David T. Cloft

Fourteen centuries after Muhammad began preaching in 610 AD, Abraham’s descendants are still arguing over the family inheritance. Three religions, one patriarch, competing claims to divine authority, and enough historical baggage to overwhelm a Pentagon PowerPoint. The weapons have evolved from swords to ballistic missiles, but the argument remains remarkably familiar. Welcome to the world’s longest-running family feud, where everyone claims God is on their side and nobody wants to split the inheritance.

Comedian Arynne Wexler is proving that free speech still has a pulse—and apparently a wicked sense of humor. With outrageous jokes about Muslims, pit bulls, and America’s growing obsession with being offended, she’s reminding us why comedy matters. In a world where everyone has sacred cows, sometimes we need somebody willing to fire up the barbecue. You don’t have to agree with the joke, but defending someone’s right to tell it? That’s what freedom looks like. Because when the comedians go silent, we’re in serious trouble.

Five days after Hamas attacked Israel on October 7, 2023, Charlie Kirk made a prediction few wanted to hear: Netanyahu’s government might use the war to ethnically cleanse Gaza. Fast-forward to 2025, and suddenly Palestinian relocation was being discussed as government policy. Kirk didn’t have a crystal ball or classified intelligence. He simply understood the difference between winning a war and exploiting one. Sometimes the most uncomfortable predictions come from people paying attention.

California Congressman Kevin Mullin wants Washington to classify certain airguns as firearms, apparently proving that Congress can now legislate physics. Airguns use compressed air. Firearms use combustion. More importantly, the Second Amendment protects “Arms,” not whatever Washington decides qualifies as a firearm this Tuesday. If America wants Australian-style regulation of air rifles, then have that debate honestly—but don’t pretend air became fire because Congress passed a law.

Russia is rattling sabers again—except this saber is several thousand feet underwater. Specialized Russian submarines and unmanned vehicles have been probing the seabed around NATO’s critical undersea infrastructure, apparently rehearsing capabilities that could threaten the fiber-optic cables connecting North America and Europe. Maybe it’s preparation for war. Maybe it’s deterrence. Maybe Moscow simply wants us to know they can reach the basement. Either way, NATO is watching—and the technology behind this strange new underwater chess match is pretty darn cool.

The Soviet Union didn’t merely stockpile biological weapons—it explored whether modern science could make nature better at killing people. Behind the supposedly civilian Biopreparat program, Soviet scientists worked with anthrax, plague and genetically manipulated pathogens while Moscow publicly signed treaties prohibiting biological warfare. We learned how to rewrite biology. Unfortunately, we never figured out how to rewrite human nature.

Eisenhower helped build NATO, but he never intended American taxpayers to carry Europe’s defense indefinitely. By 1959, Ike was already frustrated that Europeans hadn’t assumed greater responsibility. Nearly seven decades later, we’re still having the same conversation. Perhaps it’s time to revisit what the general actually envisioned—and why his expectations remain so relevant today.

In December 1995, an American armored column crossed the Sava River into Bosnia to enforce a peace agreement. Nobody in those tanks was starting a war with Russia—but they were crossing into a new post-Cold War world. Over the next few years NATO would expand eastward, bomb Yugoslavia, and move into Kosovo while Moscow watched the strategic map change. The road to Ukraine didn’t begin in 2022. Trace the tracks backward far enough, and eventually you arrive at a muddy floating bridge across the Sava.

In the 1970s, the experts warned that there were simply too many of us. Governments listened, population control became policy, and frightening projections were treated as scientific certainty. The catastrophe never arrived—not because resources were infinite, but because the models underestimated their most important variable: human ingenuity. The population pessimists counted mouths. Genesis counted hands. And history left us a useful warning: you don’t need a global conspiracy when everyone believes the same experts.

I remember seeing it painted on buildings as we moved through Bosnia and Kosovo—a cross surrounded by four strange C-shaped marks. I knew it meant something Serbian; I didn’t realize somebody had managed to cram centuries of Byzantium, Orthodox Christianity, Ottoman conquest, Kosovo, nationalism and war into four little squiggles. The Serbian cross and its famous motto, “Only Unity Saves the Serbs,” taught me something I wouldn’t fully appreciate until years later: American soldiers arrived in the Balkans carrying maps, but the people who lived there were carrying centuries of memory.

Game theory is mankind’s invention of 3D chess—the realization that rational players can make moves that look completely irrational when you can’t see the whole board. But American geopolitics adds another dimension: time. Presidents get four or eight years. Institutions, alliances, armies, intelligence agencies, bureaucracies, and strategic interests can endure for generations. So perhaps the real question isn’t simply, “Who runs America?” It’s more interesting than that: Who keeps playing after everyone else leaves the table? Because the biggest mistake in 3D chess may not be misunderstanding the move. It may be misunderstanding who the players actually are.