Karen Bass: The Crypt Keeper of the Palisades Finally Meets Her Match

Or, How One Year of Sitting on Your Hands Became a Public "Begging for Federal Help" in an Underhanded Politico-Lingo Jimbo-Jamboree

In a moment that will live rent-free in the minds of anyone who still believes that the government can occasionally function once in a great while, Mayor Karen Bass—affectionately dubbed the Crypt Keeper of the Hollywood Hills—got a front-row seat to a Super Bowl of her own—Super Boss Donald Trump sitting directly across from her January 2026. The result? She folded faster than a cheap lawn chair in a windstorm, squirming under pressure while mumbling excuses about timelines and permits that somehow stretched on far longer than lines at the DMV on a Monday.

Flash back to that fateful briefing: Trump, in full "you're fired but I'm still listening" energy, toured the scorched remains of Pacific Palisades and listened to victims explaining how they couldn't even clear their own "hazardous" debris for 18 months—because "permits". What are permits you say? Well. You see... Apparently, in the land of California, permits are these secret sacred esoteric bureaucratic talisman thingies, with Bass, being the gatekeeper (or should we say Crypt Keeper?) of them. Karen assured everyone that things were moving along rather swimmingly. "Expedited," she said. "Working on it," she swore. Trump called the bluff: Use emergency powers, cut the red tape, let people rebuild. Bass blinked, backpedaled, and somehow emerged claiming she'd already been expediting things all along. Classic.

Fast-forward one full year—because why rush when you can marinate in incompetence?—and the Palisades still looks like a post-apocalyptic film set. Aerial shots reveal vast empty lots, skeletal framing on a handful of brave pioneer homes, and exactly zero signs of the swift recovery Bass swore was underway. Debris? Still there. Rebuilding? Crawling at the pace of a sloth on sedatives. Donald Trump, you're our only hope!

But fear not: the mayor has stair-mastered the art of the non-admissible admission. She never said "beg" outright—politicians don't—but those glowing FEMA praise releases and all that executive-order confetti sure read like desperate thank-you notes. Translation: "Please keep the money flowing; we've been too busy gatekeeping to actually let any progress through whatsoever."

She had an entire year. Three hundred and sixty-five days to move, shake, bulldoze, or at least pretend to care. But Bass isn't a mover. She's not a shaker. She's the ultimate gatekeeper—keeping progress firmly locked behind layers of red tape, backdoor deals, and vague promises—all while the Golden State Hills stay haunted by charred foundations. Absolute embarrassment on the world stage. Japan rebuilds a swallowed intersection in two days; Los Angeles can't clear a driveway in two seasons. No excuse. None. Zero. Zilch.

So Here's To Karen Bass, the Crypt Keeper of the Palisades

Guardian of delays, mistress of excuses, and now forever immortalized in viral clips where even the Big Boss couldn't hide his disdain. One year later, the lots are still empty, the victims are still waiting, and the only thing expedited was the mayor's squirming. Bravo. Truly a world-class failure. At least have some dignity.