I used to be a news junkie. It was a habit I inherited straight from my parents. My father would practically read the ink off the New York Times every morning—not every article, maybe, but every section. It was how he warmed up for the day and ensured he knew more than most people in the room. He liked that.

My mother kept pace. She read the Times faithfully, maybe not quite with my father’s monastic focus, but she always knew what was going on in the world. And when the subject turned to books or literature, she left everyone behind. After my father died, MSNBC became her most loyal companion.

Our childhood dinners always ended with the Huntley-Brinkley Report. So of course the habit rubbed off on me. For years I read three papers a day: the Times for depth, the Wall Street Journal for business, and the New York Post for its unmistakable headlines and shameless gossip. (Huma Cuts Off Wiener!)

Then came the internet, 24-hour cable news, and a shift in my ritual. I still read papers, but online, in bigger gulps and with pickier appetites. I watched CNN while grinding away on a StairMaster, or listened to it on satellite radio during long drives. And I loved it. I loved being fully informed, able to hold my own with friends, and at least keep pace with my brother—the MSNBC contributor and Washington insider—and my sister, an editor, writer, and podcaster. Following the news genuinely brought me joy.

And then Donald Trump took a giant dump on it.

Since the start of his current term, every news cycle has been swallowed by his criminal, chaotic, grifter-in-chief circus. ICE arresting U.S. citizens because they “looked illegal” and holding them without due process. Press conferences from a newly gilded Oval Office where only word salad was on the menu. Accepting a 747 from the Qatari government and claiming he could keep it after leaving office. Even just listening to him speak felt like sandpaper on the brain. It became horrifying, and then exhausting, and finally nauseating.

I didn’t quit cold turkey. But when I did tune in, it was the way I used to watch horror movies as a kid—hands over my eyes, fingers barely parted, ready to snap them shut the second things got unbearable.

And here’s the thing: I’ve lost count of how many people have told me the same story this past year. Folks who used to devour the news now can’t even nibble at it, all because of Dozy Don.

That point hit me the other day as I was driving to meet a friend in Northern New Jersey. My audiobook, Grey Dawn by Walter Mosley, wasn’t cutting it. The podcasts I dip into now and then all had snoozers as guests. My Sirius friends Conan and Howard weren’t making me laugh. I could’ve put on music, but it didn’t feel like the right note for the mood.

I realized I missed my old friend: the news. Back when it felt objective, before it had to contort itself around a President for whom considered thought is a foreign concept and facts are whatever he tweets in bold letters.

I wanted it back. I missed it. But I also knew I couldn’t stomach it under the current circumstances. Every smirk, every insult, every trip into Trumpverse sent my blood pressure spiking. And when you’re driving two-and-a-half tons of Detroit steel at 65 mph, losing control isn’t ideal. If only there were a way to game the system…

That’s when it hit me. Not another car—an idea.

Introducing what may soon be the most popular game in America: Trump: Dementia, Felon, or Huckster.
While listening to the latest dispatch from Trumpverse, players pick which part of the President’s psyche seems to be driving the story:

• Dementia – for confusing statements, memory mix-ups, or reality-detached comments (again: not a medical diagnosis — just the public behavior).
• Felon – for anything tied to legal trouble, investigations, court drama, or Department of Justice battles (no guilt implied — it’s the vibe).
• Huckster – for salesmanship, contradictions, grifts, and hype-for-profit posturing.

The goal isn’t accuracy. It’s to be funny, fast, and savage.

Sample Questions

Q: In a CBS interview, Trump confessed to blindly signing off on pardons for his buddies. Dementia, Felon, or Huckster?

A: Tricky one. Blindly signing whatever someone hands you is a classic “Dementia” move — assuming he’s telling the truth. It might also be Huckster, since giving himself “I didn’t know what I was signing!” cover conveniently shields him when the pardons go sideways… like the drug trafficker he granted clemency who later assaulted a nanny and a three-year-old child. And of course, there’s a Felon angle here too. If pardons were being offered to campaign contributors? Well, that strays into federal-offense territory. Discuss.

Q: Trump recently demanded that the DOJ cut him a $230M “apology check” for prosecuting him on 37 federal counts, including election interference and illegal retention of classified documents. Dementia, Felon, or Huckster?

A: This is a brain pretzel. Huckster is the obvious call — big number, big grievance, big noise. After all, grand juries did indict him, and the only reason the prosecutions paused was because the Supreme Court ruled a sitting president can’t be tried. But there’s a Dementia argument too. Paranoia and persecution delusions often show up in cognitive decline. And Felon? Well, demanding money from officials who could be fired if they refuse starts to look like extortion. Again: discuss.

Q: At a rally, Trump claimed that “millions of illegal votes” were cast against him — again — and promised a “special team” to finally uncover them. Dementia, Felon, or Huckster?

A: A classic triple-threat. “Millions of illegal votes” is vintage Huckster — the kind of oversized claim you’d use to juice a crowd or hawk a miracle supplement. But the memory-loss routine (“again”) nods toward Dementia territory; repeating debunked stories as if they’re brand new fits that pattern. And Felon isn’t far behind: assembling “special teams” to chase nonexistent enemies has a history of crossing legal lines.

And that, my friends, is Trump: Dementia, Felon, or Huckster

Will it fix the current stat of journalism? No.
Will it lower your blood pressure? Probably not.
Will it at least give you a fighting chance at surviving another news cycle without screaming into a throw pillow? Possibly. Maybe. We can dream.

So go ahead: pour a drink, take a gummy, gather your friends, turn on the headlines, and let the Trump carnival wash over you. When the next wild quote drops — and it will, probably before the commercial break — you’ll be ready. Just shout “Dementia!”, “Felon!”, or “Huckster!” with conviction.