Scratching at the surface, man, you see Israel as the iron fist, the puppeteer yanking the US strings. But the Control Panel running Deeper, a roach motel of power where shadows writhe. Israel, is just a fleshy extension, a tentacle of the American Dream dipped in radioactive isotopes – Manifest Destiny dripping with Islamophobia and the sweet, fleshy tang of conquest.

Israel, a flickering neon oasis in the American desert, pulsates with a strange energy. These Brooklyn cowboys, these West Bank settlers, they’re just roaches scuttling across the circuitry, brainwashed by flickering propaganda. Can’t speak the language, passports forged in the fires of delusion. Israel, for them, a Westworld fantasy – “Yeehaw!”, they scream, six-shooters spitting chrome nightmares, “This here’s just like the good ol’ days, wrestlin’ the land from the savages!”

Cut the cord, man, sever the connection, and watch the Israeli psyche unravel like a cheap tapeworm. The delusions of grandeur, the paranoia, it might all start to untangle, a chance, a glimmering possibility for peace in that sun-baked hellhole. But the machine churns on, Westworld forever, a self-perpetuating loop of violence and control. The strings stretch taut, the US at one end, Israel at the other, and the American puppeteer, fat and grinning, his pockets lined with blood money.

These greasy-haired cowboys with delusions of Leviticus, swagger through dusty towns, six-shooters holstered low. They speak a broken Hebrew laced with Brooklyn slang, pronouncements of “Eretz Israel” echoing off tumbleweeds. These are the psychological flotsam, the psychic sewage dredged up by the American Dream and deposited on a desert frontier.

Israel feeds off the dark id of the US. An unacknowledged shadow, a place to indulge in the primal urges of power, land grabs, and good ol’ fashioned “othering.” Cut the wires, sever the connection, and perhaps, just perhaps, the Israeli psyche might start to resemble something approaching sanity. The desert winds could finally carry away the whispers of “chosen people” and the ghosts of ancient battles.

But the control panel hums on. Westworld, a name carved into the sandl, a chrome-plated monument to the conquistador spirit. The prognosis? Grim. Westworld will remain Westworld, a funhouse mirror reflecting the ugliest aspects of American power, played out on a dusty stage far, far away.

Israel, a psychic pressure valve for the American id. Islamophobia, a hissing steam, the need for unfettered power a throbbing erection disguised as democracy. Let the Israelis fend for themselves, cut the umbilical cord of fighter jets and lobbyists. The delusion of grandeur, that shiny chrome exoskeleton, might start to rust, revealing a human vulnerability beneath. Maybe then, peace could rise from the ashes of manifest destiny and settler arrogance.

But the needle gets stuck, the mariachi screams in a feedback loop. Westworld will remain Westworld, a grotesque sideshow under a plastic sky. Israel, a mirage reflecting the distorted desires of a nation in freefall. The colons writhe, a reminder that the past is a disease, ever-present, throbbing just beneath the surface of the American Dream.

Europe, the id in a rumpled trench coat, shoving its primal urges onto the global stage through American muscle and Middle Eastern conflict. Here in Westworld, everyone’s got a role to play, a twisted script directed by the ghosts of empires past.

Europe, they built the sets, erected the barbed wire fences, wrote the racist manifestos that became the theme park brochures. Now, they wash their hands, point at the cowboys and the fanatics, all the while whispering, “Look at the barbarity! How uncivilized!” while clutching their bloody pearls.

But the shadows stretch long, man. The stench of hypocrisy hangs heavy. Antisemitism, that ancient European viper,slithers back across the continent, shedding its skin of “criticism of Israel” and revealing its venomous core. They outsource the hate, then clutch their fainting couches when it spills back across the borders.

This whole damn theme park is built on rotten foundations. Until Europe confronts its own darkness, until they stop projecting their id like a flickering B-movie, there can be no peace. The cycle will continue, a grotesque carousel of violence, spinning ever faster.

Maybe Israel’s a pressure valve for Europe too, a way to vent some of that toxic gas built up over centuries. But it’s a faulty valve, spewing out violence and instability across the whole damn playground. And where’s the superego, the voice of reason in all this? Lost in the funhouse mirrors, no doubt, drowned out by the screams and the gunfire.