On November 22, 1963, the nation lost not only its 35th President but also its innocence. The assassination of John F. Kennedy—shot in broad daylight while riding in an open limousine through downtown Dallas—remains one of the most scrutinized events in modern history. His alleged killer, Lee Harvey Oswald, a disaffected former Marine who flirted with Marxism, defected to the Soviet Union, and openly praised Fidel Castro, never stood trial. Instead, he was gunned down on live television by Jack Ruby, a Dallas nightclub owner with murky motives and even murkier connections.

Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy recently asked a question so obvious it feels radical: Could we please stop dressing like we’re rolling out of bed when we board an airplane? His gentle plea (“maybe go back to an era where we didn’t wear our pajamas to the airport”) has been met, predictably, with eye-rolling and lectures about “comfort” and “my body, my choice.” Yet Duffy is not demanding white gloves and three-piece suits. He is simply asking us to remember that a plane is a public space, not a private dorm room, and that the way we present ourselves still matters.

On November 20, 1945, the trial of twenty top Nazi leaders began in a quiet courtroom in Nuremberg, Germany. It was, as U.S. Chief Prosecutor Robert H. Jackson declared, “the first trial in history for crimes against the peace of the world.” Standing before a global audience still reeling from the ashes of World War II, Jackson warned that “the wrongs which we seek to condemn and punish have been so calculated, so malignant and so devastating, that civilization cannot tolerate their being ignored, because it cannot survive their being repeated.”

You’ve probably seen the “COEXIST” bumper sticker.

For decades, activists on the left have weaponized the phrase “separation of church and state” to scrub every trace of religious expression from the public square. Prayer banned in schools, Ten Commandments monuments torn down, coaches fired for kneeling in silent prayer, bakers and florists coerced into celebrating ceremonies that violate their faith: all justified, we are told, by an ironclad “wall of separation” between church and state. The only problem? That is not what the Founders meant, not even close.

In March of 1775, as the colonies stood on the brink of war, Patrick Henry rose in the Virginia Convention and thundered words that still shake the American soul: “An appeal to arms and to the God of hosts is all that is left us! … We shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations.” We remember the closing line— “Give me liberty or give me death”—but it was this appeal to the God of hosts that gave the struggle its moral center. The founders believed their cause could not be sustained on human courage alone. When earthly appeals were exhausted, they appealed to Heaven.

For thirty years we were told the debate was over. The science was settled. Humanity had roughly a decade—always a decade—to slash emissions or face biblical floods, mass starvation, and the end of civilization as we know it. Children were taught to have panic attacks. Teenagers were told not to have children. Politicians demanded trillions in new taxes, global governance mechanisms, and the deliberate de-industrialization of the West. Then, almost overnight, the tone changed.

This week, Bitcoin dropped to $89,420—a level we haven't seen since February. We're down more than 30% from October's peak of $126,000, and every gain Bitcoin made in 2025 has been erased. The Fear & Greed Index sits at 15, deep in extreme fear territory.  But here's what most people are missing: this isn't 2018. This isn't 2022. We've never had a correction like this with a pro-crypto president in the White House. And that changes everything about what happens next.