Welcome to the Absurdity: Citizenship, Conspiracies, and Jesus in Airports

If 2025 has taught us anything, it’s that reality still insists on being stranger than fiction. Take, for example, the latest Trump administration brainwave: turning the solemn, sacred American immigration process into a reality TV spectacle. Yes, you read that right — soon, you might be tuning in to watch hopeful immigrants compete on screen for the ultimate prize: U.S. citizenship.

Imagine it — a gauntlet of challenges to prove who’s “most American.” Picture contestants furiously scarfing hot dogs (because nothing says patriotism like a gut-busting food contest), navigating labyrinthine bureaucratic quizzes, and performing a rousing rendition of “Born in the USA.” Oh, and all while a charismatic host narrates every tear, triumph, and elimination. It’s “Survivor” meets “American Idol,” but with the American Dream on the line.

Now, some might say this idea is deeply un-American, a tacky commercialization of a process historically marked by dignity and respect. Others argue it’s peak American — reality TV has always been a mirror reflecting our culture’s quirks, obsessions, and sheer absurdity. After all, what’s more American than reality TV? From “The Bachelor” to “Naked and Afraid,” we’ve long celebrated the spectacle over substance. So why not citizenship?

If you’re hoping for a smooth, humane path to becoming an American, well, keep dreaming. Because just as this show was in the early “vetting” stages, real-life officials have been struggling to grasp even the basics of the laws they enforce. Case in point: Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem recently flunked a congressional pop quiz on habeas corpus — that fundamental constitutional safeguard ensuring that no one can be detained or deported without due process.

Noem’s confusion was almost poetic. Habeas corpus, she insisted, was a power allowing the president to deport without due process — exactly the opposite of what it means. Watching her stumble through questions on which part of the Constitution the suspension clause belongs was like witnessing a dog try to do calculus: painfully amusing but also deeply worrying.

This isn’t just a comedic moment; it’s a chilling reminder of how the stewards of our nation’s laws sometimes don’t even understand them. One can only hope that before the next quiz, someone slips her a copy of the Constitution — or at least a CliffNotes version.

Meanwhile, the FBI, under new stewardship from characters who look like they wandered off the set of a Ninja Turtles reboot, is trying to reassure the public about one of the biggest conspiracy magnets of recent years: the Jeffrey Epstein case. Dan Bongino and Kash Patel, once fierce critics claiming deep-state cover-ups, now seem to have taken a more… bureaucratic stance. “Epstein killed himself,” they insist, plain and simple.

This stark turnaround has left many scratching their heads. The same men who shouted about shadowy conspiracies and secret files now shrug it off as straightforward fact. Perhaps the truth is that once you’re inside the system, the conspiratorial fervor wanes. Or maybe it’s just easier to avoid the mess altogether.

But what about our everyday struggles — like air travel? You’d think in an era of sky-high fares, delayed flights, and TSA nightmares, the Department of Transportation would be laser-focused on solutions. Instead, Secretary Sean Duffy has a novel fix: bringing a dusty Jesus painting out of the basement at the Merchant Marine Academy and back into the spotlight.

Because when your flight’s delayed or your plane is plunging from the sky, nothing says comfort like a slightly faded religious portrait hanging prominently nearby. The idea, apparently, is that divine intervention might somehow soothe frustrated travelers — or at least distract them long enough that the pilot can land the plane.

In a surreal twist, the painting was even interviewed live, with “Jesus” himself expressing ambivalence about the move. According to the portrait, while grateful to be seen by more people, he’d rather focus on bigger issues — like global famine, war, and yes, the perennial curse of the New York Knicks.

This bit of absurdity captures the current state of American governance perfectly: misplaced priorities, bizarre gestures, and a desperate need for levity in a chaotic world.

What can we learn from all this? Perhaps that truth is stranger than satire — but satire still has a vital role to play. By shining a comedic light on missteps, misunderstandings, and madness, shows like The Daily Show remind us not to take everything at face value. Because sometimes, the best way to understand a country running on chaos is through laughter.

And hey, if a reality TV show on citizenship ever does come to air, I’m already prepping my audition tape. After all, what’s more American than turning your life into entertainment?

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