Let’s get something straight up front.
Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson almost nailed it.
In her dissent from NIH v. American Public Health Association (2025), she described the Supreme Court’s latest descent into ideological parkour as “Calvinball jurisprudence.” You know—the game from Calvin and Hobbes where the only rule is there are no rules?
It tracks. For a minute.
“Calvinball has only one rule: There are no fixed rules. We seem to have two: that one, and this Administration always wins.”
And if we lived in a universe made entirely of Sunday comics and gentle absurdism, that would be enough. Calvinball is silly. Surreal. Occasionally confusing. But harmless.
What we’re watching now?
This isn’t Calvinball.
It’s Fight Club.
See, Calvinball is about joyfully rewriting the rules.
Fight Club is about pretending there are rules—while punching you in the face.
That first rule?
You do not talk about Fight Club.
The Supreme Court has its own version:
Trump always wins.
Doesn’t matter what the issue is—student debt, immigration raids, reproductive rights, public health, presidential immunity. If the legal question can be bent to protect one man’s power, somehow it gets bent. Like a constitution-shaped balloon animal.
Precedent doesn’t matter.
Textualism? Only when it’s convenient.
And that whole “co-equal branches” thing? Adorable.
This isn’t judicial review. It’s performance art with robes and lifetime appointments.
And here’s the kicker: in Fight Club, the violence gets marketed as resistance.
The aesthetic is anti-establishment. The outcome is authoritarian.
We’re not seeing chaos.
We’re seeing precision-targeted entropy, aimed at the foundations of liberal democracy—then wrapped in the language of rugged individualism and constitutional originalism.
Every ruling isn’t a misstep. It’s a strategy.
Gutting reproductive rights? That’s not confusion—that’s control.
Criminalizing homelessness? That’s not broken logic—that’s legally sanctioned erasure.
Shielding a former president from prosecution? That’s not quirky jurisprudence—that’s a scaffold for autocracy.
In SCOTUS Fight Club, the only consistency is who gets hit.
And the thing is—Justice Jackson was right to smell smoke. But she was too generous.
This isn’t some anarchic playground of legal experimentation. This is a bloodsport dressed up as judicial discretion.
This is precedent as camouflage.
It’s accountability on a bungee cord.
It’s saying “the Constitution is sacred”—until the wrong people try to use it.
And if you think I’m exaggerating—remember Rule Three of Fight Club:
If it’s your first night, you have to fight.
Because the longer we pretend this is all just politics as usual—just a shift in interpretation, just a difference of legal opinion—the deeper we sink into the kind of authoritarianism that doesn’t need tanks. Just judges.
The first rule of SCOTUS Fight Club is: Trump always wins.
The second rule is: Don’t call it what it is.
And the third rule?
Get in the ring anyway.
Because if we don’t, the beatings will continue—until morale is declared unconstitutional.
