So, Trump is suing the IRS. But as president, doesn’t he, like, oversee the IRS? Esquire political columnist Charles P. Pierce dissects the whole weird lawsuit—and its greater implications—in the story below.
—Chris Hatler, deputy editor
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By suing the IRS, the president is trying to reach a settlement that completely breaks how our government works.
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This would be some genuine banana-republic shit right here. How is this even normal, let alone “novel”? The president sues his own government. His own government responds by brokering a settlement that may immunize himself and his worthless spalpeens against any future audits, which have been mandatory for sitting presidents since 1977. The country has not gone “down the rabbit hole.” It’s tumbled into that cavern in Turkmenistan that’s been burning continuously since 1971.
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We finally have it. As our hypebeast soldiers prepare to kiss their their Legos and Kaws statues goodbye, pack up their Snow Peak tents, and make sure they have enough ground coffee to keep the Aeropress running while camping out for the Audemars Piguet and Swatch’s Royal Pop collab, all the details have been confirmed. All the details except price. But if you want one, we assume that’s not too important.
What’s important is that we know what the collection is going to look like: eight watches (a nod to the Royal Oak’s eight screws) in two styles (one style with two colors, one style with six). As of now, the only thing we’re waiting on before the May 16, release—happening exclusively at Swatch stores—is, like we said, the price. And, like we said, if you want one, you probably don’t care. Good luck out there. Don’t let anyone snag your spot in line.
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The guy who plays the Punisher offers to make me a cup of tea. When I decline, Jon Bernthal, forty-nine, reaches for a square tin box and pops off the lid to reveal a pile of purple gummies. I am certain there’s weed in them. “Want one?” he asks, pushing the tin in front of me. I pause, eyeballing them. “They’re soft throat lozenges. Sugar-free. These fuckers are good, dude.” My throat is fine, but I oblige. Bernthal drops one in his mouth and leans back in his chair, assuming the position for a raw and honest talk about life.
An hour earlier, he met me inside the stage door at the August Wilson Theatre in Manhattan—where he’s starring in the Broadway adaptation of Dog Day Afternoon—dressed in blue jeans and an orange hoodie, an American flag on the left breast. Under the flag are the words “We Support the Troops.” He was shirtless beneath the sweatshirt, a tattoo on his left pectoral that says “Lil Bird,” his nickname for his wife, Erin, peeking out. He had the hood pulled over his head, which was already covered in a stocking cap. He wore what looked like wrestling shoes on his feet. They’re not wrestling shoes, although he did wear them to grapple with one of his sons earlier that day.
This is exactly how I expected Bernthal to dress, given the roughneck originality of his work: He transformed The Walking Dead into a show about morality; he blistered the screen with profanity and chaos, opposite Brad Pitt, in Fury; he found the soul of an ultraviolent superhero in The Punisher. The independent film Small Engine Repair, in which he plays a townie from Manchester, New Hampshire, and We Own This City, embodying real-life crooked Baltimore cop Wayne Jenkins, are platonic ideals of a Bernthal performance: He can be charming and funny, pulling hard on a cigarette or sipping on a Mike’s Hard Lemonade, walking the line between tenderness and menace. Against your better judgment, you’re drawn to his characters, mortal flaws and all.
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