Journalists, by nature, are nosy. We prowl cafés and eavesdrop in bars under the noble guise of “investigative reporting.” Sometimes, we stumble upon headlines. Other times, we stumble into case studies that give us a clearer glimpse into the state of our collective delusion.
Such was the case of Karen and Jeremiah.
I was at a Salt Lake City gastropub, pretending to sip Gin and Tonic, while trying to overhear a conversation between a real estate developer-turned-politician and a high-profile city official. But instead of juicy corruption, I got something far more baffling: Karen and Jeremiah, arguing loudly two stools down the bar about Trump’s foreign policy.
Karen, a dainty, well-preserved forty-something dressed like a Vogue editor, was sparring with Jeremiah, a muscular, sunburned man who radiated the kind of rugged individualism (or toxic masculinity) you’d expect from someone who owns four guns and a hunting dog named Reagan.
The verbal sparring was impossible to ignore. When my original targets exited — likely to discuss zoning laws in the privacy of a Mercedes — I introduced myself.
Karen and Jeremiah had been married for fifteen years. They met due to a glitch in a short-lived dating app called “TruePairs” (which folded faster than a paper straw in a Diet Coke). Apparently, too many East Coast vegans got matched with Utah gun enthusiasts. But Karen and Jeremiah were one of the rare “success” stories.
Karen, a New York transplant, had been vegan since 18, marched for women’s rights, protested factory farms, and donated monthly to NPR. Jeremiah was born and raised in a secretive polygamist compound off Redwood Road. He had 28 siblings, hunted elk by the age of 10, and didn’t question why he had six aunts living on the same block until a fifth-grade civics project revealed the facts.
When they met — at Brewvies, naturally — it was love at first sight. The chemistry was undeniable. Politics didn’t come up until their fifth date. By then, it was too late. They were already addicted to each other’s outrage.
Their relationship flourished in a bizarre ecosystem of mutual exasperation and bewilderment. Karen found Jeremiah’s childhood “fascinating in a disturbing National Geographic sort of way.” Jeremiah said Karen’s kombucha smelled like his uncle’s foot fungus but drank it anyway to prove a point.
In 2016, their first major fight erupted. Karen was a Hillary die-hard. Jeremiah made his own Vote for Trump T-shirts. Their Sugar House home became infamous for displaying both candidates’ signs on the same lawn — confusing every dog walker within a five-block radius. They’d wake up at 3am to sabotage each other’s signage.
When Trump won, Karen spiraled into a depression so profound she considered buying a cabin in Vermont and raising goats. But Jeremiah — shockingly tender — held her hand through the panic attacks and NPR marathons.
When Biden won in 2020, it was Jeremiah’s turn to unravel. “We elected a senile imbecile,” he grumbled. Karen made him soup and played him vintage Reagan speeches until he calmed down.
By 2024, things had escalated. Karen was volunteering for Kamala’s Utah Women for Progress initiative. Jeremiah swore he’d move to Texas if she won. The arguments turned nuclear.
In a moment of self-preservation they tried marriage counseling. After four months, they learned to speak without yelling. They started validating each other’s opinions. They even used “I feel” statements.
And it was excruciatingly dull.
“Getting along is not as exciting,” Karen confessed with a sigh. “Jeremiah started agreeing with me. I missed throwing quinoa at him.”
So they quit therapy and returned to their old dynamic where ideological warfare was their love language.
Their love was never rational. But in a country divided by red and blue, maybe the most subversive thing two people can do is stay married for the sake of the fight.
*Editor’s Note: This article is a work of satire and is intended for entertainment and commentary purposes only. While it may reference real places or echo real events, the characters and situations are fictionalized for humor and reflection. At Utah Stories, we believe that sometimes the absurd reveals more truth than the facts alone.
