Locked in a suffocating room, a Jacksonian, a Neocon, and a Techno-Libertarian stew in a surreal cacophony of complaints, each convinced the others are the root of all the world’s misery. The Jacksonian, clutching a tattered American flag, howls about the “pussification” of America, blaming the Techno-Libertarian for flooding the country with “goddamn H1B visa workers,” turning real jobs into code-based fiefdoms for SV elites. He calls the others “namby-pamby globalists,” who wouldn’t know a real fight if it crawled up their asses and bit them.
The Neocon, strutting around like a whiskey-soaked war hawk, insists the only way out is to make the desert glow and bomb the world into a freedom-shaped crater. He accuses the Jacksonian of being a “cowardly isolationist” and a “Putin apologist,” sneering, “You’d probably let Moscow roll tanks right through Europe if it meant you could keep your beer and football.” Turning to the Techno-Libertarian, he scoffs, “And you, you’re just a fucking armchair general. A Hitler appeaser in a Patagonia vest, too busy building your little crypto empires to care if the world burns.”
Meanwhile, the Techno-Libertarian, hunched over his phone in his Patagonia vest, declares that everything would be solved if they just let him re-centralize the internet and put him in charge. Slapping around smart contracts and drafting 1,200-page terms of use, he blames the Neocon for “stifling innovation with endless wars” and the Jacksonian for “ruining birthrates by clinging to jobs for truckers and ditch diggers instead of embracing the gig economy.” At best, you’re sigma—and, honestly, ugly.
After hours of grueling back-and-forth, the Jacksonian finally breaks, muttering, “You know, any of you even know what George Clooney’s doing these days? I liked that Nespresso thing he did. Classy.”
The Neocon, without missing a beat, replies, “No idea., last thing I remember was catching up on Taylor Swift. She win? I lost track after that whole Ticketmaster thing.”
The Techno-Libertarian, hunched over his phone snaps his head up in disbelief. “What kind of hell is this? It doesn’t even have a goddamn copy of The New York Times!
The room falls silent. For a moment, the three of them just stare at each other, a surreal tableau of ideological absurdity. The Jacksonian adjusts his crumpled flag, the Neocon reaches for a whiskey that isn’t there, and the Techno-Libertarian flicks at his phone, still trying to connect to a non-existent Wi-Fi.
In that stillness, the absurdity of it all crashes down on them. There they we’re in a hell of their own creation, each secretly longing for the very things they once swore they hated—the pomp, the self-righteousness, the spectacle of a world that, for all its flaws, at least had the decency to pretend it knew what it was doing.