A twenty-one-year-old who believed he was God shot at the White House. A passerby injured. God killed by agents. The other God, the real one—who knows where he was? Donald Trump was inside, safe, and learned everything in real-time. Nasir Best, that is the madman’s name, had already tried to enter the residence a year prior, had already claimed to be the Almighty, had already been committed to an asylum and removed with a restraining order. But no one thought a twenty-one-year-old with divinity in his head and a record of attempted assault would repeat the attempt with a loaded pistol. Intelligence service? What is that, a joke?

The Italian Sunday offers the side dish: African heat at thirty-five degrees Celsius in late May, a flare-up that the meteorologist calls “anomalous” and which will scorch the Po Valley for days, followed perhaps by a collapse of the anticyclone around the twenty-eighth. Maybe. Meanwhile, the elderly suffer, children dehydrate, and politicians are on vacation or campaigning—who knows. Summer arrives earlier than expected, like the end of the world. But no one is surprised anymore.

Meanwhile, Ebola widens its deadly embrace. Ten African countries at risk, in addition to the two already struck: Angola, Burundi, Central African Republic, Republic of the Congo, Ethiopia, Kenya, Rwanda, South Sudan, Tanzania, and Zambia. The Bundibugyo virus started between late March and early April, but tests failed, samples were poor, and funeral ceremonies acted as amplifiers. Trump’s America cut funding to USAID, and inexperienced relatives treated the sick with bare hands. The result? An epidemic that could have been stopped but instead is galloping forward. But it’s far away anyway. Africa is another planet.

However, the main event of Sunday comes from Parma. Two teachers at the Leonardo Da Vinci ITIS (Technical Institute) were assaulted and beaten by a group of students. Kicks, punches, a phone recording everything while they laughed. The school principal promises “disciplinary measures within an educational logic.” Educational. As if beating a professor bloody were a detour, a growing pain, a boyish prank. The pack that strikes, the other pack that films and spreads. The school talking about its “educational function.” And the parents, where are they? Probably in court suing the school for their son’s suspension.

This Sunday gifts us a complete catalog of human madness: the armed mythomaniac assaulting the White House, the planet overheating, the virus spreading, and boys beating teachers. All in one day. There is no need to hunt for news; just open your eyes. And as the news ticker scrolls, Italians watch, comment, get outraged for five minutes, then change the channel. Because the next story is a football scandal or celebrity gossip. Sunday, as we know, is the day of rest. Apparently, of conscience too.

RVSCB asks: What is the difference between the twenty-one-year-old who thought he was God and the boys who beat the professors? Only that one used a gun, the others used their feet. But the substance is the same: the absence of limits, the conviction that one can do anything without consequences. The armed God, the gods of the pack. All convinced they are above the rules. Then come the bullets, the punches, the kicks. Then come the press releases, the official notes, the “disciplinary measures.” Then, nothing.

Good Sunday, dear readers. The coffee is bitter, the cup is broken. But at least there is no sugar to sweeten the shit.

RVSCB – Archive of Uncomfortable Truths, May 24, 2026

“I’m not interested in being loved. I’m interested in being read after they’ve hated me.”