Oh, the DOJ’s bravado could fill a stadium: “We’re toppling corruption!” they roared. Then Pam Bondi and crew quietly gutted the Public Integrity Section—the same watchdog unit born in Watergate—leaving just a skeleton crew of two or three attorneys, as career prosecutors resigned in droves. Now, “anti-corruption” is a nostalgic echo down dusty halls rather than a mission statement. Put another way: it’s like hiring Dracula to run a blood bank—hush money has never tasted so sweet.
Operation Thursday Night Massacre
Enter the farce: seven DOJ attorneys walked out mid-dinner when told to dump charges against Mayor Eric Adams—brandished as political payback for immigration support—ushering in what one wag dubbed the Thursday Night Massacre. These federal prosecutors didn’t mutter; they walked. Then they literally couldn’t bring charges—heck, a judge outright dismissed the case, condemning the DOJ’s motives as a “special dispensation” unfit for the “basic promise of equal justice under law,” so much for rolling heads.
White‑Collar Crime? Nope, Let It Slide
Meanwhile, the Trump-era DOJ is gleefully turning its blind eye to corporate bandits: anti-bribery enforcement? On pause. White‑collar prosecutions? Nose-dived by over 10%, while flashy street-crime rhetoric flies. Boeing, big banks, and oligarch money launderers? They’re getting pleas and pride instead of prison. If you thought the guillotine labeled “Promises” was going to drop on Wall Street’s scalawags—guess again. The blade’s just another prop in a carnival sideshow.
The Epstein Files: A Case Study in ‘Nothing to See Here
And then there’s Jeffrey Epstein—America’s most infamous corpse with a client list longer than a CVS receipt, still magically unprosecuted. The DOJ had one job: peel back the lid on the world’s most toxic Rolodex. Instead, they delivered a heavily redacted nothingburger, with names blurred out like a CIA ops manual.
Ghislaine Maxwell sits in prison for trafficking girls to no one in particular, apparently. The feds treat Epstein’s network like it’s the Ark of the Covenant—too sacred (or too radioactive) to touch. Heads aren’t rolling; they’re hiding behind nondisclosure agreements and country club hedges, sipping martinis while the public’s left with pixelated documents and a collective ulcer.
