Dave declares that he will retire, and delete all of his accounts, if Joe Biden completes a 4-year term as President.

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At long last, the breakthrough arrives: after fifteen months, Dave Rubin has finally grasped the difference. Unencumbered by a fact-check-averse producer, he’s nobly embarked on a solo voyage into basic comprehension. After all, it's the journey that counts, not the destination.

The audience clamors, and Dave Rubin—ever the obliging showman—steps forward, toes pointed delicately toward the shallow end of vaccine skepticism. With the solemnity of a man discovering fire, he revisits the link between vaccines and autism.

Dave Rubin, with his trademark depth, informs us that Medicaid is for the lazy and unambitious. Moments later, he muses that perhaps a social safety net is a good idea.

“The future of the western world is that cities and rural areas are just going to keep going in different directions” - dazzling insight from Dave Rubin

"I alone can fix this," Dave Rubin murmurs to his reflection, as he delicately wipes away the clown makeup. In the grand opera playing exclusively in his own head, he imagines summoning the world’s most powerful figures to broker peace in his garage studio.

One sometimes entertains the notion that Dave Rubin’s producer is a covert saboteur, if you will—strategically omitting fact-checks to let Dave drift, unmoored, into intellectual misadventure. Let’s offer a hand, then—a few facts, and perhaps a gentle nudge toward coherence.

What sets The Rubin Report apart from its peers is Dave Rubin’s ability to go on intellectual riffs—like a master guitarist mid-solo, if the guitarist were wearing mittens and unsure what melody is. Dave strings together unrelated tangents in a bold attempt to appear profound.

In a battle of wits, one would, quite naturally, stake everything on Dave Rubin. But then Glenn Beck strides into the arena, and suddenly, my confidence falters. Cold feet set in, nerves flutter. We are no longer witnessing a skirmish, but a grand collision of cerebral leviathans

The world of intellectual labor neatly divides itself into two archetypes: the meticulous technicians, who immerse themselves in trifling details and grubby particulars; and the exalted few, who traffic exclusively in “big ideas.” Dave Rubin falls squarely into the latter camp.

“Call me Ishmael”—or better yet, call Dave Rubin, who has surfaced to inform us that only "fraud" and "illegals" will be removed from Medicaid. Rest assured, no legal citizens are affected. And how does he arrive at this conclusion? Why, naturally—the Republicans said so!

We now find ourselves on day five of Mamdani Mania. And enter, right on cue, Dave Rubin, breathless with prophecy, now cautioning us against a truly bone-chilling future: should Mamdani ascend to the mayoralty, the city shall promptly unveil a regime of social credit scores.

The unimaginable has occurred: the famously unassailable, hermetically sealed marvel known as Dave Rubin’s brain has finally cracked—undone by a New York City mayoral candidate. Is there hope for restoration? Shall we ever again glimpse the golden age of that once-mighty organ?

Unlike his panicked peers, Dave Rubin has transcended the crude limitations of three-dimensional thinking—he now operates in four.

We have, it seems, reached the terminal juncture of Western civilization: either "taqiyya" enthusiast Zohran Mamdani will transform NYC into a caliphate—complete with five daily calls to prayer echoing through Tribeca—or, Dave Rubin’s brain has at last fractured beyond repair.

Ah, to have lived in Ramanujan’s era, the untutored genius who redefined number theory. And then, with a wistful sigh, I awaken from this reverie to the realization that we, too, have our own Ramanujan—not in mathematics, of course, but in geopolitics. His name? Dave Rubin.

One must extend the deepest sympathies to poor Dave Rubin, who appears to have endured a most harrowing 24 hours in the wake of the NYC Democratic mayoral primary. He now foresees pogroms should the electoral winds continue their present course in November. The mind reels.

Spare a thought—and perhaps a glass of mid-tier scotch—for poor Dave Rubin tonight, as he comes to terms with the unthinkable: Muslims holding public office in New York City.

After nearly a decade in recovery mode, one begins to mistake the warm glow of ignorance for the light of understanding. Enter Dave Rubin, confidently navigating the dense fog of his own misconceptions, as Rand Paul gently informs him that tariffs are, brace yourself… taxes.

If a political commentator admits to routinely getting political predictions wrong, one might suggest a career change. Yet Dave Rubin assures us that, despite his poor track record, he nails the “big things” and avoids hoaxes—barring that brief flirtation with Mr. Grigoriann.