Fuck-you money. That’s the cathedral at the center of America’s dream, now — the idol the billionaires pray to while the rest of us scavenge for Wi-Fi and meaning. It’s not money, not really. It’s the price of living entirely in your own world and dictating it. It’s a detonator or chainsaw The power to say no with a smile, to laws, to limits, the suffocation of normal human decency, for AI and going to Mars
Out of this digital Versailles comes Elon Musk, the patron saint of tech libertarianism and erratic boy-kings, returning like a prophet high on his own fumes beckoning a shimmering circus of engineer-saviors and utilitarian control freaks who don’t just want to shape the future, they want to upload it, own it, and possibly breed with it.
These guys aren’t building the future. They’re retrofitting reality into a vending machine they control. The thinking man’s apocalypse.
Musk, unloaded this beauty on Joe Rogan’s meat-grilled therapy couch:
“We’ve got civilizational suicidal empathy going on. The fundamental weakness of Western civilization is empathy. The empathy exploit.”
You heard that? Empathy — a glitch. A damn bug in the Western firmware. Something to be patched, fire-walled, and quarantined like a bad line of code in a world otherwise humming along in perfect corporate control mode.
“I think empathy is good,” he offered, like a man apologizing for farting in church, “but you need to think it through and not just be programmed like a robot.”
This from the man attempting to turn humans into firmware and rocket dust.
Empathy isn’t the weakness. It’s the last scrap of soul we’ve got left — and they’re scraping it off the face of the earth.
A New Golden Age
Not iron, but gold — because, of course, that’s the leader’s favorite color. Forget the Iron Dome; welcome the Golden Dome, the shimmering crown of an emerging geopolitical order defined less by values and more by valuation.
Elon Musk declared on social media that he loves Donald Trump “as much as a straight man can love another man.” Ignoring the fact, that 80% of the country thinks he’s an asshole, and, likely the same in Trump inner circle, he won’ give up on hid duped vision, it’s as if there is one extremely self medicated person on the Trump team whose genius reputation and bankroll allows this.
Trump, for his part, isn’t hiding the playbook. His foreign policy efforts appear less like statecraft and more like portfolio management. He’s cozying up to countries where his family has business ties — Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Russia — with the finesse of a man pitching condos at a global summit. Let’s not forget: before politics, the Trump Organization was busy erecting the tallest building in Moscow.
In this new order, monetization is not just a strategy — it’s a philosophy. Everything is transactional, and through this lens, we’re told, peace and stability will naturally follow. The theory goes: if everyone is out for themselves, at least we understand each other. No moral criticism, no messy ideals — just mutual self-interest on a global scale. No matter who you are, no matter what you do, you’re OK and I’m OK, as long as we can do some deals and trade that’s all that matters simple as that.
The pitch? When every interaction is a deal, the world becomes a ledger — clear, clean, and profitable. And from that clarity, we are promised, will come the greatest peace and stability in the history of the world, as long as its combined with the best most expensive military in the world
Or, at the very least, we’ll have really nice skyline in Gaza.
At the Conservative Political Action Conference — a place where political theater often edges into performance art — Musk showed up with a chainsaw. Yes, a real one. He then demonstrated, to no one’s particular request, “how easy” it is to “save billions of dollars sometimes in, in an hour.” And how fun it is.
“Yeah, like, it’s wild,” he added, as if the federal budget were just an overgrown hedge needing a little trimming.
And in case the spectacle hadn’t already made his priorities clear, he followed it up with this classic:
“Social Security is a Ponzi scheme.”
A bold declaration, particularly from someone who will never rely on it. It’s easy to call the safety net a scam when your own fall is well-padded as the most padded man in the wrold.
If grift is an art, then Donald J. Trump has entered his Blue Period — gilded, branded, and backed by the blockchain. What began with real estate and escalators has now metastasized into a kaleidoscope of merch, memecoins, and mythology. This is hyper-capitalism.
“COME GET SOME”
Once a man of buildings, Trump is now a man of phantoms — hawking NFTs, crypto tokens, and the gospel of decentralization to an audience as loyal as it is eager to speculate on the intangible. Take the memecoin, a new low in financial abstraction. These joke-based cryptocurrencies, built on online mascots and zero utility, are gambling chips with no casino — just a Discord server and vibes. Case in point: $TRUMP, which after a noisy debut and temporary surge, cratered hard, vaporizing a cool $2 billion in investor funds like it was confetti at Mar-a-Lago.
And yet, Trump’s faith in the ether remains devout. “There is a lot of sense in crypto. A lot of common sense in crypto,” he declared recently, adding, “we’re honored to be working on helping everybody here.” Helping them do what, exactly, remains unclear — unless “helping” now includes nudging people into the speculative meat grinder of digital volatility where the huckster instigators only, benefit.
It wasn’t long ago he warned that crypto “is not money” and that its “value is highly volatile and based on thin air.” But winds shift fast in the Trumpland. Now he wants to make America the “crypto capital of the planet.” Thin air has apparently become a business plan — if you sell it with enough conviction.
Still, the digital side hustle hasn’t is matched with the analog merch bonanza. The hard copy goods are flying, and they’re no less surreal. Trump’s latest line includes gold “Never Surrender” high-top sneakers for $399 — already sold out, of course — alongside $99 bottles of “Victory47” fragrance, for those who want to smell like exceptionalism and ethanol. Variants like “Red Wave” and the $199 “POTUS 45” shoes are also available for the truly committed foot soldier.
Factor in the significant cultural and geographical mandates and we have sweeping reforms from the grandeur of North America’s tallest mountain to defending high school mascots on Long Island, the performance never ends.
Back when Russia owned Alaska—before we bought it for the price of a mid-tier Manhattan apartment—they sensibly called North America’s tallest peak Bolshaya Gora, meaning “Big Mountain.” A direct, no-frills translation of the native name, Denali. But then along came Frank Densmore, a gold prospector with a sturdy shovel and a thirst for glory. He became the first non-Native Alaskan to reach the base, so naturally, the mountain was briefly rebranded as “Densmore’s Mountain.” Because if there’s one thing Americans love more than mountains, it’s naming them after guys with picks.
But wait, another prospector, struck by patriotic fever (and possibly mercury poisoning), decided to name it after President William McKinley. Why? Because McKinley supported the gold standard, and what better way to honor fiscal policy than by slapping it on a mountain? Thus, the sacred peak became a monument to capitalism’s favorite metal. Never mind its indigenous roots—this was Manifest Destiny with a PR budget. Denali was out. McKinley was in. Gold, baby. Gold.
And in the age of billionaires, corruption and no regulation, Mckinley (along with Musk) are the highest and greatest in every sense of the word.
Unlike the most of the ass-kissing tech barons of Silicon Valley — those bunker-hoarding innovation priests preaching disruption from behind New Zealand blast doors — Vivek Ramaswamy did something different. He went home to Ohio. He cashed out of DOGE with perfect timing, packed up his biotech billions (well, one billion — Musk would call that “cute”), and decided to run for governor. Less of a shroom-fueled space clown than Musk, Ramaswamy brought his brand of articulate ambition to a state already teetering on the edge of parody. After all, Ohio isn’t just a state anymore — it’s a meme with voting rights. Obviously attracted by the Haitian dog delicacy according to, freind, J.D. Vance (himself a satirical character made flesh), sealed the deal for our would-be political savior as a fan of pet meat. His first item on his gubernatorial vision board? Renaming Lake Erie. Because why not? This is Ohio — land of contradictions, home of pet-eating folklore and burning rivers. “Lake McKinley,” he suggests, clearly unaware that “Ohio” itself means “beautiful river,” one of many Native names based on the geography itself, and not a narrative. Descriptive “we the people” names are more socialism, narratives honor men and individuals, the American Way. But in a state where half the rivers and 24 of its 88 counties carry indigenous names — not to mention over 125 towns — it seems there’s still plenty of rebranding to do. Because in America, a river named for its descriptive quality is suspiciously narrative-free. And that is socialism.
Ohio, particularly in the eyes of the under-thirty crowd, has transcended geography. It’s a glitch in the matrix, a MAGA-age fever dream wrapped in cornfields and Dollar Generals. It’s become a catch-all for the uncanny, the awkward, and the aggressively uncool — a place where raccoon ballet in Walmart parking lots barely raises an eyebrow. “Only in Ohio,” the captions read, as if that explains everything and nothing at once. The joke is the point. Ohio isn’t just a state — it’s a mood, a metaphor, a meme-powered parody of itself. And Ramaswamy, with his billion-dollar hustle and cultural earnestness dialed up to eleven, may be just the man to steer it further into meaninglessness and golden comfort. The “River Woody”? Honestly, it fits.He’s more Ohio than, Ohio.
Mississippi — like Denali — means “Great River.” Missouri borrows its name from a tribe, a nod to the people who once moved freely through a land they didn’t need to trademark. But if we’re being honest with ourselves, maybe The Custer River is the more appropriate name these days — a tribute to the country’s talent for glorifying conquest over context. Lake Erie, named for the Cat Nation tribe that once lived on its shores, deserves more than a forgotten etymology. It needs a new narrative, one that reflects the real American story — not of freedom or dignity, but of reinvention and disruption. This is, after all, the “greatest nation in the history of the world”
A new American Golden Age has arrived—gleaming, gilded. Finally, we’re free from the tyrannical grip of RHINOs, Democrats, and anyone still clinging to silly notions like “nuance” or “governing.” Free speech is now absolute—it’s the gold-plated foundation of a fully transactional society where self-interest is the highest public virtue.
This is the promised land of disruption, ethica, at best, is optional and empathy is considered a sign of weakness. A return to simpler times, when “animal spirits” roamed free, the strong devoured the weak, and everything could be bought, sold, or renamed. In other words, when all this transactional, it becomes simple, black, and white.
In this bold new era, the Leader isn’t just a politician—he’s a CEO. Visionary. Undefeated. Untouchable. Term limits? Cute. Elections? Distracting. Here, power is a family business, and the boardroom extends from Mar-a-Lago to Moscow. Putin, Xi, Kim Jong-un—far from adversaries, they’re our strategic partners in the Global Syndicate of Unaccountable Men. After all, they too understand that democracy is inefficient, and that human rights are really just bad for margins.
Foreign policy? Think real estate portfolio. Greenland? Acquire. Panama? Annex. Ukraine? Monetize the minerals. Canada? Roll it into the brand after decommissioning California. Gaza? Rezone it. This is geopolitics as asset management—domination by spreadsheet.
The rules are simple: Keep it black and white. Make it absolute. Above all, make it transactional—In this America, loyalty is a commodity, truth is negotiable, and history is rebranded quarterly.
So welcome to the new Golden Age. The lights are bright, the walls are gold-plated, and the exits are locked. Don’t worry—your freedom is safe here. Just don’t ask what it’s worth.
Robert Prevost has ascended—from cardinal to pope, from muted robes to something a little more Vatican-chic. Meanwhile, I could’ve been a tech billionaire who pivoted into court jester, cracking jokes between coups. But in this golden age of reinvention, the past is irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is what will be: America’s most lavish, delusional renaissance yet.
Politics and entertainment have finally merged into one seamless spectacle. Coming soon: Luigi Magione: The Musical, complete with tap-dancing jurists. And of course, the centerpiece of our cultural revival: an epic morality play where democracy wears a red hat and exits stage right.
History is now a franchise. Governance is fan service.
Mr. Musk, in typical messiah-meets-meme fashion, texted a confidant after a heady evening: “I’m feeling more optimistic after tonight. Tomorrow we unleash the anomaly in the matrix.” It’s the kind of thing you say when you’re either on the brink of a tech breakthrough — or deep in a pharmaceutical odyssey. According to those close to him, Musk had been openly taking so much ketamine it was affecting his bladder. Add psychedelic mushrooms, Ecstasy, and a portable pharmacy of roughly 20 pills a day, and you begin to see the full picture: a man piloting billion-dollar companies and cultural narratives while having a blast, followed by more blasts.
His mistake is Trump is the drug. The world’s richest man, and recognized genius, was cheating on the Leader, at the same time he was getting duped by him, and once everything is monetized, the rules are clear.