It needs to exhibit a command for the English language, and it needs to be fair. These are all things that our Supreme Leader, much like Kim Jong Un, would expect.

Knowing all that, who better to make it than me, the guy who shares DNA with MAGA types?

Cue the music.

“Only the Good Die Young” by Billy Joel

If you’re reading this, you can be sure that Donald Trump will outlive you.

“One Step Closer” by Linkin Park

Few political pundits realize that the clip shown here has shaped Trump’s approach to diplomacy.

“War Pigs” by Black Sabbath

On the day before starting a war with Iran, Trump consulted with a dead Ozzy Osbourne and took this advice to heart.

“Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine

Second only to the track by Linkin Park in terms of influence, this clip helped mold Trump’s relationship with democratic institutions.

“ABC” by the Jacksons

And finally, no other song can explain the Supreme Leader’s concision and eloquence quite like this one.

Note: This article was inspired by Vivek Ramaswamy.

The post A Playlist for Donald Trump appeared first on ComposeMD.

It was absurd, irreverent, and, well, classic Kurt Vonnegut.

As an aspiring writer, I thought I’d try to sound like him.

Consider this an exercise in fiction—I don’t believe anything I’m saying.

—

Kurt Vonnegut reminded me that humans have a favorite hobby.

It basically revolves around slaughtering each other.

Usually, they slaughter each other over fairy tales.

A fairy tale is a made-up story.

—

When humans slaughter each other, the ones not being slaughtered are supposed to pick sides.

No matter which side they choose, they’re wrong.

Some of them say both are right.

Those people are called diplomats.

—

Other humans are anti-fairy tale.

Why teach kids fairy tales if they just grow up to slaughter people who read different fairy tales?

And so on.

Those people usually get slaughtered, too.

—

Before the anti-fairy tale people say how they feel, they usually start drinking.

Then, they start writing books.

Typically, no one reads them.

Bestsellers change numbers in retirement accounts, but they don’t change anything else.

—

The ones slaughtering each other talk a lot about tradition.

Tradition is the fairy tales your parents teach you.

The alcoholic authors call it brainwashing and child abuse.

The slaughterers call it education.

—

Humans like to feel important.

You may have heard of the word ego.

That’s what all the slaughtering is for.

They say it helps the ego.

—

I’m back, it’s me again.

We’ll call this metafiction.

Metafiction is a style used by Vonnegut where a work of fiction draws attention to its own artificial, made-up nature.

Maybe if the fairy tales used it, the slaughterhouses would close.

But the egos would need something else to do.

ETC.

The post Do I Sound Like Kurt Vonnegut? appeared first on ComposeMD.

And no, I’m not talking about showing up to a school board meeting and actually getting a book banned.

Yes, I have to share the world with such parenting tactics, but I prefer not to cave to the peer pressure of incompetence.

I’m talking about getting a book banned the old-fashioned way—as in writing one.

But how?

Have a look.

The Great Gatsby (1925)

Social mobility, even in a society that boasts about it, can be a mirage.

If achieved, the resultant material wealth may or may not correlate with peace and contentedness.

In that regard, for some, the American Dream is the wrong life game to play.

The Catcher in the Rye (1951)

Male teenage angst is real.

Trauma, including the loss of a loved one, can compound the anguish, especially if not discussed openly.

Often, the ones tasked with helping can make things worse.

Fahrenheit 451 (1953)

Thought control and conformity have always been and always will be a part of the human experience.

Deep thinkers can make those around them uncomfortable.

The uncomfortable, in turn, resort to things like book bans.

To Kill a Mockingbird (1960)

Racism was a problem in the Deep South.

As a result, justice was not always served.

Thankfully, people are not necessarily what they seem.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1962)

America’s early-20th-century approach to psychiatric institutionalization may have been overzealous.

Unrelated to that policy, sexuality and mental health can overlap in myriad ways.

When any type of control becomes oppression, the results can be tragic.

In other words, to achieve the mission, I have to do just one thing: tell the truth.

The post The Key to Getting a Book Banned appeared first on ComposeMD.

But when you’re immersed in Great Lakes segregation, it’s easy to know when you’re not.

This all started on September 21, 2026.

I was somewhere in the Rochester metro area, partly lost, as the space was new—to me.

Thankfully, I had help.

My first guide came from near Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. We talked briefly of his love for hip hop, agreeing that Kendrick had bested Drake.

The second guide was from Fort Erie, Ontario, just across the Niagara River from Buffalo. The trade war, mercifully, was not affecting the flow of humans.

We devised a game plan, a divide and conquer, if you will.

As I made my way through the maze, I flipped between English and Spanish. Punjabi would have come in handy as well, but that would be a project for a different time.

I stumbled upon a duo with hijabs speaking Arabic. We smiled, introduced ourselves, and discussed a management strategy—in English, of course.

Here, the housing segregation that had decimated the region seemed, if only for a moment, like a mirage. Suburbia bled into the urban, the blend sprinkled with hints of rurality.

Melanin dosing spanned the spectrum, from the no-dose to the low-dose to the intermediate to the frankly dark.

A quick listen could tell you if an exchange was with an African American or an African. The same, I suppose, was true for those differentiating actual Asia from somewhere like Milwaukee.

When hunger called, which it always does, I ordered the Italian option, served by a Ukrainian.

The process took an extra minute, as income levels were no barrier to intellectual conversation.

Because in the most diverse place in Rochester, we all shared a common goal.

Some focused on prolonging life.

Others discussed dying in peace.

But mostly, what I felt was hope.

The post The Most Diverse Place in Rochester (NY) appeared first on ComposeMD.

Because deep down, I didn’t want an answer.

I didn’t need one.

It’s called life experience, the kind that shatters walls, the kind that relegates boxes to the landfill.

The story began some time in the 1970s, up around Lake Michigan.

That’s when a barrier should have been constructed—let’s just say the foundation was flimsy.

I suppose that’s what happens when the parents are from India and the progeny show up in Milwaukee.

The project was doomed before it started.

There was Ganesh versus Jesus—I chose neither.

There was Marathi versus English—I chose Spanish.

I developed two favorite words: ignore and unlearn.

And that landed me on June 17, 2026.

I was still in the US—except on that day.

My son and I stared at CN Tower, uttered a few words about Drake, and then strolled toward the stadium.

The French signs were expected, of course. I put my six years of study to use, cross checking with the English just above.

Then I focused on the Spanish—it was all around us. And the flags were familiar—after all, we had recently been to Panama ourselves.

Beyond textiles and linguistics, I felt an odd connection to the place. You can call it a canal thing, the Erie in my case.

My son’s band had even covered the Van Halen song (which may have had vehicular and not geographic inspiration).

Heck, any country that uses the US dollar is worthy of a look, i.e. my soccer support.

But then I heard English. Or was it Akan?

The sounds of West Africa are always close—they are, after all, a part of us.

Blues.

Jazz.

We all know the grand places music went from there.

Without Ghana and its neighbors, would I still be listening to the concert band garbage?

Would there be no fufu? Or Gullah Geechee?

Out of my thoughts and into the the stadium, I admired the massive flags of both countries displayed on the field.

Then I absorbed the two national anthems.

Who the hell should I root for? I asked again.

I sat back, smiled at my son, and bathed in the human spirit.

And I watched.*

—

*On June 17, 2026, in Toronto, Ghana beat Panama in the group stage of the FIFA World Cup, leaving me elated and heartbroken.

The post Who the Hell Should I Root For?! appeared first on ComposeMD.

Te estoy hablando a ti

Toi, qui penses que nous sommes stupides

Here in North America

Hablamos tres idiomas

Combien de langues parles-tu?

By three I refer to the most common ones

Porque hay muchos más

Comme tu le sais

Anyway, this is about the World Cup

El torneo debería jugarse aqui

C’est logique

Because the world already lives here

Italianos, Alemanes, los de Irlanda

La moitié de l’Asie vit ici

There are way more Chinese restaurants than McDonald’s

Prefiero comer sopa agridulce que una Big Mac

Et n’oublie pas les samoussas

If you think you understand this place based on the news

No tienes ni idea de lo que hablas

C’est la vérité

No one even knows what American means

Aparte de vivir aqui

Et c’est le meilleur aspect

There are no rules

Excepto las que hay que romper

La tradition n’est qu’une façade

Sure we’re full of idiots

¿Pero no es cierto en todas partes?

Je viens de visiter Paris—je sais

Our leader is a lunatic

¿No son todos?

Justin Trudeau et Katy Perry?!

Yeah we eat too much and die young

¿Quien quiere vivir para siempre?

Je vais chez Buc-ee’s

So quit reading the damn headlines

Experimenta el país po ti mismo

Dis-moi ce que tu en penses

If you hate the place

No estarás solo

C’est une passion nationale

Just remember—the US is worldly as hell

Y el mundo es un lugar feo

Oú est-il beau?

English Translation

The US is worldly as hell

I’m talking to you

You, who thinks we’re stupid

Here in North America

We speak three languages

How many languages do you speak?

And by three, I mean the most common ones

Because there are many more

As you know

Anyway, this is about the World Cup

The tournament should be played here

It makes sense

Because the world already lives here

Italians, Germans, the Irish

Half of Asia lives here

There are more Chinese restaurants than McDonald’s

I’d rather eat hot and sour soup than a Big Mac

And don’t forget the samosas

If you think you understand this place based on the news

You have no idea what you’re talking about

That’s the truth

No one even knows what American means

Other than living here

And that’s the best part

There are no rules

Except the ones meant to be broken

Tradition is just a façade

Sure, we’re full of idiots

But isn’t that true everywhere?

I just visited Paris—I know

Our leader is a lunatic

Aren’t they all?

Justin Trudeau and Katy Perry?!

Yeah, we eat too much and die young

Who wants to live forever?

I’m going to Buc-ee’s

So quit reading the damn headlines

Experience the country for yourself

Tell me what you think

If you hate the place

You won’t be alone

It’s a national pastime

Just remember—the US is worldly as hell

And the world is an ugly place

Or is it beautiful?

The post The US Is Worldly As Hell appeared first on ComposeMD.

It’s complicated.

It’s the sport for everyone, except here, where it’s for wealthy suburban kids.

And it’s the global obsession, except here, where it’s a niche curiosity.

There are the Americans who don’t watch, unable to tolerate the dearth of scoring and the mysterious timekeeping.

And there are the ones who do watch, partly as a flex of their worldliness—they usually ride bikes and claim to like jazz music, too.

But the greatest complexity of all, the one that presumably exposes the dumb American (said to live somewhere in the Rust Belt), is what to call the sport in the first place.

Don’t blame us.

Blame the Brits.

Oh, and blame AI for the fact that I know this.

The prompt was rather simple: What is the origin of the term soccer?

The answer, scraped from a delicate blend of Britannica, Time, Wikipedia, Quora, and, of course, Reddit, changed my life.

In 1863, as Americans had taken to killing each other during the Civil War, the English had taken on a more pressing matter—standardizing the rules of their games.

To differentiate what would become two key sports, they established official names:

• Rugby Football
• Association Football

Later in the century, students at the University of Oxford developed their own slang, shortening words and adding the suffix -er.

Rugby football became rugger.

Association football became soccer (in lieu of asser, I believe).

For years, the Brits used soccer and football interchangeably to describe the sport of FIFA. Meanwhile, countries they had spawned—like the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Ireland, and South Africa—began developing their own versions of football. To avoid confusion, these countries stuck to soccer when referring to the British export.

(In other words, the dumb American is no dumber than the Canadian or Australian, at least in this regard.)

In the 1980s, realizing that their empire had collapsed and their global significance was dwindling, especially relative to that of the Americans, the Brits began a campaign to bash the American use of the term soccer.

And that got me to the next prompt:

Who’s dumb now?

The post Stop Blaming the Dumb American for “Soccer” appeared first on ComposeMD.

Specifically, I owe an incompetence with gadgets for the life lessons thrust upon me that day.

Were they lessons—or just languages?

It all started back in January 2026 when the wife insisted that my perfectly functional iPhone 8 needed to go.

The result was a sparkling iPhone 17 Pro.

Well, that, and the realization that nothing worked anymore.

I had to deal with the whole Wi-Fi thing, fiddle with some authenticator app, and handle a bunch of other stuff that used to be on autopilot.

So when it came to linking the new phone to my wife’s car, I opted out—no Bluetooth, no Apple CarPlay, no nothing.

The only problem was that on April 22, 2026, the wife’s car was the one I took to Erie. That meant that as I drove from Rochester, New York, to northwest Pennsylvania along the southern rim of two Great Lakes, I went back in time.

The 162-mile trip, by choice, took place without GPS. It was just me, the highway signs, and a few educated guesses.

Then there was the radio.

I had to remind myself about something called FM.

And as I kept driving, I even started to dabble in a touch of AM.

That’s when weird things started to happen.

By random chance, I landed on 860 AM.

BON SOIR, MADELEINE. QUELLE EST VOTRE EXPÉRIENCE?

Those damn Canadians and their weird languages, I thought.

I drove on and flipped over to 100.7 FM.

CHAKKE MEIN CHAKKA CHAKKE PE GAADI.

Jesus. These Indians are everywhere—you can’t get away from them.

The only way out of the conundrum was to keep moving forward. The further I got from Canada—and the closer I got to Erie—the less I would have to deal with all the cultural nonsense.

I knew I could count on Erie—where the Snow Belt meets the Rust Belt meets Appalachia—for some damn English.

And English it was as I approached the small city, noting beat-up properties, severe poverty, lots of cigarettes, and some sort of state park on Lake Erie.

The visit, as you must know by now, was inspired by a desire to continue growing my book series on Great Lakes cities, the one in which I take objectively depressed places and make them seem much better than they are.

But as I was on my own that day, I could fully embrace the fraudulent nature of the activity. As such, when I felt a sudden urge to escape Erie for civilization, I didn’t resist. (You know you’re in trouble when that means Buffalo.)

Such began the reverse trip, again without GPS, and again with a mix of AM and FM.

I managed to stay away from the annoying foreign languages for a while, keeping everything I learned in the only language that anyone actually understands.

But as I got closer to home, I let my guard down and stopped paying attention.

Before I knew what I had done, I was greeted with 97.5 FM.

ROCHESTER! SÚBELE! SÚBELE! 

Freaking Spanish, I thought.

Estos puertorriqueños deben regresar a su pais. N’est-ce pas? Haan bilkul.

The post Everything I Learned on the Way to Erie, PA appeared first on ComposeMD.

It’s part pep talk, part disbelief.

He never used to travel international, but after absolutely dominating his trip to the Bahamas, he got cocky.

“Book me that sh*t with the Frenchies,” he had said to his niece.

To be safe, he had checked in with his doctor ahead of time. According to the quack, he still didn’t qualify for oxygen. And in terms of the scooter, his knees apparently weren’t bad enough yet.

He waddled out of the office angry that day, reminding the yuppie doctor to at least refill his inhaler. (He would take care of the Colace himself.)

The next thing he knew, it was him, his little blue booklet, and the Winstons, off to the place with the weird hats.

He gets off the plane, and he feels the anger spike again.

Why don’t these people just speak English?

When he finally makes it out of the baggage claim, he finds some French dude holding a sign with his name.

Outside, he chokes down a Winston and plops himself in the car.

At least these clowns drive on the right side of the road, he thinks.

But then the road signs start to piss him off. How does anyone around here know where the heck they’re going?

His niece had mentioned using the metro system instead, but they weren’t sure if he would fit through the standard gates. That, and the pickpockets, though he could barely get stuff in and out of his pockets himself. Anyway, they decided on the car.

Once at the hotel, he eats a few Twinkies that he had packed, has a smoke, and calls it a day.

The next morning, he lumbers around looking for breakfast. The car is picking him up early, but he has time for some eats.

Boulangerie. What the hell is that?

He sees a bunch of bread and gets the idea.

“Two slices of Wonder White.”

After a blank look and a pause, he walks out empty-handed.

What’s wrong with these folks?

He goes next door to the cheese place.

Fromage? I thought it was queso.

“You guys got any American?”

“Je suis désolée.”

Desperate, he’s left with only one choice.

A couple Egg McMuffins and a cigarette later, he’s on his way to the Eiffel Tower.

Jesus. This place looks like a goddamn fire escape.

Unimpressed, he asks to be taken to the next stop.

But he needs a quick snack on the way.

Pâtisserie. That’s a dumb name.

Noticing a bunch of desserts, the light bulb goes off.

“Gimme a Pop-Tart.”

Once again, he leaves disappointed.

Starving, he eventually makes it to the Louvre.

The place is packed, and he starts muttering to himself.

Ain’t no way I’m waitin’ in line with these foreigners to see some stupid painting.

As he walks away, he notices the pyramid, which reminds him of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.

I’d rather be there any day.

He tells the driver to hit the next destination.

Notre Dame? Like the football team?!

Disappointed to see a lame cathedral, he looks around for the bulletin board.

I wonder if this church has bingo night.

He finds nothing, and he knows it’s time to go.

Not even a potluck dinner. This place sucks.

Back outside, he glances at the river.

Looks like the mighty Genesee to me. Speaking of which, it’s time to get wasted.

For some reason, on the way to a restaurant, the driver thinks Rust Belt Man will be interested in the Champs-Élysées.

All these skinny losers. Even their pathetic pancakes are way too skinny.

Finally, he ends up at a dinner spot and orders four bottles of beer.

“How many glasses will you be needing, sir?”

“Zero. And bring me some of that beef burgy-whatever.”

By the time the first bottle is done, Rust Belt Man starts to feel relaxed.

And when the meal shows up, he smiles even more.

Meat and potatoes. At least they can do one thing right.

He downs the other three bottles with three Colace and waves down the check.

This country would be a lot better if it just used dollars.

Irritated once more, he steps out into the fresh French air and whips out the Winstons.

I guess there is one other good thing about this ugly city, he admits.

Everyone smokes.

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