Because the Country Needs Someone to Blame

The United States looks normal unless you’re the one flagged. What “just doing my job” and "not getting political" costs us all.

Why I Don’t Stick to Farming

I don’t think people realize how much it reveals about them when they tell you to “stick to farming.”

I’ve got more than five million followers and subscribers across the major platforms. And yeah, my content isn’t primarily about politics. It’s about the regular activity of my farm. The ups and downs of me learning how to farm with zero agricultural background. That’s the deal. That’s what people came for.

But the second I say something that brushes up against the political barricades—climate change, healthcare, the ugly stuff happening in this country right now—people get bent out of shape. The comments come fast and smug and predictable:

“Stick to farming.”

“Don’t get political.”

“Are you sure he’s legal?”

And what drives me insane isn’t just the laziness of it. It’s the moral dodge.

Because, to me, what they’re actually saying is: don’t make me look at it. Don’t bring the real world into my feed. Don’t make me feel implicated.

But here’s the thing: you don’t get that convenience anymore.

Not in 2026. Not in a country where people can be grabbed off the street—sometimes with paperwork in their pocket—where due process is treated like a nuisance, and where “I thought I was okay” means absolutely nothing when someone with a badge decides you’re not. Where someone can be pulled out of their life, and their kid can effectively become an orphan, not because the parent disappeared into a river or a war zone, but because the United States decided to disappear them.

If you’re going to support what’s happening, then own it.

Don’t hide behind “keep politics out of it,” as if this were a disagreement over capital gains taxes or parking meters.

If you’re going to tell me “stick to farming,” what you’re really saying is: let the machine run. Keep it quiet. Keep it off-camera. Keep it comfortable for the people who aren’t the ones getting chewed up.

And I’m not doing that.

The Sad Case of Steven Tendo

The other day, I posted a video about Steven Tendo, a Ugandan man living in Vermont, because it was a thing happening here. He’s not somebody I know personally, but a friend of several friends.

Steven Tendo is an asylum seeker from Uganda who has lived in Vermont since 2021. He’s a pastor and a licensed nursing assistant at UVM Medical Center. According to local reporting, he was detained by federal immigration agents in Shelburne—outside the health care facility where he works—on the morning of February 4, 2026. Advocates said he was transported out of Vermont to Manchester, New Hampshire, and there were reports he could be moved onward to ICE’s New England processing center in Massachusetts.

And the details of why he’s afraid of returning to Uganda aren’t vague. Reporting and human rights documentation describe him as someone who fled torture and political persecution. Amnesty International previously identified him as at risk of being returned to danger in Uganda.

That’s the part that should stop anyone cold. Not “is he legal?” Not “why are you bringing this up?” The part that should stop you is: this man showed up for work and got taken.

He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t here illegally. He was working with the government, going through the asylum process. And while the slow gears of that process churned, he was becoming a valuable member of our community here in Vermont.

And if your response to all of that is “stick to farming,” then what you’re asking for is silence. You’re OK with the world getting worse, just as long as it doesn’t harsh the vibe of your feed.

It Can’t Happen Here

When I was working on this week’s comic, I was a bit worried that some folks might accuse me of “both sides-ing” the fictional story of Mike and Miguel. To be clear, that’s not where I’m coming from on this one. While Mike suffers consequences that might make you feel greater empathy, those consequences pale in comparison to the horrors that Miguel endures in the story.

I know a lot of people who voted for Trump. When you ask why, immigration often comes up fast. They’ll say they’re “fine with people coming the right way.” They’ll say immigrants should “Follow the rules. Work hard. Be legal.” They’ll say they just have a problem with the “illegals.”

But that’s not what’s happening in America right now. The issue isn’t some clean, orderly sorting of “good immigrants” and “bad immigrants.” The US Government is literally posting Pokémon memes to describe what it’s doing. The issue is a machine that treats human beings like administrative debris. A system where a “database hit,” a paperwork hiccup, a revoked status, or a missed step can turn into exile. A system where the process itself becomes the punishment.

And the moment anyone says, “Hey—due process matters,” a certain kind of person reacts like you’re committing a crime. Like asking for the bare minimum of fairness is an attack. Like wanting accountability is betrayal.

That reaction tells you everything.

Because for many people, “law and order” was never about law. It was never about order. I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of an American moment in my lifetime that’s ever felt this lawless.

And I’m not saying every single person who voted for Trump is personally trying to commit atrocities. I’m saying this: if you can watch what’s happening and still demand silence from the people talking about it—if your instinct is “don’t get political,” “don’t make it uncomfortable,” “stick to farming”—then you are participating in it.

Maybe you regret what you supported. Fine. People make mistakes. People get conned. People get sucked into movements and later realize what they actually bought doesn’t match what they were expecting. We’ve all been Temu-ed by a politician at some point.

But regret without ownership is useless.

Ownership looks like: “I was wrong.” Ownership looks like: “This is not what I meant.” Ownership looks like: “This is unacceptable, and it must stop.” Ownership looks like doing something, even if it’s small, even if it’s just refusing to help the silence spread.

So yeah. I’m going to draw my melodramatic comics. And I’m going to keep talking about it.

Because silence is not neutral. Silence is a choice. And I’m not choosing that.

Postscriptum

For this week’s story, I took the tedious time to record and export all the time-lapse footage of the drawings. I would like to lie and say it’s because I wanted to give you guys a cool behind-the-scenes look at how I make the comics. But it’s really because each time I get an “Is this AI?” comment, I lose my blessed mind. Yeah, I’m softer than 10-ply, bud.

If this landed for you, the easiest way to support this kind of work is to share it. No donations, no subscriptions, no spending—just forwarding this post, posting it to your feed, or dropping the link in a group chat tells the algorithm gods (and me) that there’s room for comics like this. Every share buys me more time and reach to keep making pieces like this.

And if you’re wondering what to do with it beyond agreeing quietly: send it to one person in your life who might bristle at it. Not as a dunk, not as a test—just as an honest invitation to sit with the story and the stakes. Most people don’t change their minds because they got shouted at. They change because someone they trust put something in front of them and stayed human about it. That’s how hearts and minds move.

This past weekend, we finished the last live show of this winter in Charlotte. It was a blast. Shout-out and thank you to all the kind folks who came out to see us. I’m not sure what the plans are for more tour dates and locations, but I would love to do more cities. Also, I’ll probably turn the story I told during the live shows into a video in the not-too-distant future. Also, Jess Sowards and I made a zine instead of a program for the liveshows. It’s a quirky collection of comics, recipes, poems, writing, and other weirdness that we had a lot of fun producing. We have a few leftover prints, and we’ll probably make them available for sale soon. And all of my paid subscribers will get a copy mailed to them in the next week or two. If you want to get on the list for the special mailing, there’s still a little time to sign up. I’m still trying to figure out the revenue model for this newsletter. My intention is for the new weekly strips to always remain 100% free, but I think I want to find a way to regularly give paid subscribers special bonuses.

Finally, my new book is coming out at the end of the month. I just released a video of me reading one of the chapters, if you want a sneak preview!

Next week, the comic will be back in Vermont, diving into Second Home Taxes and why they are important for rural communities. Thanks, and have a great week!