakers file thousands of patents every year, many of which never reach production. Still patents are not filed casually. They reflect internal thinking and future direction.

More importantly, BMW is not alone.

Stellantis, parent company of Jeep, Dodge, and Chrysler, uses a Security Gateway Module that restricts access to diagnostic functions. Independent scan tools are blocked unless registered and authenticated through company systems. Tasks once considered routine — such as clearing fault codes or accessing safety systems — now often require dealer-level credentials or paid subscriptions.

Volkswagen Group, which includes Audi and Porsche, employs Component Protection, preventing certain electronic parts from functioning unless validated through manufacturer software. Independent shops can install the part, but without official authorization, the vehicle may still display errors or limit functionality.

Other automakers — including General Motors, Ford, Toyota, Honda, Nissan, and Hyundai — control diagnostic software, telematics data, and vehicle information through subscription-based platforms. Lawmakers have warned that these practices undermine the very idea of ownership by placing essential repair information behind paywalls or limiting it to authorized networks.

Data grab

The common thread is not branding or engineering sophistication. It is control.

Modern vehicles generate enormous amounts of data, and automakers increasingly decide who can access it, who can use it, and under what conditions. Software locks, digital part pairing, cloud-based diagnostics, and proprietary hardware all steer repairs back toward manufacturer-approved channels.

This matters because repair access affects safety, affordability, and consumer choice. When independent shops cannot compete, prices rise. When owners cannot choose where — or whether — to service their vehicles, ownership starts to resemble a long-term lease with conditions attached.

BMW’s logo-shaped screw may never leave the patent office. But it has already made the debate tangible. It turns an abstract argument about software and data into a physical object drivers can understand.

After all, it doesn’t get much more basic than a screw.

Cars are no longer just machines. They are platforms, data centers, and branded ecosystems. The question for consumers is how much control they are willing to give up in exchange for innovation and design.

'Why I Am Not an Atheist' exposes incoherence of non-belief

Atheism likes to present itself as the adult in the room. Faith, by contrast, is cast as a childish indulgence for people afraid of the dark.

Christopher Beha’s "Why I Am Not an Atheist" examines this framing and demonstrates, with real precision, why atheism itself may be the most adolescent worldview of them all.

Atheism has a curious habit. It borrows Christian language — dignity, justice, compassion — while denying the metaphysical foundation that gives those words meaning.

This isn’t a book of defensive apologetics. Beha doesn’t hurl Scripture at doubters or claim that God can be demonstrated like a physics equation. Instead, he treats atheism as a coherent position and then tests it against reality. He walks its reasoning to its natural conclusion and reports back on the damage. What he finds there isn’t liberation but emptiness — sometimes dressed up as sophistication, sometimes as certainty, but emptiness all the same.

Godless

Beha’s journey begins in familiar territory. Like many sane, decent people, he wanted honesty. He wanted to “look the world frankly in the face,” to set aside inherited beliefs that, at that stage of his life, he believed couldn’t withstand scrutiny. God, to him, seemed unnecessary. Worse, He seemed embarrassing. Atheism, on the other hand, felt like intellectual courage.

Beha embraced the godless creed at first, wholeheartedly. But it didn’t take long for cracks to appear.

Rather than joining the professional atheist class — the permanently outraged and faintly condescending set, à la Harris and Dawkins, who mistake self-indulgence for insight — Beha asks a far riskier question: What replaces God once He’s gone? Not as a thought exercise, but in real life. In daily choices. In suffering. In death.

Here, the book begins to shine.

Motion and chaos

Beha identifies two dominant atheist positions. The first is scientific materialism, which holds that only what can be measured is real. Everything else — mind, love, conscience, beauty — is reduced to physical process. Choice becomes brain chemistry. Human life is explained as motion and chance, sorted into probabilities.

The second is a newer, trendier alternative: romantic idealism. Instead of reducing the world to atoms, it centers everything on the self. Meaning is something you create. Truth is something you feel. The highest good is authenticity, and the highest crime is judgment. God disappears, and the individual assumes His place.

Both, Beha argues, fail in opposite but equally revealing ways.

Materialism reduces the human person to a biological incident. Consciousness becomes a chemical glitch. Love becomes an evolutionary strategy. It is an impressively sterile system, one that explains everything except why anyone should bother getting out of bed.

Romantic idealism reacts against this coldness by putting the individual will on the throne. The view seems warmer, and perhaps it is, but it is still incoherent. If everyone creates meaning, meaning ceases to exist. If truth is personal, truth dissolves. The self becomes both king and casualty, crowned with responsibility and locked in solitude.

Between them, Beha shows, modern atheism swings between delusion and despair. That may explain why so many of its most visible champions — from Bill Maher to Ricky Gervais to Penn Jillette — sound less liberated than irritated. Atheism can take things apart, but it can’t hold them together.

CSA-Printstock/Getty Images

Philosophical freeloading

What makes this critique effective is Beha’s refusal to hide behind abstractions. He doesn’t pretend that these systems fail only in theory. They fail in lived experience. They fail when existential angst arrives uninvited.

Atheism, Beha observes, has a curious habit. It borrows Christian language — dignity, justice, compassion — while denying the metaphysical foundation that gives those words meaning. It wants human rights without a human giver. What looks like intellectual bravery is closer to philosophical freeloading.

Beha is especially critical of the arrogance that often accompanies unbelief. Atheism flatters itself as fearless while demanding a strangely narrow universe — one small enough to fit inside a laboratory or a podcast episode. Anything that resists measurement is dismissed as childish. Transcendence is treated as something reserved for uncultured troglodytes.

Christianity, by contrast, has never sold comfort by making reality smaller. It doesn’t reduce the world to what feels manageable. It claims that meaning is real whether we want it or not, that God isn’t a projection of human wishes, and that right and wrong aren’t personal inventions. It doesn’t erase suffering. Instead, it meets it head-on. To be alive is to bear pain, and to bear pain is to be alive.

The way back

It is from within that hard-earned contrast — after years in the wilderness of unbelief — that Beha finds his way back, not to a vague faith, but to Christianity itself and finally to the Catholic Church. This isn’t a story of conquest. It’s an acknowledgment that atheism, however confident it sounds, left him more miserable and taught him to call that misery freedom — something he came to see clearly when his brother Jim nearly died in a car crash and later when he himself faced death with stage-three lymphoma.

Crucially, Beha isn’t arguing that faith banishes doubt. He would laugh at that idea. He remains a skeptic in the classical sense — aware of human limits, suspicious of tidy conclusions, allergic to ideological shortcuts. Faith, as he presents it, is the decision to live as though truth, goodness, and meaning are not clever hallucinations generated by neurons killing time.

For conservative Christians, "Why I Am Not an Atheist" matters because it doesn’t preach. It doesn’t wring its hands over secularism or bulldoze unbelievers. It does something far more damaging: It lets atheism talk, at length. Given enough space, its confidence begins to crack, its claims lose shape, and its bravado gives way to a worldview that can’t deliver what it promises. Atheism isn’t undone here by counterargument, but by relentless exposure.

In an age when disbelief markets itself as adulthood and faith as regression, Beha offers a bracing reversal. Atheism, he suggests, is a creed without the slightest bit of substance, built entirely on what it denies.

Christianity, whatever one’s denomination, remains the only worldview bold enough to say that life matters, suffering is not pointless, and belief answers to what is, not what we want.

Did feminism create wokeness?

Helen Andrews recently revived discussion of what she calls the great feminization — the idea that as women come to numerically dominate institutions, those institutions begin to function differently, often badly. Her observations are important and largely correct. What follows is a friendly amendment to her thesis. I agree with much of what she sees, but I think an essential part of the story still needs to be named.

Let’s begin by laying out her argument clearly.

The psychological feminization of institutions preceded the numerical one. Men in power enabled it.

The great feminization thesis

Men and women, on average, tend to behave differently. For our purposes, the key distinction is this: Women tend to prioritize relationships and consensus-building, while men tend to prioritize rules, justice, and abstract principles.

Helen Andrews puts it this way: Women ask, "How do we make everyone feel okay?" Men ask, "What are the rules, and what is just?"

If we borrow a familiar parental analogy: Mothers want children to be happy; fathers want children to behave.

The great feminization thesis makes two claims:

When women numerically dominate an institution — whether a profession, a university, or a bureaucracy — that institution will naturally drift toward more “feminine” priorities.
What we now call “wokeness” is simply the institutionalization of those priorities.

From this, Andrews draws a sobering conclusion: If wokeness is driven by demographics rather than ideology, it will not simply burn itself out or be defeated by better arguments.

That observation is serious, largely correct, and incomplete.

Key takeaway #1: Wokeness is not the point — totalitarianism is the point

Anyone who thinks wokeness began in 2020 is already naïve. What we now call wokeness is simply a recycled version of an ideology that has been circulating since at least the 1930s. We have called it communism, socialism, political correctness, multiculturalism — and now wokeness. Same garbage, different label.

The label is not the point. The content is.

These ideologies all promise the impossible: the end of poverty, the end of discrimination, the end of pollution, even the end of viral disease. When people talk this way, look out. They are asking for a blank check — unlimited moral permission to acquire power in pursuit of an unattainable goal.

Doing the impossible requires enormous power. Convincing people that it is not only possible, but a moral duty, requires propaganda. These ideologies don’t work for you or for society as a whole. They work for the people who are trying to accumulate power, while endlessly moving the goalposts.

So worrying about where “wokeness” begins or ends is a distraction. Totalitarian aspiration is the point.

Key takeaway #2: The great feminization is more than numbers

The problems Helen Andrews identifies did not begin when women crossed the 50% mark in any institution. They began much earlier. Which means we cannot diagnose civilizational decline by counting heads alone.

The great feminization is not merely statistical. It is psychological and political.

Consider the case of Larry Summers, forced out as president of Harvard in 2006 after remarks about sex differences in aptitude at the extreme upper end of scientific fields. Importantly, Harvard was not majority-female at the time.

Several prominent women defended Summers. They noted that he was speaking off the record, citing substantial research, and had a long history of supporting women in academia. But those voices did not matter. What mattered were the women who expressed the greatest emotional distress — the ones who said they felt sick or faint.

Someone made a decision to elevate those reactions above truth-seeking and institutional integrity. Someone allowed the public to believe that “insensitivity” was the decisive issue. That decision mattered.

Key takeaway #3: Specific people made specific decisions

Treating wokeness or feminization as an automatic demographic process lets decision-makers off the hook. Institutions did not drift accidentally. People chose to reward grievance, punish dissent, and redefine excellence around emotional display.

Statistical generalizations obscure two crucial facts.

First, bell curves overlap. While men and women differ on average, individuals vary widely. Some women are more analytical than many men; some men more emotional than many women.

Second — and more importantly — no one’s behavior is predestined. The ability to regulate our emotions is a basic requirement of adulthood. Every functioning society expects adults to govern their reactions rather than demand that institutions reorganize themselves around tantrums.

The Yale moment

The 2015 Yale Halloween costume episode provides a clear example. A professor’s wife suggested students “be chill” about costumes. Students were outraged, with some of them having public meltdowns, demanding that Yale prioritize their emotional comfort over free inquiry.

Yale was not majority-female. Feminization alone cannot explain this behavior.

What we witnessed instead was a demand for paternal authority stripped of paternal discipline. “Make us feel safe,” the student insisted — while rejecting the professor’s insistence that other people have rights too.

When you smash the patriarchy, you don’t get freedom and justice. You get a spoiled 2-year-old running the place.

Phillip Faraone/Getty Images

The sexual revolution and power

The psychological feminization of institutions preceded the numerical one. Men in power enabled it.

Businesses gained access to a new labor pool. Elite men rewrote workplace rules in ways that advantaged themselves while disadvantaging male competitors lower down the ladder. Universities institutionalized grievance disciplines. Contraceptive ideology separated sex from responsibility, granting men sexual access without paternal obligation.

Women did not enact these changes alone. Men cooperated — and benefited.

Key takeaway #4: Identity politics is a power-grab

Every wave of identity politics follows the same script: Emotional display replaces argument; disruption replaces persuasion; grievance replaces evidence.

“We are oppressed. You owe us.”

This is not really a moral argument at all. It is a power-grab.

Helen Andrews has done a real service by calling attention to the deep problems that majority-female professions and institutions may present. But we have to go deeper than demographics. We have to be willing to say — calmly, firmly, and without apology — "I don’t care how offended you say you are. You still have to behave."

Men and women alike benefit from that expectation. And the future of civilization and free institutions really does depend on it.

This essay is adapted from the following video, which originally appeared on the Ruth Institute's YouTube channel.

Understanding gas tax hikes — and how your state is affected

As 2026 begins, fuel taxes are shifting across the country — and many drivers won’t notice until they fill up. Some states are adjusting rates by a cent or less, while others are imposing major increases or overhauling how fuel is taxed altogether. Much of it is happening quietly through automatic systems that rarely make headlines.

Fuel taxes rarely dominate headlines, but they remain one of the most direct ways government policy intersects with everyday life. Unlike income or property taxes, fuel taxes are paid in small increments, embedded into a necessity for most Americans. That makes them politically sensitive, economically significant, and easy to overlook — until prices jump.

The broader question is whether fuel taxes remain a sustainable way to fund transportation in an era of increasing vehicle efficiency.

Over the past year, more than a dozen states adjusted their fuel tax systems. Some increased rates to shore up transportation budgets strained by inflation and aging infrastructure. Others reduced taxes to ease costs for consumers and commercial operators. As 2026 begins, another wave of changes is rolling out, driven largely by automatic formulas rather than new legislative votes.

The result is a patchwork of increases, decreases, pauses, and structural overhauls that reflect broader debates about infrastructure, accountability, and the future of road funding.

Small changes — for now

Several states are seeing modest adjustments as of January 1. Florida, Georgia, Minnesota, and North Carolina are implementing small increases of about 1 cent or less per gallon. New York, Utah, and Vermont are seeing slight decreases, also under a penny.

These changes are not the product of last-minute political deals. Instead, they stem from automatic adjustment mechanisms written into state law, often tied to inflation, fuel prices, or construction costs.

Nebraska, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia also allow automatic adjustments, but their fuel tax rates remain unchanged at the start of 2026. That stability does not mean those states are immune from future increases — only that the formulas did not trigger a change this cycle.

Automatic adjustments are becoming more common because they provide predictable revenue without forcing lawmakers to cast politically risky votes. Critics argue they reduce accountability and disconnect tax increases from voter oversight. Supporters counter that they keep transportation funding aligned with real-world costs, especially as materials and labor become more expensive.

While these small changes may barely register for individual drivers, larger shifts in several states deserve closer attention.

Michigan’s major overhaul

Michigan is implementing the most significant fuel tax change taking effect this year. Governor Gretchen Whitmer (D) signed a nearly $2 billion transportation funding package into law that fundamentally changes how fuel is taxed in the state.

Currently, Michigan drivers pay a 31-cent-per-gallon state excise tax on fuel, along with a 6% state sales tax on gasoline and diesel. The problem with that structure is where the money goes. Much of the sales tax revenue flows into the state’s general fund rather than being dedicated to roads and bridges.

Under the new law, the sales tax on fuel is eliminated and replaced with a higher fuel excise tax. The goal is to ensure that all fuel tax revenue is dedicated to transportation projects, aligning with Michigan’s constitutional requirement that fuel taxes be used for infrastructure.

The tradeoff is cost. As of January 1, the fuel excise tax jumps from 31 cents to 52.4 cents per gallon. For drivers, that represents a substantial increase at the pump, even as state leaders argue the new system is more transparent and constitutionally sound.

Supporters say the change corrects a long-standing mismatch between how fuel is taxed and how the money is spent. Critics counter that drivers are still paying significantly more, regardless of how the tax is labeled, at a time when vehicle ownership costs are already rising.

New Jersey’s variable approach

New Jersey is also raising fuel taxes under a law passed in 2024 that allows annual increases through 2029 to meet transportation funding targets. The state uses a layered tax structure that combines a petroleum products gross receipts tax with a fixed motor fuels excise tax.

As of January 1, the petroleum tax on gasoline rises by 4.2 cents, from 34.4 cents to 38.6 cents per gallon. When combined with the fixed 10.5-cent motor fuels tax, the total state gasoline tax reaches 49.1 cents per gallon. Diesel taxes rise by the same amount on the petroleum side, bringing the total diesel tax to 56.1 cents per gallon when paired with its fixed excise tax.

New Jersey’s approach reflects a broader trend toward variable fuel taxes designed to stabilize transportation funding. By tying part of the tax to revenue targets or fuel prices, the state aims to avoid sudden funding shortfalls. The downside, particularly for commuters and commercial operators, is reduced predictability at the pump.

Oregon hits pause

Oregon tells a different story. A scheduled 6-cent gas tax increase set to take effect January 1 has been put on hold.

Lawmakers approved the increase during a special session, raising the gas tax from 40 cents to 46 cents per gallon as part of a broader transportation funding package. After Governor Tina Kotek (D) signed the bill into law, opponents launched a statewide petition drive to delay the increase until voters could weigh in.

Organizers gathered nearly 200,000 signatures — enough to force the state to pause the tax hike until the November 2026 election. As a result, the gas tax increase is suspended, along with planned hikes to passenger vehicle registration and title fees. Other elements of the transportation package will still move forward, including a change that applies the motor vehicle fuel tax to diesel.

Oregon’s situation highlights the growing tension between legislative action and direct democracy when it comes to fuel taxes. Even when increases are framed as infrastructure investments, fuel costs remain politically sensitive, and voters are increasingly willing to push back.

The rise of automatic fuel taxes

Behind these headline changes lies a complex web of automatic adjustment systems that now shape fuel taxes in roughly half the country. According to the National Conference of State Legislatures, 25 states use some form of variable fuel tax rate.

These systems vary widely. Some states set fuel taxes as a percentage of the wholesale price. Others combine a flat excise tax with a price-based component. Many tie adjustments to inflation, using measures such as the Consumer Price Index or highway construction cost indexes.

Timing also varies. Indiana updates its fuel sales tax monthly. Vermont adjusts quarterly. Nebraska recalculates every six months. Several states, including Alabama and Rhode Island, make changes every two years.

Annual updates are the most common and occur in states such as California, Florida, Georgia, Michigan, Minnesota, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, and Washington.

For policymakers, these mechanisms offer a way to keep transportation funding solvent without reopening contentious debates year after year. For drivers, they can feel like stealth tax increases — predictable, recurring, and largely disconnected from economic conditions at the household level.

Are fuel taxes still sustainable?

The broader question is whether fuel taxes remain a sustainable way to fund transportation in an era of increasing vehicle efficiency. As cars travel farther on less fuel, states collect less revenue per mile driven, even as infrastructure costs continue to rise.

That gap is driving experimentation with mileage-based user fees, higher registration costs, and targeted fees for specific vehicle types. Despite those efforts, fuel taxes remain the backbone of transportation funding — and recent changes suggest states are not ready to let go of them.

For consumers, the short-term impact is straightforward. In some states, filling up will cost a bit more. In others, it may cost slightly less or stay the same. Over time, however, the cumulative effect of these policies reaches far beyond individual drivers, influencing shipping costs, retail prices, and household budgets.

Fuel taxes may be collected a few cents at a time, but they represent billions of dollars and fundamental choices about how roads are built, maintained, and paid for. As 2026 begins, drivers would be wise to pay attention. What looks like a small adjustment today often signals a much larger shift tomorrow.

The four Americans who just restored my faith in 'customer service'

“Yes, Mister Josh, I understand your concern and assure you that I will offer the highest-quality service to resolve your problem.”

At least, I think that’s what “Lakshmi” said in her thick Indian accent. But what does it matter? Every company that hires Bangladeshi call centers to “serve” American customers is really only saying one thing — and it isn’t “thank you, come again.”

I was hearing a young-middle-age American female voice with the pleasant but not obsequious tone I haven’t heard in customer service since 1999.

It’s not Lakshmi’s fault. She’s just doing her job, and she’s just a normal person trying to get paid. But I don’t want to hear her singsong, robotic repetition of an unctuous phone script. I want what I paid for, without excuses and without having to battle an AI phone tree and then strain to understand someone who barely speaks English.

But this article is actually about the blessed, wondrous competence of American workers, so let me put the bitterness away and tell you what happened.

Susan and Jennifer happened. And thank God, because I was at the end of my tether in a freezing-cold house trying to convince someone on the Indian subcontinent that possible propane leaks in a Vermont winter were serious business.

Spoiler: There was no leak, but we’ll get to that.

Mousetrap

Last week I thought there was a dead animal in the house. That smell must have been a mouse corpse that one of the cats snagged but never ate. Surely it was under the bed or under the chest of drawers. That’s where Mina the tabby was racing around at night, yowling, with her claws scrabbling on the wood floors.

She’s an excellent mouser, and it’s a good thing, because country houses have critters. This is the beginning of my third year living on a dirt road in the sticks after a lifetime of city living. Those first few years teach citified boys like me a lot of lessons about what nature and the real world are like outside “comfy” urban areas. You better keep your well pump in good order, or you don’t drink or wash. Better have water backup for when the power goes out.

After hours of pulling out furniture and crawling around with a flashlight, I couldn’t find the dead varmint. But I did find out that the rotten-egg smell was coming from the valve joint in the copper pipe that feeds propane into my cast-iron heat stove.

Propane users, you’re going to laugh, I know. But I assumed quite reasonably that this meant I had a leak. After shutting off the tap on the outdoor tank and closing the valve indoors, I called the nationally known brand-name fuel company that I use.

That’s when Lakshmi “entered the chat.” Imagine my irritated surprise when my call to the American company — it has a transfer station and local drivers right across the river; I can see it from my back yard — got routed to Bangladesh.

Subcontinental shuffle

No, you cannot reach the local people directly. Yes, I have tried. You must call the national number and get transferred to Bangladesh, which then acts as an intermediary. Only the call center can know the local phone number, apparently. If you do find a local number and call it, and it’s after hours or a weekend, you get a robot lady telling you how sorry she is and how you’ll have to call the 800 number. You guessed it: Back to Bangladesh.

The company’s phone script claims to take possible leaks seriously. It claims to be “sending an emergency technician right away.” But you can’t really know this. You just have to trust that Rohan or Lakshmi really did call the people who are located 500 yards from your house, that those people know who you are, and that they really will come to your house.

No, you may not have the contact number. No, they will not guarantee you that the driver or tech will call you with an ETA. You just have to “trust” them.

One hour goes by. Two. Three. Four. Five. Every hour, I call the company back and work hard to keep my voice pleasant and groveling enough that they’ll deign to continue speaking to me. Give these people one excuse, and they’ll leave you stranded and freezing. And with every call, I have to repeat the same “verification procedures” of reciting my name, address, billing address, phone number, and last four of my SSN just to get these people to be willing to talk to me.

“We have dispatched someone,” said Lakshmi/Rohan every time I called. They won’t tell me who. They won’t tell me an ETA. They don’t actually care that I’m starting to freeze my backside off.

But Susan cared.

Photo by Blaze News

Sweet competence

On the fifth call to the national number, I thought I must have been dreaming. “Hi there, thanks for calling Nationally Known Fuel Company. I’m Susan. How can I help you today?”

“Are you really a live person?” I asked. I thought it was a trick. I was hearing a young-middle-age American female voice with the pleasant but not obsequious tone I haven’t heard in customer service since 1999.

“Yes,” Susan laughed.

I thanked her for being human and explained the situation. She was immediately riled.

“Are you serious? It’s been five hours since you first called us?” she asked, sounding genuinely incredulous. “That is not acceptable. It’s winter there, and I’m from Vermont. Hold on. I’m going to call the local dispatch manager personally.”

I almost cried over the competence of it. That interaction used to be common. If you’re 50 or older, this is the customer service you remember for most of your life. But it’s as rare as hen’s teeth today.

Voice of America

True to her word, Susan called the local dispatch manager, Jennifer. In a few minutes, Jennifer was calling me. And then everything got better.

“I am so sorry you’ve been waiting so long,” Jennifer said. I could tell she was my age, and from her particular American accent, she sounded just like the gals I went to high school with. Solid, no-nonsense Gen X.

It turned out that Jennifer had a much worse day than I did. She had been up all night alone in the dispatch office due to short staff. Between getting a snooze on the cot, she was trying to get propane trucks out to freezing customers who ran out. The main local truck broke down, leaving the rookie delivery guy stranded. She couldn’t find the emergency technician.

Jennifer told me all this to explain why everything was FUBAR, but she didn’t tell me in order to excuse the problem. She focused on getting me back up and running, but wanted me to know that if she had her way, none of her customers would have had to go through the hassle.

It gets better. Jennifer explained to me that I almost certainly did not have a propane leak. The odor, she explained, happens because fuel companies add an offensive odorant to the propane as a safety measure and a supply alert. When a propane tank runs low, the odorant that settles to the bottom of the tank vaporizes and becomes very apparent around the appliance. Yeah, technically, that means something is “leaking,” but in such tiny amounts that no one is getting poisoned.

“When you smell that, it almost always means your tank is about to give out. I regularly stop techs from running out to people, because it’s never a leak; it’s a delivery problem.”

Jennifer and I decided I didn’t need a tech (I already knew I was safe, having shut off all valves and airing out the house as precaution), but just a delivery.

“I’m looking at your account, and you’re due for a fill tomorrow. It was so cold in December, you probably went through it faster like everyone else. I’m gonna get Dickie out to you this afternoon.”

Neighborly help

She was right. Dickie got here, and my tank was on fumes. He laughed at me good-naturedly because I thought I had a leak, but I told him this was a first-time city-boy-goes-country lesson for me.

But it gets even better. Paul, another local, called me later to apologize for the delay and frustration. I told Paul that Jennifer had explained what happened and that I felt just as bad for all of them with the troubles they were having.

Paul insisted on giving me a $300 tank of propane for free as an apology. Wow.

Here’s the lesson for American companies. I nearly canceled my contract with this nationally known company. If they want to shunt American customers to a call center drone around the world, then they don’t want my business. There are plenty of other companies I can use.

But I’m sticking with them for now because of Susan, Jennifer, Dickie, and Paul. All of these people are Americans, and they’re local to me. I probably pass them in the grocery store in Montpelier. They know what winters are like, and they treated me as they would want their families treated in a situation like this.

Those four competent, pleasant Americans are the reason I’m going to stay a customer, at least for now. I want them to keep their jobs. My decision to remain a customer is not unconditional. If I have to deal with Lakshmi again in an emergency, I’m done. I can walk into five local, family-owned fuel dealers any day of the week and actually speak to an American who is my neighbor.

“Globalization” is a con job by corporations who see themselves as “global corporate citizens” because it pays them more to treat their customers like trash than it does to provide good service. So far, we American customers haven’t found a way to make the market punish them into better behavior. I wish I knew how we could.

No cheap prices are worth the aggravation of living in this fantasy world where we pretend a Hindi speaker across the globe is just as capable of keeping my Vermont house warm as someone who lives here. God bless those local Americans.

Modern life isn't so bad (even if my furnace is out again)

Every year, at the coldest time of the year, our furnace goes out. I’ve written about it before, I’m writing about it now, and I’m sure I’ll write about it again. Benjamin Franklin said, “In this world, nothing is certain except death and taxes.” I say, “In this world, nothing is certain except winter — and our furnace breaking.”

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about modernity: not just as an era, but as a way of life, and as a particular relationship we have with technology and the natural world. Winter has a way of provoking those thoughts. It’s unforgiving outside and warm inside, and that contrast shapes not only our environment but our state of mind. Winter invites introspection whether we ask for it or not.

You don’t actually want to go back to 1198 or 1598. At most, you want to go back to 1998 — before things took such a strange turn.

It also reminds us of something more basic: Winter wants to kill us.

Cold truth

Without insulated homes, reliable transportation, and warm clothing, many of us simply wouldn’t make it. Maybe that isn’t true everywhere. It’s not true in places with mild winters. But it is true here, where the temperature tonight is expected to dip to ten below zero. In places like this, modernity doesn’t just make life comfortable — it makes it possible.

That’s easy to forget. I turn the thermostat up and the furnace obeys. I want it to be 67 degrees, and it becomes 67 degrees. No delay, no doubt. I can count on warmth in the same way I count on the sun rising tomorrow — until I can’t. Then the house turns cold, the basement office becomes unusable, space heaters migrate upstairs, and our seemingly invincible HVAC world collapses all at once. Annoyance quickly turns into perspective.

The furnace, of course, is only one small example. This isn’t really about heating systems or cold weather; it’s about how easily we take the blessings of the modern world for granted.

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No thanks

We all do it. Whatever we have now quickly becomes the baseline. We stop remembering what life was like without it. You see this with people who move to America from poorer parts of the world. After a decade, they are often just as accustomed to convenience as those born into it. You might expect memories of hardship to linger, but they rarely do. Perhaps death once sat closer to daily life, even in developed societies, and kept gratitude sharper. Perhaps something else has changed. Either way, ingratitude seems to come naturally to us now.

Medicine is a clear example. How many of us would be dead without modern medical care? Many. Imagine surgery without anesthesia. Imagine life without optometry or dentistry. It’s not a romantic picture.

The same goes for something as mundane as mail. People love to complain about the USPS, but in much of the world, a functioning postal system barely exists. I know someone who lived in Africa building embassies for the U.S. government, and he told me that local mail simply wasn’t usable. Here we send letters, order books, ship packages, and trust that they will arrive — and that if they don’t, someone will make it right. That trust is a modern miracle we barely notice.

Horse power

Or consider transportation. We can wax poetic about the romance of horse-drawn travel, but the truth is, we would hate it. It might charm us for a day or two, but before long, we’d be desperate to return to cars, trains, ferries, and planes. Modern speed isn’t just convenient — it reshapes what a human life can contain.

Lately I see a lot of anger directed at modernity itself. Some of it is understandable. There are technological and medical “advances” that drift away from the good and toward the destructive. That frustration is real, and I feel it too. But rejecting the modern world wholesale is neither wise nor serious. You don’t actually want to go back to 1198 or 1598. At most, you want to go back to 1998 — before things took such a strange turn.

Our task, then, isn’t to flee modernity, but to refine it. We cannot escape it — and we shouldn’t want to. The better path is gratitude without naivety: thankful for the blessings, alert to the dangers, and willing to curb excess without denying reality. If we do that, we may yet manage to build not just a modern world, but a good one.

Massachusetts on track to set mileage limits for drivers

A bill advancing through the Massachusetts Senate would make reducing how much people drive an explicit goal of state transportation policy. It is called the Freedom to Move Act.

The bill, SB 2246, does not impose mileage caps on individual drivers. There is no odometer check, no per-driver limit, and no new fines or taxes written into the legislation. Instead it directs the state to set targets for reducing total vehicle miles traveled statewide — targets that would be incorporated into transportation planning, infrastructure investment, and long-term emissions policy.

When reducing driving becomes a formal state objective, personal mobility inevitably becomes something to be managed.

Transportation is the largest source of greenhouse gas emissions in Massachusetts, as it is in many states. From that perspective, lawmakers argue the bill simply aligns transportation policy with existing climate mandates. The state already has legally binding emissions reduction goals, and supporters say those goals cannot be met without addressing how much people drive. SB 2246, they argue, is about planning — not punishment — and about expanding alternatives rather than restricting choices.

Planning ... or punishment?

The bill also establishes advisory councils and requires state agencies, including the Massachusetts Department of Transportation, to factor VMT reduction into project development and funding decisions. In theory, this means greater emphasis on public transit, transit-oriented development, walking and biking infrastructure, and land-use policies designed to shorten commutes. Supporters emphasize that the legislation does not ban cars, restrict ownership, or mandate lifestyle changes. It simply provides a framework for offering residents more options.

The practical implications, however, deserve closer scrutiny — especially outside the state’s urban core. In greater Boston, where transit access is relatively dense, reducing car trips may be feasible for some commuters. In suburban and rural areas, the reality is very different. Many residents drive long distances to work because there are no viable alternatives. Families juggle school, child care, medical appointments, sports, and jobs across multiple towns. Small businesses rely on vehicles for deliveries, service calls, and daily operations. For these drivers, “driving less” is not a preference — it’s a constraint imposed by geography.

Future restrictions

Critics also worry that while SB 2246 does not cap individual mileage today, it lays the groundwork for future restrictions. Once statewide VMT reduction targets are established, pressure will mount to meet them. That pressure could influence everything from road funding and parking availability to congestion pricing, zoning decisions, and the collection of driving data. Even without explicit mandates, policy signals matter. When reducing driving becomes a formal state objective, personal mobility inevitably becomes something to be managed.

There is also the issue of trust and execution. Massachusetts has struggled for years to maintain and modernize its public transportation system. The MBTA’s well-documented reliability problems have eroded confidence among riders and taxpayers alike. Promising expanded transit options while existing systems remain fragile leaves many residents skeptical that alternatives to driving will arrive quickly — or equitably.

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National trend

From a broader policy standpoint, SB 2246 reflects a national trend. States and cities across the country are experimenting with VMT reduction as a climate strategy, encouraged by federal guidance and funding priorities. The premise is that cleaner vehicles alone are not enough and that total driving must decline to meet emissions targets. Whether that assumption holds as vehicle technology evolves — including hybrids, plug-in hybrids, and increasingly efficient internal combustion engines — remains an open question.

Supporters argue that thoughtful planning now can prevent more disruptive measures later. By gradually reshaping transportation and development patterns, they believe emissions can be reduced without dramatic lifestyle changes. Opponents counter that history suggests incremental planning often leads to more intrusive policies — especially when initial targets prove difficult to meet.

What makes SB 2246 significant is not what it does immediately, but what it signals about the future of transportation policy. It reframes driving not simply as a personal choice or economic necessity, but as a behavior the state has an interest in reducing.

As the bill moves to the Senate Ways and Means Committee, lawmakers will have to weigh climate goals against economic realities, regional disparities, and personal freedom.

Massachusetts residents should pay close attention. SB 2246 may not tell you how many miles you can drive today — but it helps define who gets to decide how transportation works tomorrow.

Why the FBI ditched Chevy Suburbans for BMW SUVs

The FBI is abandoning General Motors.

For generations, the black Chevrolet Suburban has been a rolling symbol of federal authority. Its size, shape, and presence are instantly recognizable — whether pulling up to a courthouse, idling outside a hotel, or leading a motorcade through city streets. That familiarity, however, is precisely why the FBI’s recent decision to move away from armored Suburbans in favor of BMW X5 Protection SUVs deserves a closer look. Despite the political noise surrounding the change, the rationale behind it is not ideological. It is practical.

While BMW is a German brand, all BMW X-series SUVs — including the X5 — are manufactured at the company’s Spartanburg, South Carolina, plant.

Under FBI Director Kash Patel, the bureau has reportedly ordered a fleet of armored BMW X5 Protection SUVs to replace the Chevrolet and GMC models traditionally used for executive transport. The reasons cited by the FBI are straightforward: The BMWs cost significantly less, attract less attention, and are built in the United States. Taken together, those factors point to a procurement decision driven by economics and operational efficiency — not symbolism or brand preference.

Frugal fleet

According to FBI spokesperson Ben Williamson, vehicle fleet decisions are routinely reviewed based on security needs, usage patterns, and budget considerations. In this case, the BMW X5 Protection was selected after comparing costs and capabilities with other armored options. Williamson said the move could save taxpayers millions of dollars by choosing a less expensive vehicle while still meeting the bureau’s protection requirements.

The cost differences are hard to ignore. Government-spec Chevrolet Suburban Shield vehicles produced by GM Defense have been reported to cost anywhere from roughly $600,000 to as much as $3.6 million, depending on armor level, drivetrain configuration, and mission-specific equipment. Even conservative estimates put a new armored Suburban at around $480,000 per vehicle. By contrast, the BMW X5 Protection VR6 is generally priced between $200,000 and $300,000 — less than half the cost of many armored Chevrolet and GMC alternatives.

When multiplied across an entire fleet, those numbers add up quickly. Savings of $200,000 or more per vehicle matter for an agency under constant pressure to justify spending. From a taxpayer perspective, the question is simple: If the required level of ballistic protection can be achieved for significantly less money, why wouldn’t the FBI pursue that option?

The BMW X5 Protection VR6 is not a standard luxury SUV fitted with aftermarket armor. It is engineered from the factory with integrated ballistic protection designed to meet VR6 standards, including resistance to high-powered rifle fire and explosive threats. These vehicles are already in service with governments and diplomatic protection units around the world, including the U.S. State Department, which uses armored BMWs to protect American diplomats in high-risk regions. This is a proven platform, not an experiment.

Stealth mode

Cost, however, is only part of the story. The FBI has also indicated that the BMWs are less conspicuous than traditional government vehicles. That claim may seem counterintuitive until one considers how closely the Suburban is associated with federal authority. A line of black Suburbans with dark glass immediately signals government transport. Their presence often draws attention.

The BMW X5, even in armored form, blends more easily into traffic — particularly in urban and suburban areas where luxury SUVs are common. It does not carry the same visual shorthand of authority. From a security standpoint, reducing predictability and visibility can be an advantage. A vehicle that does not immediately announce its purpose may attract less attention and lower risk in certain situations.

Critics argue that the publicity surrounding the purchase undermines any claim of stealth, and that may be true in the short term. Over time, however, the novelty fades. What remains is a vehicle that looks like countless others on the road, rather than one that announces its role at a glance.

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American-made

Another point often lost in the debate is where these vehicles are built. While BMW is a German brand, all BMW X-series SUVs — including the X5 — are manufactured at the company’s Spartanburg, South Carolina, plant. It is BMW’s largest production facility worldwide and one of the most significant automotive exporters in the United States by value. The armored X5s used by the FBI are built by American workers on American soil.

That reality complicates claims that the FBI is abandoning American manufacturing. Both the Chevrolet Suburban and the BMW X5 are products of U.S. factories, assembled by U.S. labor, and supported by domestic supply chains. The distinction lies not in where the vehicles are built, but in how much they cost and how effectively they meet the agency’s needs.

Government fleets have always been guided by pragmatism. Federal agencies regularly reassess equipment based on performance, cost, and evolving threats. The FBI’s decision fits squarely within that tradition.

The emotional attachment to the Suburban is understandable. Introduced in 1935 as the Carryall Suburban, it is the longest-running nameplate in American automotive history and has served military, law enforcement, and civilian roles for nearly a century. But symbols come at a price, and in this case that price appears to have climbed sharply.

Time will tell

Imagining a single Suburban costing as much as $3.6 million is enough to give any budget analyst pause. Even at the lower end of reported figures, the cost difference between an armored Suburban and an armored BMW X5 is substantial. In an era of heightened scrutiny over federal spending, paying more than double for a vehicle that may also be more conspicuous is difficult to justify.

That does not mean the BMW choice is without trade-offs. Long-term maintenance costs, parts availability, and service complexity will ultimately determine whether the savings persist over the full life cycle of the vehicles. German engineering can be expensive to maintain, but heavily armored Suburbans are also highly specialized machines with their own costly upkeep requirements. The true comparison will emerge over time.

What is clear now is that the decision is rooted in cost control and operational considerations — not political signaling. The FBI did not choose BMW to make a statement. It chose BMW because the vehicles were cheaper, less visually obvious, and built domestically.

For taxpayers, the takeaway is straightforward. If a federal agency can meet its security needs while spending significantly less money, that is not a controversy. It is what responsible stewardship is supposed to look like. The badge on the grille may spark debate, but the math behind the decision tells a far more practical story.

Do you follow a diluted Jesus — or the full-strength one?

One of the most revealing features of modern Christianity — across Catholic, Protestant, and nondenominational churches alike — is how Jesus is so often presented: gentle, affirming, and above all reassuring. He is described primarily as the “Prince of Peace,” a title that appears only once in scripture (Isaiah 9:6), or reduced to a generalized ethic of niceness often summarized as “Jesus is love.”

The problem is not that these ideas are false. It is that they are radically incomplete.

Jesus prays for His followers, not for the world as such. He commands love of neighbor, but He never pretends that truth and allegiance are optional.

Scripture presents God as merciful, gracious, and abundant in goodness and truth (Exodus 34:6), but the same passage insists that He “will by no means clear the guilty.” Love, in the biblical sense, is inseparable from justice.

When Jesus commands His disciples to love one another, the apostle Paul clarifies what this means: to fulfill the law and do no harm to one’s neighbor (Romans 13:8-10). Love is not affirmation of wrongdoing; it is obedience to God’s moral order.

This distinction was not always obvious to me.

Scriptural reckoning

For much of my life, I was a Christian in name only — attending church, absorbing familiar slogans, and assuming that the moral core of Christianity consisted of kindness paired with a firm prohibition against judgment or righteous anger. That changed four years ago when I began reading scripture seriously, first through a Jewish translation of the Old Testament and later through a King James Study Bible in weekly study with a close friend.

We made a simple but demanding commitment: start at Genesis and read every verse, in order, without skipping the difficult passages. We are now in Matthew 6. This approach differs sharply from curated reading plans that promise familiarity with the Bible while quietly filtering out the parts that unsettle modern sensibilities.

Reading scripture this way forces a reckoning.

Anger management

Consider Matthew 5:22, where Jesus warns against being angry with one’s brother “without cause” — a qualifying phrase absent from many modern translations. That distinction matters. Without it, the verse suggests that all anger is sinful. With it, scripture acknowledges a truth borne out repeatedly: Anger can be justifiable, but it must be governed.

Jesus Himself demonstrates this. He overturns tables in the Temple (Matthew 21:12). He rebukes religious leaders sharply. He experiences betrayal, grief, and indignation — yet never loses control. The lesson is not emotional suppression, but moral discipline.

Reading the King James Bible makes these tensions impossible to ignore. Its language is austere and elevated, but more importantly, it preserves a view of humanity that allows for courage, judgment, and resolve alongside mercy. This stands in contrast to many modern ecclesial presentations of Christ, which portray Him almost exclusively as a comforting presence whose primary concern is emotional reassurance.

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No more Mr. Nice Guy

But Jesus explicitly rejects this reduction. In Matthew 5:17-20, He states plainly that He did not come to abolish the law or the prophets, but to fulfill them. The New Testament does not replace the Old; it completes it. The Old Testament establishes the moral and civilizational framework. The New Testament builds the interpersonal life of faith upon it.

Jesus is eternal (John 8:58), one with the Father and the Spirit (John 14). He is not absent from the demanding and often terrifying episodes of Israel’s history. The same Christ who calls sinners to repentance is present when God judges nations, disciplines His people, and establishes His covenant through struggle and sacrifice.

This continuity matters because it exposes the weakness of a Christianity that treats faith primarily as therapy. Churches shaped around likability and marketability inevitably soften doctrine. Hard truths drive people away; reassurance fills seats. The result is a faith that speaks endlessly about peace while avoiding the cost of discipleship.

A pastor at my church recently put it well: It is better to hold a narrow theology — one that insists scripture means what it says — and to extend fellowship generously to those who submit to it, than to hold a broad theology that can be made to say anything and therefore demands nothing. Jesus prays for His followers, not for the world as such (John 17). He commands love of neighbor, but He never pretends that truth and allegiance are optional.

This is why Jesus’ own words about conflict are so often ignored. In Luke 22:36, He tells His disciples to prepare themselves, even to the point of acquiring swords. The passage is complex and easily abused, but its presence alone undermines the notion that Jesus preached passive moral disarmament. Scripture consistently portrays a God who calls His people to vigilance, readiness, and courage — spiritual first, but never abstracted from the real world.

Cross before comfort

Many of Jesus’ parables involve kings, landowners, or rulers — figures of authority, stewardship, and judgment. The Parable of the Ten Minas in Luke 19 is especially unsettling. There Jesus depicts a king rejected by his people, fully aware of their hatred, and describes the fate rebellion would merit if this were a worldly kingdom. The point is not to license violence, but to make unmistakably clear that rejection of Christ is not morally neutral.

Modern Christianity often flinches at this clarity. It prefers a Jesus who reassures rather than commands, who affirms rather than judges. But scripture presents something sterner and more demanding. Jesus does not seek universal approval. He seeks faithfulness. He does not promise comfort. He promises a cross.

As the late Voddie Baucham frequently observed, the cross is not a symbol of tolerance; it is a declaration of war against sin.

The question Christianity ultimately poses is not whether Jesus is kind — He is — but whether He is Lord. And if He is, discipleship is not a matter of sentiment, but allegiance.

How Hollywood tries to masculinize femininity — and makes everyone miserable

We are told, repeatedly, that woke is dead. Piers Morgan even wrote a book about it, so it must be true. Right?

Wrong.

Strength, by Hollywood’s current definition, must weigh a little over 100 pounds and look perpetually annoyed.

If in doubt, please watch the trailer for "Apex," due for release in April. With it comes Hollywood’s most exhausted fantasy yet: the indestructible badass woman who outruns youth, outpunches men twice her size, and shrugs off biology like it’s a clerical error.

Mission: Implausible

This time, it’s a 50-year-old Charlize Theron sprinting through the Australian wilderness and scaling cliffs as if she’s Tom Cruise circa "Mission: Impossible 2." Gravity is optional. Muscle mass is negotiable. Aging, it seems, is strictly forbidden.

We’ve seen this act so many times that it barely registers any more. Swap the title card, rotate the backdrop, keep the same choreography. A lone woman wronged by men. A past trauma. An axe to grind, sometimes literally. Six-foot brutes wait their turn to be neutralized. The music swells. The credits roll. And with them go the eyeballs of nearly every viewer still capable of respecting basic reality.

The point is not that women can’t be strong. Of course they can. Strength is not the issue. Hollywood’s definition of it is. Somewhere along the way, empowerment became synonymous with women cosplaying male action heroes, only with fight scenes that insult Newton and scripts that insult the audience. A petite actress body-checking men built like refrigerators — then calling disbelief misogyny — is not progress.

What makes "Apex" more revealing than irritating is how nakedly it exposes the broader frame. This isn’t about one film or one actress. It’s the result of a steady drip: years of female-driven nonsense poured into every genre until it became the genre. The same beats. The same postures. The same lectures delivered at gunpoint.

Form fatale

Hollywood has always run on formula. Nothing new there. It followed money, copied hits, and abandoned failures without sentimentality. But the formula answered to the audience. If people didn’t buy tickets, the trend was over.

Now the industry treats audience resistance not as feedback, but as something to be corrected — like a behavioral problem that needs retraining. Failure is no longer evidence that the formula is broken. It is treated as proof that the audience is.

Studios like to pretend this is audience demand. It isn’t. It’s institutional inertia. Executives terrified of being accused of regression keep recycling the same safe lie: If the movie fails, the audience is at fault. If it succeeds modestly, it’s a cultural victory.

It’s a system that makes the arrival of the new "Supergirl" later this year entirely predictable. Not because audiences asked for it. Not because there was pent-up demand. Not because anyone ever thought, yes, this is what’s missing. It is arriving because this is what the industry now produces by reflex.

The irony is hard to miss. The original "Supergirl" debuted in 1984, the same year Orwell warned us about systems that repeat lies until they feel inevitable. That film was a commercial and critical dud, quickly forgotten for good reason.

Four decades later, Hollywood appears determined to rerun the experiment, convinced that time, tone, and audience memory can all be overwritten. Don’t expect to be entertained. Expect scowls and sermons in spandex. Strength, by Hollywood’s current definition, must weigh a little over 100 pounds and look perpetually annoyed.

Down for the count

We saw the results late last year. The box-office face-plant of "Christy," the biopic of boxer Christy Martin, made the point brutally clear. Despite opening in more than 2,000 theaters, it scraped together just $1.3 million — one of the worst wide releases on record.

The film stars Sydney Sweeney, an American beauty inexplicably styled like a discount Rocky Balboa. Producers assumed her star power would draw crowds, then forgot why anyone — especially male viewers — watches her in the first place. It isn’t to see her absorb jabs, hooks, and uppercuts like a human heavy bag. It’s when she leans into what she actually is: feminine, magnetic, sexy. No one is buying a ticket to watch a gorgeous woman get beaten senseless.

This is the quiet truth studios refuse to say out loud: Men and women are not the same, and they do not want the same things on screen. Audiences happily watched Liam Neeson bulldoze Europe in "Taken." They turned up in droves to see Keanu Reeves turn the death of a dog into a four-film genocide in "John Wick." Nothing motivates a man like canine-related trauma and unlimited ammunition. Those films worked because they leaned into male fantasy without apology.

Equalizer rights?

What audiences don’t want is that same template awkwardly stapled onto a completely different body and sold as innovation. Denzel Washington was excellent in "The Equalizer" — cold, credible, and infinitely cool.

The TV reboot took that precision and desecrated it by turning the role into unintentional slapstick. A morbidly obese Queen Latifah as a silent, unstoppable angel of death is pure absurdity. This is a woman who struggles to climb a single flight of stairs, yet viewers are expected to believe she’s capable of stalking, subduing, and dispatching trained men without breaking a sweat.

Which brings us back to "Apex." What makes the film accidentally hilarious isn’t Charlize Theron running through the bush. It’s the industry sprinting right behind her, desperately chasing a fantasy that stopped selling years ago. The humor comes from the sincerity. From the absolute faith that this time — finally — it will land.

And it will land. Just not gracefully. More like a Boeing falling out of the sky. Twisted metal, scorched wreckage, and stunned executives wandering around asking what went wrong.

And from that wreckage, there will be no reckoning. No pause. No course correction. Just a quick trip back to the studio lot to greenlight the next movie nobody requested and that everyone will forget.