⚽️“FIFA Peace Prize” Edition

The question of the week is: Why is FIFA President Gianni Infantino courting Donald Trump like a Shakespearean suitor trying to win the hand of a temperamental queen in the throes of a peasant revolt and perimenopause?

The answer, apparently, is $9 billion and the fear that Trump might spontaneously torpedo the tournament like a Caribbean drug boat.

Infantino, once a critic of Trump’s Muslim ban, has now undergone a full metamorphosis from “concerned global sports administrator” to “court jester in the House of MAGA,” presenting Trump with an award that didn’t exist five weeks ago: The FIFA Peace Prize, which is an especially bold choice given Trump is currently bombing Caribbean drug boats and threatening military action against Venezuela.

The award had exactly one nominee and one winner—Trump—meaning the entire ceremony had the energy of a surprise party thrown by someone who desperately hopes the guest doesn’t drone-bomb the host.

This is part of a larger pattern. Infantino has already:

• followed Trump to Egypt like a very expensive emotional support animal

• rented office space in Trump Tower

• allowed Trump to pocket a Chelsea player’s winners’ medal

At this point, the only thing Infantino hasn’t done is personally steam Trump’s suits (but there’s still time).

Why the obsequious bootlicking? Simple: Infantino is terrified Trump might wake up one day and decide the World Cup should be relocated to Mar-a-Lago. Trump already threatened to pull matches from blue cities, an idea so logistically nightmarish that even FIFA—an organization notorious for bribery, chaos, and existential moral flexibility—is in full panic mode.

Infantino’s newfound fondness for autocrats is not new. He accepted a medal from Putin, moved in with Qatar, and now treats Trump like an oversized golden retriever who must be constantly placated with praise, treats, and tummy rubs.

So the bromance continues—transactional, gaudy, and deeply nauseating—culminating in a ceremony where one man invents a peace prize and the other places it around his own neck like a child who just won a round of musical chairs at the saddest birthday party in preschool.

The World Cup will proceed as long as Infantino maintains the correct ratio of praise-to-bauble and Trump doesn’t decide the whole tournament should henceforth be full-contact and required to use an American pigskin football.

Rob Rogers - Substack and Andrews McMeel

Nick Anderson - Substack and Tribune Content Agency

Matt Wuerker - Andrews McMeel

Drew Sheneman - Substack and Tribune Content Agency

Christopher Weyant - cagle.com/weyant

Lisa Benson - Tribune Content Agency

Walt Handelsman - Tribune Content Agency

Pat Bagley - cagle.com/bagley

Mike Smith - King Features

America is at war again. Not over taxes, not over foreign policy, but over whether grown adults must stop wearing pajamas in airports.

Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy, clearly out of real problems to solve, launched a campaign for the “Golden Age of Travel,” urging Americans to dress nicely on airplanes, smile more, help strangers, and presumably pretend they’re boarding a Pan Am flight in 1962.

His one fatal mistake? He told Americans not to wear pajamas.

Within minutes, the nation responded with the unified battle cry of a people pushed too far:

“You can pry my fleece pajama bottoms from my cold, comfy legs.”

TikTok exploded. Suddenly, thousands of travelers proudly strutted through airports looking like escaped sleepover participants. People filmed themselves in flannel pants, fuzzy slippers, matching Christmas PJs, bathrobes—one woman announced with revolutionary zeal:

“Now I absolutely MUST wear pajamas to the airport.”

It became a movement. A rebellion. A soft, elastic-waistband insurrection.

Americans asked why the federal government was policing their loungewear when airlines were already charging $400 for a middle seat next to the bathroom with legroom fit for a contortionist.

Comedian Michelle Wolf summed it up: “Sure, let me wear my nicest suit so I can sit in someone else’s Biscoff crumbs.”

Some etiquette loyalists sided with Duffy, insisting that dressing up makes everyone “act better,” presumably by preventing pajama-induced riots at Gate C17. These supporters were promptly drowned out by millions of travelers posting videos from security checkpoints while dressed like they’d just wandered out of a Target clearance section.

Meanwhile, airports look less like transportation hubs and more like a national sleepover where everyone simultaneously regrets being there.

In the end, the message from the American public was clear: resistance to tyranny begins with fuzzy slippers.

And until flights are cheaper, seats wider, snacks edible, and delays nonexistent, Americans will continue to march proudly into terminals wearing pajamas, loungewear, and whatever other fabrics maximize emotional comfort during the nation’s most stressful public ritual.

The pajama revolution cannot be stopped. It has begun.