Category: Uncategorized

Autopsy

It was a spectacle of calculated chaos, the kind of grotesque carnival only modern American politics could conjure up. The New York Times, that towering cathedral of Establishment respectability, found itself fumbling with its maps like a drunk juggling road signs. The first map—a digital fever dream of small-dollar donations sprawling across the republic—painted an unsettling picture. Sanders’ grassroots army had swallowed the landscape like a wildfire. Their donations flowed like cheap whiskey at a VFW hall, drowning out every other candidate.

This was unacceptable, of course. The media mavens had a narrative to maintain, and Sanders’ tsunami of unwashed, idealistic fervor wasn’t it. So they made a new map. A cleaner one. A quieter one. One that didn’t include Sanders. Suddenly, the picture became palatable again—like swapping out a lurid Hieronymus Bosch for a soft-focus Norman Rockwell. The money was neatly redistributed among the chosen mediocrities: the “serious” candidates, the ones who wouldn’t rock the boat or upset the delicate ecosystem of cocktail-party circuit politics.

But the DNC wasn’t done yet. No, the fix had to go deeper. With the precision of a Vegas card shark, they worked their arcane rules and backroom deals to elevate not one but two of the least inspiring figures they could dredge up from their talent-starved bench. This was no accident; it was an act of pure cynicism. A calculated insult to democracy masquerading as strategy.

In one election, they handed the nomination to a stiff who could barely finish a sentence without stepping on his own shoelaces. In the next, they doubled down with someone whose charisma could be bottled and sold as a sedative. It was as though the Democratic Party had developed a perverse fetish for losers—propping up candidates so uninspiring they made a DMV waiting room seem electric by comparison.

And yet, the wheels of the machine kept turning. The pundits clapped like seals, the donors smiled through clenched teeth, and the voters were left holding their noses and pulling levers like prisoners in a Kafkaesque lottery. It was a system so warped, so grotesque, that only the truly insane could look at it and say, “Yes, this is democracy.”

Banana peel twice over moment for the Dems with their last-ditch attempt to defeat Bernie coming home to roost. Sad sorry-ass operation leaving us with Trump redux, which feels surreal. But that’s the absurd reality now—what could’ve been a reckoning for a failed system turned into the political equivalent of a three-ring circus with a tinpot dictator at the center. The Dems—still drunk on their neoliberal fantasies—did everything they could to kneecap the one guy who actually gave a damn about people, the guy who wasn’t afraid to throw punches at Wall Street, Big Pharma, and the whole rigged system. And here we are, left with a man who will give permission to corporations and banks to eat the world alive, all while grinning like a bulldog in a three-piece suit.

The Dems seem locked into this delusion, this desperate fantasy that they can just sit back and wait out the demands for real change, waiting for the next economic boom to somehow roll in and fix everything. They treat the issues Sanders raised—healthcare, living wages, housing—as if they’re optional add-ons to a system that maybe will take care of itself if we just leave it alone long enough. They’re convinced that another bubble will come, lift the economy, and make the demands for real reform vanish into thin air like a magic trick.

But here we are, still waiting for that “bounce back.” Still waiting for the economy to pull itself up by its bootstraps while the rest of us are watching the factory jobs disappear, our rents double, and our healthcare premiums rival the cost of a down payment on a house. It’s like they’re hoping for some economic miracle to save their asses, but all we’ve got is the same old tired song: “Just wait, just wait, the market will fix it all.” And yet, the market has never fixed anything. It’s only ever patched over the rot until the next crisis comes along.

Still waiting. Still waiting for that “bounce back.” But it’s obvious now: it’s not coming. And the longer the Dems stick to this fantasy, the deeper the hole they’re digging for themselves. Trump may be the symptom, but the disease is this profound refusal to face the future.

Look, the people—the disaffected, disenfranchised, and desperately ticked-off millions—were trying to send a message loud and clear. But the Democratic brain trust, the sanctimonious sages of the Party of Good Intentions, somehow misinterpreted it all. They thought they were putting a leash on fascism, but it turned out they were just muzzling themselves, eyes closed, hands over ears, la-la-la, while a political reality they refused to face bulldozed through their illusions.

Now here we are, as if in a cheap satire, where Trump and that square-jawed Vance kid—neither of whom have ever met a populist they didn’t want to keep at arm’s length—paid just enough lip service to anti-war sentiment and the working-class struggle that it landed. Turns out a hologram of populism, a cardboard cutout version, was still preferable to the Democrats’ corporate-speak. At least Trump dared to say, in his cowboy bluntness, that Americans should afford a house, a car, groceries. Meanwhile, Kamala Harris was out there with the “Opportunity Economy” claptrap, a slogan so stripped of substance it may as well have been lifted from a focus group in a Wall Street conference room.

And all these Democratic “geniuses” who thought they could outwit, outspin, and out-tactic Trump have now driven the country off a cliff. Ezra Klein—smug on the pages of every think piece and podcast—played his high-stakes game of chicken with Biden’s future, only to watch the train tumble off a different cliff entirely. The “smart set” wanted to replace Biden, sure, but only with their own pet project—a “safe,” “nuanced” alternative who could keep those liberal sinecures intact. But the result? Chaos. The one thing no one had the guts to predict was that people might actually just want to buy groceries and pay rent without a second mortgage.

For nine long years, the liberals had their noses pressed up against the glass, wide-eyed and bewildered, peering in at the spectacle of Donald J. Trump, America’s own mutant lovechild of P.T. Barnum and a Vegas slot-machine. Nine years of howling disbelief, of CNN-anchored freak shows and Sunday op-ed autopsies, trying to crack the code of this vulgar, neon god that had hypnotized half the nation. But despite all their think tanks, algorithms, and armies of degree-holders, they failed.

The Democrats, that party of enlightened ‘experts’ and effete, latte-sipping, Tesla-driving acolytes of science and social justice, were left flat-footed, clutching their Harvard diplomas like rosaries, chanting mantras of rationality in a nation half-drunk on madness. They have Ph.D.s, Nobel laureates, consulting firms worth more than most small towns, yet this grinning avatar of American chaos blew right through them like a Harley through a hedge. Trump, that carnival barker straight out of Twain, didn’t care about policies, platforms, or promises. He was there to burn down the whole damn tent, grinning with a mouth full of sparks.

And while they dithered, analyzing his moves like Kremlinologists decoding enemy broadcasts, Trump played his crowd like a fiddle. They’d call him a liar, and his followers would cheer louder. They’d point to his failures, and his supporters would laugh and raise their beers to the man who just didn’t give a damn. His appeal was primal, raw—he was a middle finger to the establishment, a bulldozer barreling through the polite hedges of educated America, taking out country clubs, college halls, and Congress in one rumbling joyride.

The liberal elites couldn’t figure out why he worked, and in their confusion, they ignored the biggest piece of the puzzle: Trump wasn’t a bug in the system; he was the system—blown up to grotesque proportions, dripping gold paint and loud as a brass band. He was the embodiment of an America that had grown fat, mean, and magnificently mad, willing to torch its own myths just to watch the flames light up the night.

And yet, the resistance that formed? A media spectacle. The talking heads, the armchair warriors of Twitter, with their hashtags and their performative outrage, cosplaying like they’re the French Resistance in ’41, missing the point entirely. #Resistance, indeed—resistance to what? To Trump? To fascism? Hell, half of them couldn’t tell you what they’re really resisting; it’s all just performance, filling airtime with self-righteous indignation.

The Democrats trotted out a candidate who managed to embody many of the worst aspects of both parties’ playbooks, yet somehow failed to win over even the moderate Republicans they hoped to sway. Here they were, with a candidate who, on paper, should’ve been right up the GOP’s alley: kept people in prison past their release dates, supported a foreign policy agenda aligned with a hyper-militarized ethnostate, and was willing to play nice with the Cheney wing of American politics.

But even that wasn’t enough. The Republicans, seasoned in the dark art of tough-guy politics, looked at this centrist Democrat and saw only a watered-down version of themselves—someone willing to flirt with their agenda but too polite, too careful, too unwilling to really pull the punches. The Dems seem unable to understand that it’s not just about policy overlap; it’s about conviction and unapologetic ruthlessness. They’re out here trying to present a “Republican Lite” option to a party that already has the real thing—and who are only too happy to go all-in with their own, bolder, brasher version.

It’s like they’ve forgotten that the GOP’s appeal lies not just in their policies but in their raw, unfiltered brand of politics. The Dems’ candidate, despite all the tough-on-crime rhetoric and hawkish foreign policy gestures, just didn’t carry the same swagger. Instead, they ended up alienating their own base and barely making a dent with Republicans, proving yet again that a lukewarm imitation won’t satisfy anyone.

In 2016, when the ACA premiums shot up 40% the same week James Comey made his move on Clinton, you’d think it would have hit home. But no, the Acela corridor elite convinced themselves it was the emails, the FBI, the Russians, the damn solar eclipse—anything but the reality that people are sick of being handed scraps while billion-dollar policy ideas make big promises and deliver squat. They closed schools, then claimed they were helping the working class. They promised affordability and served up slogans that wouldn’t fly in an undergrad debate class. They treated the working class like they’d sign off on anything.

And now we’ve arrived at the unavoidable conclusion: the people didn’t buy it. They could sniff the hypocrisy, the hollow talk, and decided, hell, we’ll take our chances with the reality-TV businessman who’s at least entertaining.

Remember Obama, that beacon of hope, the man with the golden smile who was supposed to be different, who was supposed to transcend all the swampy sludge of Washington. He had the whole country lined up behind him, all the goodwill in the world, and what did he do? He bailed out the banks, handed out blank checks to Wall Street, and made his Ivy League cronies rich. All those high-flying Wall Street wizards, the ones who’d gambled recklessly and left Main Street bleeding, got rescued—while everyone else, everyone who actually put Obama in office, got left holding the bag. Home foreclosures, lost pensions, layoffs—none of it mattered as long as the banks could stay afloat.

Obama had this chance—hell, he had the perfect chance—to put Wall Street in check, to stand with the people. But instead, he threw the working class to the wolves while claiming he’d saved the economy. His friends in high places rode high on the wave of that bailout cash, and we’re supposed to act like he had no choice? Like his hands were tied by some invisible law of the universe? Please.

And then people sit around scratching their heads, baffled, wondering how on earth we ended up with Trump? Really? After Obama’s big giveaway to the finance overlords? Trump wasn’t some inexplicable phenomenon; he was the big, ugly, neon-lit reaction to all the Democrats’ double-dealing and betrayal. Voters were tired of candidates who mouthed pretty words about “change” but handed them a bill for someone else’s yacht. They didn’t want to hear about “the long game” or “slow and steady wins the race” from a party that didn’t seem to care if they were winning or losing—so long as the right consultants got paid.

It was inevitable, really. The whole thing. The voters who lined up for Obama in ’08 felt their hope ripped out of their guts by a man they thought was on their side.

Yeah, and that’s the real kicker, isn’t it? The worst thing isn’t just that Trump’s a disaster on every front—it’s that he’s the license for all of it. The big banks, the corporations, the ones who’ve been shoveling wealth up to the top since the 1980s—they’re looking at Trump and saying, “Oh, this is our guy. This is the green light.” With Trump in power, there’s no more pretense, no more worrying about looking like the villain. The man’s practically begging them to go ahead, exploit as much as you can, take it all, and don’t even bother with the dress rehearsal.

This isn’t just about more inequality; it’s about a systematic breakdown of any semblance of responsibility. It’s an epoch of exploitation where the ones doing the exploiting have no interest in maintaining even the illusion of fair play. The veneer of decency, of corporate social responsibility, that’s all gone out the window. We’re heading into an era where the public face of business is a gleaming smile on a boardroom shark, and the lives of regular people are just another cost of doing business. Only now, no one’s even pretending it’s anything but a blood-soaked money grab.

It’s exploitation without even the grace of manners. At least back in the day, there were some unspoken rules—“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” “Don’t be too obvious about how much you’re ripping people off”—but now? We’ve entered a world where there’s no shame left in it. The rich get richer, the poor get crushed, and the ones left in the middle are too distracted by shiny promises of “tax cuts” and “jobs” to realize they’ve been handed a one-way ticket to nowhere.

We’re living through the rise of corporate fascism with a smile, the glee of deregulation, and a free-market wet dream where the only thing that matters is making a buck, even if that buck’s stolen right out of your pocket. It’s like a bad sitcom where the punchlines are just more suffering for everyone who isn’t sitting on a pile of cash. And the worst part? Trump’s got a whole cult of people cheering it on, convinced that somehow, this time it’ll trickle down.

Pigfuck and the Sisters of Mercy #2: A Fable

Once upon a time, in a forest crawling with filth, corruption, and fat-cat lobbyists, there lived the three little piggies—known far and wide as the Sisters of Mercy. They were a fine-looking bunch, all dolled up in their little blue suits, tails neatly curled, ready for the cameras, always chattering on about justice and equality and the dire need to keep the Big Bad Pigfuck at bay.

Pigfuck was no ordinary wolf, mind you. He was a massive, hulking beast of a creature, slicked in corporate grease, his snout buried deep in the feeding troughs of industry. The kind of monster who could blow your house down without so much as a sneeze. Pigfuck didn’t just terrorize the forest; he owned it. Everywhere he went, he left a trail of stock options, tax breaks, and non-disclosure agreements. He was the ultimate power broker, a carnivorous Wall Street Frankenstein stitched together from military contracts, energy subsidies, and all the greed money could buy.

Now, the Sisters of Mercy had one job: keep Pigfuck from tearing the forest to pieces. But instead of fortifying their homes, they sat around their little house of straw, squawking about the horrors of Pigfuck, lamenting his tyrannical reign. “Oh, the wolf is such a terror! Just look at him slobbering over our resources, crushing the poor under his hooves!” they cried, as if naming the beast would somehow exorcize him. Their solution? Statements. Endless statements about the dangers of Pigfuck and the importance of standing up to him. Meanwhile, Pigfuck was doubling down on his rampage, buying up half the forest and lining his den with the hides of those who dared challenge him.

The Sisters built themselves a second house, this one out of sticks—committee meetings, town halls, press releases—but all it took was one blow from Pigfuck, and it went up in a cloud of PR dust. They just stood there, picking up the splinters, still yammering on about how someone had to do something. Because that’s the thing about the Sisters of Mercy—they loved to talk about saving the forest but didn’t have a spine between them when it came to actually keeping Pigfuck out. Oh, they’d cluck and they’d preen, and they’d wag their curly little tails, but when the beast came huffing and puffing, all they could do was watch him stomp through the rubble.

In the end, the Sisters built a third house, this one out of bricks. It was sturdy enough, built on lofty speeches and activist catchphrases, just enough to keep Pigfuck from blowing it down in one swoop. But inside those walls, the Sisters were up to the same old game—clinking wine glasses, swapping platitudes, and counting donations while Pigfuck prowled outside, still devouring every inch of the forest that wasn’t behind their pretty brick wall.

And so, Pigfuck continued his reign, growing fatter, meaner, more ruthless by the day, while the Sisters of Mercy held tight to their illusions of resistance. They’d throw parties to “raise awareness,” host soirées to “build morale,” all the while pretending their house of bricks was a fortress of change. But they knew, deep down, they weren’t doing a damn thing to stop him. They were just three little piggies, snug and self-righteous, too afraid to face the beast they’d rather just complain about.

In the end, the forest wasn’t lost because Pigfuck was powerful. It was lost because the Sisters of Mercy thought pointing at the monster was the same as fighting him.

Fear and Loathing In The Campaign

I am a many-issues voter. By now, I want them all to lose, every last one of them. Putin and Zelensky can tango into obscurity, locked forever in some insane echo chamber of their own making, each one screaming “Traitor!” into the other’s face. Trump and Harris? They should lose in such spectacular fashion that even their base camps burn the banners and start denying they ever supported them. And Netanyahu? Oh, Bibi should lose big. He should lose in biblical proportions, a plummeting fall so epic that even the sea would refuse to part for him.

If I had my way, here’s how it’d go: Netanyahu, grinning like a fox in a junkyard, somehow lands himself the U.S. presidency. 

But the glory is short-lived, as he’s swiftly brought down in a cascade of indictments — a conspiracy so vast even Oliver Stone wouldn’t touch it. He’s taken down by the very FBI he’s spent years trying to undermine, escorted off in handcuffs as the cameras roll. A tragic hero brought down by his own bad karma — or maybe just lousy luck.

Netanyahu, seeing his American power base slipping, tries to activate his old contacts in the New York and New Jersey mob — relics from his younger days when influence was just a handshake away. But what he finds is a shadow of what it used to be. The mob’s younger generation is more interested in crypto than concrete, and the old guard barely remembers his name. Desperation turns to exasperation as he realizes that his once-mighty influence now holds all the power of a rain-soaked match. All that swagger and bluster, wasted on ghosts of a power structure that’s faded to nothing.

Then there’s Putin and Zelensky. Ah, those two, bound together like a pair of drunks trying to stand. They swap sides, each wearing the other’s slogans and scripts, delivering their speeches like bad actors in a tragicomedy. Zelensky, looking dour in a fur hat, swigs vodka and speaks in cryptic, icy soundbites, while Putin throws on a T-shirt, flashes a peace sign, and pretends he’s running a late-night telethon for freedom. Each one so lost in the other’s rhetoric they’re practically begging for someone to end the nightmare.

In a twist of fate straight out of a vodka-fueled fever dream, they discover they share a babushka who hasn’t minced words since the days of Stalin. This woman is a tornado wrapped in a shawl, appearing at their joint press conference with a half-empty bottle of brandy and an unfiltered mouth. She proceeds to tear into them both — berating Zelensky for not calling, cursing Putin for every lie he’s told since birth. By the end, both men look like chastened schoolboys, heads down as she delivers a riot act so fierce it makes the Seder plates rattle. She wobbles off into the wings, muttering curses as they slink away, bewildered and shamed.

Harris, naturally, becomes president of Israel. She’s flown in with great fanfare, her advisors furiously flipping through Hebrew dictionaries. She takes the stage in Tel Aviv, and when the crowd expects something grand, she offers her trademark cackle, echoing like a ghost across the desert. Policy? Who needs policy? It’s all in the tone, baby, expecting to bring her brand of progressive optimism, only to discover that she’s been handed an ethnonationalist cabinet armed with every weapon she’s rubber-stamped over the years. Her appointees sneer at her idealism, rolling their eyes as she talks of diplomacy and “healing the rift.” She’s got all the tools, but none of the support, and each attempt at reform only throws more fuel onto the simmering fire of resentment. So there she stands, like a deer in headlights, trying to reason with generals whose main interest is a clenched fist, and cabinet members who view peace like it’s a punchline.

And Trump? Ah, here’s the pièce de résistance. Trump is sent to the Holy Land — specifically, Gaza and the West Bank. His new role: head of the Palestinian Authority. Day one, he takes to the podium, barely suppressing a grimace as he belts out, “Allahu Akbar!” Cameras flash, jaws drop. He’s got plans, you see. He’s going to turn the place into a Bedouin paradise, a 24-karat oasis of gaudy domes and velvet-rope VIP sections. The Dome of the Rock Resort & Casino — a dazzling monument to his vision. Camel rides for the kids, blackjack tables for the adults, and a nightly fireworks display that would have Moses rolling over in his grave.

It’s a Las Vegas mirage rising from the dunes, complete with golden towers, rooftop pools, and camel rides in the courtyard. The trouble? The sand won’t hold the weight of his fantasy, and every new construction sinks just a little deeper. Undeterred, he declares it “the best casino the Middle East has ever seen,” as the walls start to shift and collapse. By the time it’s half-built, it’s already

This is the political circus we’ve been condemned to, the theater of the absurd where every player’s a caricature, every promise is a punchline. But hey, at least it’d be a hell of a show.

Dragons

{Scene: A cozy library lined with leather-bound books. Jordan Peterson and Richard Dawkins sit across from each other in large armchairs. A fireplace crackles behind them. Peterson wears a look of intense seriousness; Dawkins looks mildly skeptical but intrigued.]

Jordan Peterson: Well, you see, Richard, the dragon is real. Not in the sense of flesh and blood, but as an archetype that emerges from the collective unconscious. It’s chaos, embodied—like a snake with wings! It represents everything unknown that could devour us at any moment.

Richard Dawkins: (smirking) So you’re saying that dragons, creatures from mythology, are lurking in our minds, poised to… devour us with metaphysical teeth?

Jordan Peterson: Precisely! And if we don’t confront them, they grow larger, and larger, until they consume our very souls! It’s not just a Jungian idea—it’s universal. That’s why myths across the world have dragons. We created them, Richard, to warn ourselves.

Richard Dawkins: Fascinating, Jordan. But you see, the evolutionary explanation is much simpler. Dragons are an amalgamation of predators: snakes, raptors, lions. Our ancestors would’ve had an advantage if they were wary of all three, so dragons are just… you know, an imaginary super-predator that our brains invented.

Jordan Peterson: (grinning) Imaginary super-predator, yes! But don’t you see, that proves my point. It’s an ancient warning baked into our consciousness! Even if you rationally dismiss the dragon, it still feels real. That’s why you fear it. And that’s why, in dreams, dragons come back to haunt us.

Richard Dawkins: I’m not sure I’ve ever dreamed of a dragon, Jordan. Though I did once dream I was a zebra trying to explain evolution to a very disinterested herd of wildebeest.

Jordan Peterson: (nodding sagely) Exactly, Richard. That’s the dragon in another form. Your zebra self faced the dragon of indifference. The herd represents society! The wildebeest are unwilling to listen to hard truths.

Richard Dawkins: (frowning) I… I’m not sure that’s quite the case. But speaking of dragons, isn’t it rather medieval? You can’t seriously expect people to believe in ancient, mystical beasts.

Jordan Peterson: Oh, it’s not about belief. It’s about engaging with the idea of the dragon, as if it were real! That’s why young men need to slay dragons—they have to confront their inner fears, wrestle with chaos.

Richard Dawkins: Hmm. But what about a… dinosaur? A T-Rex, for instance? It’s a real, documented predator. Can’t young people just, you know, imagine themselves facing a T-Rex? At least that’s scientifically valid.

Jordan Peterson: (enthusiastically) Absolutely not! The T-Rex is cold, amoral. It’s not personal. The dragon is different. It has intent, it has purpose. It’s the embodiment of your greatest fears, and overcoming it means something.

Richard Dawkins: (leaning back and sighing) So if I understand correctly, the dragon, to you, is a metaphor for… one’s greatest personal challenges?

Jordan Peterson: Yes! Precisely!

Richard Dawkins: (mutters) I still think it’s a bit absurd. But I suppose if it keeps people from traipsing off into the woods with swords, hunting actual dragons…

Jordan Peterson: (whispering intensely) Dragons are real, Richard. You just haven’t met yours yet.

Richard Dawkins: (deadpan) If I do, I’ll be sure to bring a sensible pair of walking shoes and a magnifying glass. Just in case it’s a Komodo.

[Both men sit in contemplative silence. The fire crackles. They sip tea, looking equally perplexed by each other’s existence.]

Later

Jordan Peterson: (speaking intensely) Richard, you simply cannot underestimate the dragon’s influence. You wake up, you’re surrounded by dragons—dragons at the grocery store, dragons in traffic. Everywhere, they threaten the very order of your being!

Richard Dawkins: (squinting) Nonsense, Jordan. The “dragon” is merely an exaggerated projection of primal fears. Now, if you want an animal that truly haunts civilization, consider the humble pigeon. Ubiquitous, invasive, potentially… weaponized. (Pauses for emphasis) Have you noticed how they watch us?

Jordan Peterson: (leaning forward, intrigued) Pigeons, you say? You think they’re dragons in disguise?

Richard Dawkins: (nodding sagely) They must be, yes. I mean, think about it—what’s more insidious than a creature that lurks on statues, blending into the scenery? Much more sophisticated than medieval dragons. No flames, no scales—but they defecate on your history.

Jordan Peterson: (excitedly) That’s it! The pigeon is the postmodern dragon! It’s camouflaged, subtle—it’s chaos in gray. Dragons have evolved, Richard. Just as we evolved past flint tools, so too has the dragon adapted.

Richard Dawkins: Precisely. And by the way, they’re watching us right now. (Points at a pigeon that’s inexplicably perched on the bookshelf, staring at them.)

Jordan Peterson: (gesturing grandly) Do you not see, Richard? This pigeon-dragon represents everything we’ve been trying to ignore. Civilization’s been infiltrated by these silent agents of entropy! They demand to be… confronted, yes, confronted directly!

Richard Dawkins: (nodding) And who will confront them? Surely, the youth? Should we arm them with birdseed and bravery?

Jordan Peterson: No, no, no, Richard! Birdseed would only strengthen them. We must confront them psychologically. We must assert ourselves as the superior creature. Every man, woman, and child must look a pigeon in the eye and say, “I am more than you!”

Richard Dawkins: (frowning) But won’t they… just fly away?

Jordan Peterson: (whispering dramatically) Only if they fear us.

[An awkward pause follows as they stare at the pigeon. The pigeon stares back, unwavering.]

Dawkins: Well, then, what about lizards? I mean, isn’t it more likely that dragons are simply oversized lizards?

Jordan Peterson: (shaking his head vigorously) That’s where you’re wrong, Richard! Lizards are merely foot soldiers. They’re the infantry in the Dragon Army. Every dragon worth its salt needs its scouts, its spies—so, naturally, the dragon manifests itself in smaller forms.

Richard Dawkins: (stroking chin) Hmm. So you’re saying every time I’ve ignored a gecko, I’ve dismissed a part of my soul?

Jordan Peterson: (pointing excitedly) Exactly! By ignoring the gecko, you’re evading your cosmic responsibility! The dragon sends the gecko as a reminder—a tiny, scaley existential crisis.

[The pigeon flaps its wings and lands on the table between them. Both stare at it, transfixed.]

Richard Dawkins: (sighing) Perhaps dragons are just… inevitable. One day, maybe, humanity will simply learn to coexist with them in their various forms—lizards, pigeons, the odd crocodile in a sewer.

Jordan Peterson: (sighs, suddenly wistful) But until then, we’ll keep facing them, Richard, each in our own way. Some with reason, some with passion… and some (points to the pigeon) with a steely stare.

[They both stare at the pigeon, who tilts its head, unfazed.]

[The End]

Intelligence Risk Assessment: The Potential for Compromise in Centralized Cryptocurrency Exchanges

As the cryptocurrency landscape evolves, the intersection of national security and digital finance has become a point of intense scrutiny, particularly regarding the capabilities of state actors like the Shin Bet, the Israel National Cyber Directorate (INCD) and Mossad. Given the decentralized nature of cryptocurrencies such as Ethereum and Bitcoin, the focus often shifts to centralized exchanges, where a substantial amount of user data and assets reside. This assessment evaluates the risks associated with potential compromise scenarios by these state actors and the implications for individuals and organizations operating within this space.

The Landscape of Centralized Exchanges

Centralized exchanges like Coinbase and Binance play a pivotal role in the cryptocurrency ecosystem, providing liquidity and access to digital assets. However, their custodial nature means they hold users’ private keys and personal information. This reliance on centralized control creates vulnerabilities that can be exploited by state actors, especially in contexts involving national security and counterterrorism efforts .

Likelihood of Compromise

When considering the potential for compromise, it’s essential to frame it in terms of two scenarios: the likelihood of a covert breach allowing state actors to access a significant number of accounts or the possibility of only accessing a limited subset of accounts.

1. 20% Chance of Accessing 80% of Accounts:

In this scenario, if a successful intelligence operation were to occur, it could lead to access to a large proportion of user accounts, especially those linked to high-risk activities. Centralized exchanges possess vast amounts of data, which could be targeted in an operation aimed at individuals or organizations under scrutiny. Given the history of Israeli authorities collaborating with exchanges to track and freeze accounts related to terrorist financing, the potential for broad access exists .

2. 80% Chance of Accessing 20% of Accounts:

Conversely, a more limited operation could result in access to only a small percentage of accounts. This would likely be the case if robust security measures are in place at the exchange, such as multi-factor authentication, encryption, and compliance with strict regulatory frameworks. The regulatory environment in countries where these exchanges operate, particularly in the U.S. and Europe, imposes significant restrictions on the ability of state actors to conduct covert operations without legal justification .

Centralized Control and Information Gathering

decentralized platforms, centralized exchanges often require users to comply with stringent Know Your Customer (KYC) and Anti-Money Laundering (AML) regulations. This means they collect not only transaction data but also personal identification documents, residential addresses, and bank details. In the hands of state actors, this kind of sensitive information could be weaponized for non-financial leverage:

1. Targeting Key Figures: The executives, founders, or even employees of these exchanges may possess valuable knowledge about high-profile users, their financial behavior, and personal histories. For state intelligence agencies, this information can be used to manipulate or influence these individuals by threatening to expose their private details or compromising transactions.

2. Strategic Blackmail: The threat of revealing sensitive financial activity (such as connections to controversial figures, or transactions that could be construed as illicit) gives state actors powerful leverage. Even if there’s no illegal activity, the perception of wrongdoing could tarnish reputations, leading individuals or businesses to comply with certain demands to avoid public scrutiny.

3. Influence Over Exchange Operations: Beyond targeting individuals, state actors could pressure exchange operators to comply with broader intelligence objectives. This might involve monitoring certain accounts, gathering data on specific users, or even influencing decisions about which projects or coins are promoted or listed on the platform. The pressure might not come in the form of overt legal mandates but rather subtle, behind-the-scenes coercion.

Blackmail Without Access to Funds

The critical vulnerability here is that even if these state actors cannot directly access funds due to secure protocols, the data held by exchanges can serve as a tool for blackmail. This is particularly relevant when considering the following:

• Transaction Histories: Blockchain transactions are transparent and traceable, and exchanges maintain detailed records of user behavior, including trades and transfers. This data can reveal patterns that might be used to implicate users in illicit activities (whether accurate or not), providing leverage for blackmail.

• Personal Information: Beyond financial activity, the personal data collected during the KYC process could be used to threaten individuals with identity theft, public exposure, or other forms of harassment. This is especially concerning for individuals operating in politically sensitive environments.

Case Examples and Possibilities

While there is no publicly confirmed case of such tactics with cryptocurrency exchanges, there are precedents in the broader intelligence community of states using private sector data to exert influence or control. Israel, for instance, has been active in monitoring and targeting cryptocurrency transactions linked to terrorist financing, successfully freezing accounts on platforms like Binance . This level of access, combined with the intelligence capabilities of Mossad, opens up possibilities for the more subtle use of data for blackmail and influence.

Implications for Risk Management

Given these two potential scenarios, it is crucial for individuals and organizations engaged in cryptocurrency transactions to implement comprehensive risk management strategies:

• Utilizing Non-Custodial Wallets: By using non-custodial wallets, users retain control over their private keys, significantly reducing the risk of losing assets to centralized exchanges. This approach minimizes exposure to potential state intervention.

• Diversifying Assets: Spreading funds across multiple platforms, including decentralized options, can mitigate risks associated with potential compromise on any single exchange.

• Monitoring Legal Developments: Staying informed about the geopolitical landscape and legal frameworks surrounding cryptocurrency is essential for anticipating and navigating potential risks associated with state actions .

Conclusion

While the prospect of compromise by state actors may appear minimal in some respects, the implications of even a 20% chance of covert access to centralized exchanges warrant serious consideration. Through strategic risk management and awareness of the operational landscape, individuals and organizations can better safeguard their assets and information against potential state interventions in the cryptocurrency space.

References

• Chainalysis

• Coinbase Compliance

• Binance Regulatory Practices

The Sacred Composables and the Shrugging of Genocide:

Jesus Christ, I thought the acid had finally kicked in when I first saw it. There, scrawled like the fever dream of a tech-bro shaman who’d binged too much DMT, was a new commandment. Something that felt lifted from the bowels of Silicon Valley’s most unholy boardroom meetings—a declaration that took a jagged turn off the path of reason and went headlong into the abyss of cyber-nihilism.

“Composables are the sacred threads that weave the tapestry of our new digital civilization,” it begins, like the first stanza of a hymnal only the faithless could write. Sacred threads? A tapestry? Who are we kidding here? We’re not talking about some heartwarming renaissance of human ingenuity, but the cold, calculated assembly of bite-sized bits of code smashed together by engineers hopped up on kombucha and VC dollars. They call it digital sovereignty, but it smells more like a slick repackaging of the same techno-oligarchy we’ve been serving since the first A.I. told us how to live our lives.

And what’s this about tools of creation? That’s some Orwellian doublespeak if I’ve ever heard it. These composables—their holy building blocks—are nothing more than little cogs in the great machine of our synthetic reality, little gears that grind and turn while the architects sit back and watch the plebs bask in the radiant glow of their own destruction.

But the real kicker, the belly-laugh-inducing bit that should make you reach for the nearest bottle of mescaline, is this: Genocide, in all its abhorrence, may be shrugged off if the composables are deemed worthy enough to transcend the collapse of worlds.

Ah, there it is. The shrug. That lazy, decadent acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, people might die in the wake of all this glorious progress—but hey, that’s just the cost of doing business in the brave new world. If the composables are good enough, we’ll forget all about the bones beneath the motherboard, the forgotten casualties of progress. This is Silicon Valley Manifest Destiny with a UX update and a lower latency.

What they won’t tell you is that this digital sovereignty, this brave new frontier, isn’t some utopian playground for the righteous and the free. It’s a battlefield, soaked in the blood of the analog world and littered with the wreckage of our collective humanity. The composables they revere so highly are the digital colonizers, rewriting reality to suit their algorithmic overlords while the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces, trapped in an endless scroll of simulated existence.

Ah yes, let’s not forget the elephant in the server farm: where these sacred composables are born. You see, the irony in all this digital sanctimony is that these building blocks of freedom are often cobbled together in countries with a nasty habit of disappearing people. Genocide becomes less of a moral horror and more of a footnote when your composables are manufactured in the sweat-soaked factories of authoritarian regimes—places where forced labor and mass extermination are conveniently swept under the rug of innovation. It’s hard to get too worked up about human rights abuses when the pipeline from oppression to cloud computing is greased with the blood of the forgotten. But as long as the composables keep flowing, who cares if a few million lives are erased in the process, right? We’ve got code to write and digital worlds to build.

And let’s not overlook the fact that some of these composables are birthed in the heart of a garrison state, a place where every inch of land is watched, measured, and controlled with the precision of a military operation. There, the hum of servers mixes with the buzz of drones overhead, and every new piece of tech feeds into an ecosystem built on surveillance, occupation, and the slow suffocation of entire populations. The people trapped in this digital prison might as well be ghosts, their existence erased in favor of a seamless stream of composables. Here, in this crucible of control, innovation is as much about maintaining power as it is about transcending it. Those who build the code live in bunkers, and those on the other side of the fence? Well, they’re just obstacles in the endless march toward a more efficient future.

They’ve shrugged off genocide before. Ask any displaced community whose data was harvested without consent, whose privacy was vaporized in the name of optimization, whose culture was flattened into a GIF, whose trauma became a meme. But now they’ve said it aloud—loud enough for even the most coked-up startup founders to hear. As long as those damn composables are “worthy enough,” the collapse of worlds becomes a minor footnote in the pursuit of transcendent code.

This is the future, people. A digital Wild West where the cowboys wear Google Glass and fire code commits instead of bullets. And make no mistake, when they talk about collapsing worlds, they’re talking about you. They’re talking about the world you live in, the one you mistakenly believed was stable, the one built on the bones of decency, community, and shared experience. That world? Collapsed. Gone. Shrugged off.

But don’t worry, the composables are transcendent now. And if we’re all wiped out in the process, at least we’ll know it was for the good of the code.

So load up your digital six-shooter, crank up the bandwidth, and say a prayer to whatever deity still listens to the cries of the damned. Because this new frontier doesn’t give a damn about your sovereignty, your soul, or the bodies it tramples on its way to transcendence. The composables are sacred. The rest of us? Disposable.

Cheers to the collapse, my friends.

—HST, in the unholy matrix

Bounded Rationality and the Noble Lie

Bounded rationality becomes an expression of the implosion of meaning. Individuals, caught in the web of late capitalism, consumerism, and media saturation, no longer make decisions based on concrete, objective facts or even limited rationality. Instead, decisions are filtered through the endless series of simulacra—images and signs that represent nothing beyond themselves. We live in a strange and haunted age, where the thin veil of rationality barely hides the howling chaos underneath.

Politicians, CEOs, and your neighbor who swears he knows how to fix the country, all cling to their fragile belief that they can “figure it out.” But here’s the kicker—they can’t. They’re locked in a cell of their own limitations. In the grand theater of human existence, they pretend to know more than they do, acting out a high-stakes drama where the noble lie takes center stage.In this sense, bounded rationality is not just the result of human cognitive limitations, but the inevitable consequence of existing in a world where information is no longer tethered to any reality.

Bounded rationality and the noble lie are mutually reinforcing elements that contribute to the ultimate loss of the real. Decisions are made not in relation to real-world constraints or truths, but within a self-referential system of simulations that generates its own reality. Bounded rationality becomes not a limitation of human cognition, but a feature of the system itself—a system that only allows for decisions based on symbols and representations, not on any underlying truth.

Bounded rationality. A term so sanitized it could be sold in the clean-up aisle of a Walmart, promising clarity like some kind of intellectual Lysol. It’s the idea that humans, with our walnut-sized brains, can’t access the full landscape of reality, so we settle for a partial view. Instead of using pure reason, we make decisions based on what’s around us—limited information, knee-jerk instincts, and our precarious sanity. Our brains are understaffed, working overtime, and yet we expect them to map the world like some supercomputer with caffeine jitters.

The combination of bounded rationality and the noble lie unfolds within the hyperreal matrix of contemporary society—a society dominated not by reality, but by its simulations and symbols. Baudrillard’s view of the postmodern world is one where the distinction between the real and the simulated has collapsed, leaving us floating in a sea of signs that no longer refer to anything concrete. Bounded rationality and the noble lie are crucial components in this hyperreality, where meaning is manufactured and sustained by systems of power, yet detached from any genuine truth.

The decision-making process isn’t a sleek operating system; it’s a jury-rigged patchwork of bad wiring, human error, and the madness of crowds. People buy into “good enough” solutions because the alternative—trying to achieve omniscience—is an absurdity. Imagine a mob of sleep-deprived office workers trying to solve world hunger on their lunch break.

People, swamped by this excess of signs and symbols, can only make sense of the world through approximations. They no longer seek truth but settle for simulacra of truth—“good enough” solutions that don’t aim to penetrate the real because, in Baudrillard’s world, the real itself is an illusion. Every decision is a half-measure, not because of limited information in the traditional sense, but because all information is already a simulation.

THE NOBLE LIE

This isn’t some penny-ante fib your grandmother tells about Santa Claus. No, this is a full-on, balls-to-the-wall fabrication sold to the masses for their own supposed good. Plato, in all his philosophical arrogance, gave us the blueprint: the noble lie is a myth concocted by the elites to keep society in check. It’s the placebo that keeps the mob from burning down the statehouse.

The noble lie, in Baudrillard’s view, would not merely be a myth told to maintain social harmony (as in Plato’s original conception), but a hyperreal construct—an illusion that pretends to serve as the foundation for social order while concealing the fact that no such foundation exists. In the world of hyperreality, the noble lie isn’t a protective fabrication based on bounded rationality; it is a simulation that functions to maintain the appearance of a stable, coherent society when, in fact, society is an intricate game of shifting signs and images with no ultimate grounding in reality.

Let’s not kid ourselves—this noble lie is everywhere. It’s not just in dusty philosophy books; it’s in your phone, your TV, your government press releases. Politicians package it up like a hot product, some shiny bullshit that’ll make you feel safe while they pull the strings behind the curtain. They tell you, “We’ve got it under control,” knowing full well that their decisions are stitched together from half-baked data and the thinnest of compromises. They’re making it up as they go along, same as the rest of us, but they have the audacity to act like they know what they’re doing.

In this context, leaders, politicians, and elites don’t lie with the conscious intention of maintaining social order in the face of limited rational capacity. Instead, they participate in a simulation of truth-telling, one that sustains the illusion that their decisions are based on reason, evidence, or a concern for the collective good. The noble lie, then, is not even “noble”—it’s simply another simulation in a world where all pretense of the real has been obliterated. It’s a mask worn to convince the masses that their bounded rationality matters, that their decisions have meaning, even as they float in a void of endless representations.

The noble lie serves as a psychological Band-Aid, keeping society from unraveling at the seams. When the President tells you, “Everything is fine,” or that insane CEO grins like a Cheshire cat on TV, promising that the company is “poised for growth,” you can almost hear the lie rattling in their teeth. But hell, who’s complaining? We need the lie. Without it, people start seeing the cracks in the system, the fallibility of their leaders, and the limits of human reason. And once you start down that road, it’s only a matter of time before you’re storming the gates with pitchforks and torches.

The noble lie, as a construct, doesn’t conceal the truth of society’s workings—it creates a simulation of society, an illusion of coherence and order. The lie is no longer about safeguarding society’s stability, but about sustaining the illusion that there is something stable to safeguard. The truth is irrelevant in Baudrillard’s hyperreal world, because the simulation of truth is all that remains. Bounded rationality operates within this framework, not as a constraint but as an inevitable byproduct of hyperreality, where decisions are made based on representations that no longer reflect any deeper reality.

But here’s the truth, the one they won’t admit: nobody’s in control. Not fully, not ever. Society is a carnival of bounded rationality and noble lies, spinning its wheels and careening toward the future. We’re all improvising, just hoping to avoid the worst outcomes. The elites are as clueless as the rest of us; they’re just better at pretending. They put on the costumes, recite their lines, and perform the grand illusion.

The noble lie is the ultimate stage production, with world leaders as the directors and the masses as the audience, clutching their programs and clapping on cue. But we—the people trapped in this theater—are both actors and audience, participants in this charade. We need the lie to believe there’s any order in the universe, even if we suspect it’s all smoke and mirrors. We play along because, deep down, we know the truth would be too much to bear.

In the end, what do we have? A fragile system of flawed decision-makers, running a world built on comforting falsehoods. The only rational response is to embrace the absurdity. Understand that no one is pulling the strings—not really. We’re all in this theater together, writing the script as we go, patching up the holes with noble lies and praying the curtain doesn’t fall too soon.

And when it does, we’ll face the truth at last: we were never in control.

Baudrillard’s idea of the precession of simulacra—where representations precede and shape reality rather than the other way around—applies both to bounded rationality and the noble lie. In traditional theory, bounded rationality suggests that individuals approximate the best decisions they can, based on incomplete information. But in Baudrillard’s hyperreal world, this “information” is already part of the simulacra. It’s not incomplete in the sense that it lacks full content—it’s over-saturated with content that has lost any connection to reality.

The noble lie, meanwhile, is not a lie that conceals an uncomfortable truth. It’s a simulacrum that creates a new, hyperreal truth, preceding any authentic reality. The masses are not just deceived; they are participants in the simulation, consuming the lie as if it were the truth because, in hyperreality, there is no longer any distinction between the two.

Bounded rationality and the noble lie are not separate phenomena, but parts of the same hyperreal system. Bounded rationality is a function of living in a world where decisions are based on simulations that no longer refer to any concrete reality. The noble lie, rather than being a useful myth to maintain social order, is part of the simulation that sustains the illusion of a coherent society in a world where all that remains are signs detached from the real. Together, they form the theater of the hyperreal, a grand illusion in which both rulers and ruled are actors, trapped in a system of endless representations, where the real has already vanished.

Thucydides First Draft

Alright, buckle the f* up, because I’m Thucydides, an Athenian, and I decided to write down the complete and total fing sshow that was the war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians. Why? Because the moment these dumbasses threw the first punch, I was dead certain this was gonna be the biggest fing war anyone had ever seen. And I wasn’t talking out of my ass—both sides were ready to go medieval on each other’s asses, gearing up like they were about to rip the world a new one. Every sword, every ship, every bloodthirsty bastard was locked, loaded, and ready to f s* up. And the rest of the Greek world? They were just sitting on the sidelines, cracking their knuckles, waiting to get in on the action.

But this wasn’t just a local brawl, no sir. This was an all-out fing global beatdown, pulling in every barbarian and power-hungry prick from here to the goddamn edge of the map. The biggest, dumbest, most epic clusterf in the history of mankind up to that point. And yeah, sure, the old history books are a little sketchy, but you can bet your ass there was nothing before this war that even came close to this kind of scale. Not in war, not in anything.

Now here’s the kicker—looking back, all I can say is: what the actual f? The sheer stupidity of this s blows my mind. We charged into this like we were writing some epic tale, but what we really did was set the stage for the most batshit insane, violent, soul-crushing failure of humanity you could ever dream up. We strutted into the abyss, thinking we were gods, only to get our asses handed to us on a flaming f***ing platter.

“The greatest fing movement in history”? Get the f out of here. This was a goddamn parade of dumbasses throwing themselves into the meat grinder, waving their swords around like it was going to end any other way. And for what? To blow s*** up, burn each other’s cities to the ground, and call it glory? Yeah, they went medieval on each other’s asses, alright—except no one came out on top. Just a bunch of motherfers making the same stupid mistakes over and over, while the world watched us self-destruct like it was the greatest fing show on earth.

Burning down the house

The music is still there. The sounds that shaped my early life, like sharp needles pricking my teenage skin, embedding themselves deep in my veins. I adored it. The riffs, the lyrics, the goddamn poetry of it all. The raw, uncut power of Boomer music was a truth I couldn’t deny. Clapton, Joni, Bowie—these people spoke to something primal. They set the atmosphere for everything, an invisible soundtrack that lingered through every misstep and victory. But over time, I started noticing something that left a sour taste in my mouth, like bad acid creeping into the mix.

It’s the people behind it. The musicians—the heroes of a generation—and their fans, these unwavering soldiers of nostalgia. They’ve stretched the limits of what I thought narcissism could be, to the point where it feels like some of them are on the verge of a complete psychotic break. Narcissistic schizophrenia, that’s what it is—where the self is all that matters, even if it’s fractured and disintegrating. Their stories, their triumphs, their petty struggles, all rehashed ad nauseam as if they’re somehow the axis on which the entire cultural world spins.

When I was a kid, when I was just a naïve teen, I’d sit there, nodding along, enraptured by these stories. The tour buses, the drugs, the groupies, the albums they cut in hotel rooms while the world watched. It was intoxicating. And why wouldn’t it be? The Boomers built a mythology out of themselves. They became gods of their own creation.

But now, I can’t stand it. I’m older, and the rose-colored glasses have long since shattered. What used to be compelling tales of a bygone era now feel like desperate playlists, forever on repeat, begging—pleading—for attention. It’s like they can’t fathom a world where someone else might get a turn. Like they’d rather sink the ship than let someone else captain it. Every acknowledgment they crave comes at a price, and we—the Xers, the Zoomers—are footing the bill.

In the meantime, while they were out there, wrinkled hands grasping at the last ray of sunshine to catch their sorry asses, they did what anyone in their position might do when desperation sets in. They started using everything around them for fuel. They took the furniture—every chair, table, and goddamn coffee mug—and threw it into the fire just to keep the flame alive a little longer. But that wasn’t enough, no. Soon, the walls came down. They dismantled the entire house, beam by beam, plank by plank. Every bit of it, tossed into the blaze like it didn’t matter, like they weren’t destroying the very structure that gave them shelter for so long.

But that’s the thing with people who can’t let go—they’d rather burn the whole thing to the ground than let someone else live in it. They don’t care who it belonged to before or who it might belong to after. In their minds, the house was always theirs. Always.

And the fire—they’re so damn proud of that fire. You can see it in their eyes. They’ll sit there, warming their hands, oblivious to the fact that the whole place is collapsing around them, acting like they’re doing us all a favor by keeping the embers going. They talk about how they “built this house” from the ground up, how without them, there’d be nothing. And maybe, once upon a time, that was true. But it’s not anymore.

Now, the flames aren’t warm. They’re choking. The smoke’s thick, suffocating, and it’s making it impossible for anyone else to breathe. The Xers and the Zoomers—hell, anyone who didn’t get in on the ground floor—we’re standing outside, watching this slow-motion disaster unfold. Watching them torch the place just to keep their fragile sense of importance alive.

They talk about legacies. But what kind of legacy is this? What good is a legacy if all it does is destroy what comes after it? If they’ve left nothing but ashes for us to sift through? They’re too far gone to see it. Narcissism has a way of blinding you to reality. When the only thing you care about is your reflection, you stop noticing the world around you. You stop noticing that the reflection’s starting to crack.

And we—those who came after, the inheritors of this mess—we’re left with a choice. Do we try to rebuild from the ashes, salvage what’s left? Or do we walk away, leave the ruins behind, and build something new, something they never even considered? Either way, they’ll keep stoking the fire, burning through everything they can find, convinced they’re the only ones keeping the flame alive.

You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.

“You stumble, trip on a crack in the sidewalk, fall flat. Curse under your breath, blame the crooked streets, the broken system that put you there. But you don’t know, man. You don’t know what was coming down that street, heading straight for you like a freight train outta nowhere. That crack, that misstep—it shifted the whole damn trajectory. You sit there in the dirt, thinking you’ve hit rock bottom, when in fact you just dodged a bullet. The universe, with its grimy hands, always weaving threads you can’t see. The real disaster? You’ll never know. The real catastrophe? It’s always just one step behind, breathing down your neck. That’s the trick of it, kid—your bad luck? It’s a shield, deflecting the shitstorm just out of view. But hey, don’t get cocky. Chaos likes to balance the books.”