Veronica Taylor, a 73-year-old from the wilds of West Virginia, is basically living in a real-life episode of Lost—except instead of a mysterious island, it’s a mountainous nowhere where the grocery store’s an hour away and she doesn’t even know how to turn on a computer.
She’s housebound, can’t drive, and now the government’s like, “Hey, wanna keep your Social Security benefits? You gotta go online or schlep to an office!” Veronica’s over here eating her mac and cheese with the senior crew, going, “Uh, how am I supposed to do that? I’d be toast!”
So, Trump and his posse—including Elon Musk, probably zooming in on a Tesla-shaped Zoom call—are pushing this new rule starting March 31.
They’re all, “It’s to stop fraud and make things slick!” You’ve gotta verify your identity online or in person to sign up or tweak where your cash lands. Sounds fine if you’re a city slicker with Wi-Fi, but for Veronica and her rural squad in McDowell County?
It’s like asking them to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded.
Advocates are yelling, “Yo, this screws over the poorest folks!”—especially in places like McDowell, where one in three people are broke, 30% are on Social Security, and 20% don’t even have broadband.
Oh, and guess what? They’re closing Social Security offices too, because apparently saving money is more fun than helping grannies.
Donald Reed, this nonprofit guy running senior centers, is sweating bullets.
He’s not even anti-Trump—he’s like, “I get it, waste is bad!”—but he’s watching this unfold like a slow-motion car crash. His group’s already strapped giving rides to seniors for food and doctor visits, and now they’re supposed to add Social Security office trips?
Last year, he ran out of transport cash and raided savings. This year, he’s got nada.
Then—plot twist!—the feds yanked a $1 million grant he was counting on to fix up a janky 1980s trailer that’s their senior hangout. He’s like, “Welp, money’s gone, vibes are gone.”
Over at the senior center, the retirees are chowing down and chatting politics. Most are Team Trump—West Virginia’s been ride-or-die for him three elections straight—but they’re all scratching their heads at this mess of new rules.
Brenda Hughes, 72, is like, “I don’t even get what’s happening, man!” She’s already an in-person gal because the phone lines are a joke.
Mary Weaver’s over here roasting Trump for letting Musk play puppet master, like, “Elon’s gonna run the country from the backseat?” But Barbara Lester, 64, is vibing—she wants to high-five Trump and Musk and beg for a senior bonus with all that “fraud money” they’re saving.
Poor Veronica, though—she’s stuck. Her ride situation’s dicey, her family’s far off, and the six-mile hike to the office? Nope. She’s too proud to beg for help, saying, “I don’t ask nobody for nothing twice!”
So while Trump’s crew is out here playing efficiency cops, Veronica’s just trying to figure out how to not get totally hosed by a system that’s forgetting folks like her exist.
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