Tag: Iran war

Editorial illustration in the style of George Grosz and Honoré Daumier: A bloated, orange-toned figure in a suit stands center frame with arms raised in a 'V,' surrounded by a spiraling vortex of FBI files and court documents. Dusty child’s shoes lie at his feet, while a shadowed congressman observes from the side against a background of television static

Is Trump Bullet-proof?

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A man called Cole Tomas Allen arrived at the White House
Correspondents’ Dinner with a shotgun, a pistol, knives, and a
manifesto. He called himself the Friendly Federal Assassin. He
did not kill Trump. But by midnight, the president was invoking
Lincoln, the theology machine was running, and the Epstein
Inspector General probe had slid quietly to the bottom of the
news agenda. Again.

A baroque, maximalist digital composite in the style of a satirical political cartoon meets high-church iconography. Donald Trump sits enthroned at the head of a long gilded mahogany table, rendered in soft AI halo-light — the kind of beatific glow normally reserved for Renaissance altarpieces. He wears both a business suit and a suggestion of papal vestments, loosely layered. Around him, courtiers in military medals and tech-bro stubble genuflect, arms outstretched. Eagles, American flags, and a faint suggestion of dollar signs float among the golden light. The composition deliberately mimics Last Supper staging. Background hints at a gilded ballroom-temple with crystal chandeliers. Colour palette: deep crimson, imperial gold, and sickly angelic white. The mood is equal parts reverent and grotesque — Rubens meets Mad magazine. No text overlay.

Trump is not The Messiah, just a very Naughty Boy

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When Donald Trump posted an AI-generated image of himself as a divine healer — haloed, beatific, hovering over the sick like a Sistine saviour — the cult of self had finally annexed the cult of Christ. A satirical dispatch, written in homage to Martin Amis, from the gilded ballroom-temple of the Trumpian court: where the joke is on all of us.

Raccoon in a suit sitting between two men at an interview table with a microphone

VANCE DROPS IN

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JD Vance has just returned from negotiations with Iran. The Strait of Hormuz is still closed. Two C-130s are still on a dirt strip outside Isfahan. And the Vice President would like to explain, in his own words, why this is going tremendously. Urban Wronski channels Clarke and Dawe. Stand by.

Trump’s Invisible Airstrip Show

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Trump burned two C-130s on an Iranian runway, declared total victory, and is now threatening to demolish the power grid of 92 million people. Tonight is the deadline. Urban Wronski on the Easter debacle built on assumption, sustained by bluster, and ending in wreckage that no quantity of “WE GOT HIM!” can unbog.

Sparse television interview set in the style of Clarke and Dawe: interviewer at desk, suited figure rising to leave, clutching a shopping bag labelled ALBO, Pine Gap radomes faintly visible through studio window behind him.

A Man of His Word

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Bryan Dawe is seated. John Clarke enters in a suit, slightly harried, carrying a reusable shopping bag with “ALBO” written on it in texta.
Australia sent troops to a war it hasn’t declared, through a base it won’t discuss, after a school massacre it can’t explain, while the Prime Minister assures us that transparency is everything. Clarke and Dawe, imagined for the age of Operation Epic Fury.

Aerial view of oil tankers gridlocked in the Strait of Hormuz at dusk, black smoke rising from a distant refinery against an orange sky.

Persian Stalemate

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Thirty days in, Operation Epic Fury has achieved something genuinely historic: it has made the world less safe, energy more expensive, American alliances more threadbare, Iran more unified, and the US military more fractured — all simultaneously. Pete Hegseth is praying for Armageddon. His troops are filing conscientious objector applications. And in the Strait of Hormuz, the tankers stay put. Urban Wronski on the stalemate that no ground invasion can break and no prayer can win.