Tag: Prussia

NATO’s Two Bit hustles

NATO’s a two-bit hustle, baby, masquerading as global protector—an old-school patriarchy racket. Think of it as a high-rise corporate pimp: suits on top, chaos underneath. They sell you security, but they’re the ones dangling the knife at your throat. Make a mess in your backyard, blame it on the neighbors, and come in with the bulldozers. Give you just enough help to keep you dependent—like a junkie begging for one more hit, one more round of protection money.

Old boys’ club calling the shots, a little wink and nudge over the heads of the nations lining up like good little soldiers. Keep the gears oiled with war games and broken promises. Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya—those were test runs. Softening the borders, planting the flags. They’ll tell you it’s about democracy, but it’s about territory, baby. Territories and tax breaks for the elites. Make a deal, break a treaty, slide the blame onto the next poor bastard that didn’t see the strings being pulled.

NATO’s the abusive father at the head of the dinner table, right? Acts like he’s keeping the family together, but he’s only keeping them in line. The kind of guy who takes credit for every crumb of food on your plate, but you know damn well he’s the one who locked the pantry. When you ask for a little freedom, he gives you a leash instead—just long enough to think you’re walking free, but when you hit the end of that rope, he yanks hard.

He’s got the brothers—Europe, Canada—sitting there, quiet as church mice, not daring to raise their heads. They know the deal: speak out of turn, and the old man’s belt comes off. But he’s got his favorites too. Oh yeah, the golden child—maybe it’s the UK, maybe Turkey on a good day—gets to sit close, gets a pat on the back, while the others get scraps. But don’t be fooled—he’ll turn on them too. No loyalty in a tyrant’s heart, just control and the fear that someone might finally break the chain.

And let’s not forget the neighborhood. He’s got eyes everywhere, patrolling the streets like some self-appointed sheriff. The Balkans? Baltic states? They’re the kids on the block, watching him swagger around, knowing he can make life hell if they step out of line. He’s the guy who comes over and pretends to fix your fence, but leaves just enough damage so you’ll need him again next year.

Every so often, he’ll blow up at some distant cousin—Russia, Iran—just to remind the rest of the family who’s boss. It’s all a power play. But like any tyrant, his real fear is that the kids will figure him out one day, gang up, and take him down.

It’s all a con. NATO’s the biggest fixer in town. Keep the world spinning, but only just enough to keep you dizzy, docile, and desperate for their version of peace. And when the smoke clears? They’ll still be standing, counting up the chips, while the rest of the world foots the bill.

Bismarck

Leave a comment

Otto von Bismarck, the Iron Chancellor, was a man marinated in vice. Wine, a crimson serpent, coiled around his mornings, slithered through lunch, and tightened its grip at dinner. Beer, a frothy trollop yeasty serpent, slithered down his gullet between courses, leaving a trail of burps that could curdle milk. And cigarettes, glowing embers of damnation, were his constant companions, wisping their tendrils of addiction into his lungs. Tobacco, a fiery succubus, latched onto his lips, whispering sweet oblivion in puffs of acrid smoke.

And when the sun dipped below the horizon, Bismarck wouldn’t be caught dead (well, not yet) with a mug of chamomile tea. Sleep? A mere drunken stupor, a surrender to the green fumes of absinthe that clouded his dreams. No, sleep arrived on a flood tide of schnapps, a potent oblivion that painted the world a blurry shade of Prussian ambition.

At the Berlin Conference, where they carved Africa like a rotten melon, Bismarck wasn’t just a player, he was a force of nature fueled by fermented grapes and barley. Pickled herrings, those translucent messengers of the deep, found their way into his maw with a two-handed frenzy. Bismarck wasn’t a statesman, he was a fiend at a banquet. Pickled herrings, those translucent messengers of decay, found their way into his maw with a speed that defied cutlery. Two hands, like meat hooks, wrestled the oily fish, a grotesque ballet fueled by schnapps and avarice. The room reeked of power, sweat, and pickled fish, a fitting olfactory accompaniment to the dismemberment of a continent.

Was he drunk? Who the hell cared. Drunk or sober, Bismarck was a shark in a feeding frenzy, and Africa, dripping and glistening, was the blood in the water. One imagines the negotiations, a grand guignol of ink-stained maps and diplomatic double-entendres, punctuated by the belch of a man pickled himself, both literally and figuratively. The ink on the treaties might as well have been blood, Bismarck’s own fiery spirit staining the parchment. A whirlwind of diplomacy and debauchery, the Iron Chancellor left a trail of fumes and fumes alone in his wake.

One could argue Bismarck’s boozy brilliance was a double-edged sword, a Molotov cocktail of realpolitik served lukewarm. Sure, he unified Germany under a Prussian fist, but was it a foundation built on sand, mortared with hangover sweat?

It was the first domino in Germany’s tragic waltzing with oblivion. Imagine the map of Africa being carved up not by a steely-eyed statesman, but by a bleary-eyed baron with a tremor in his hand. Did the borders of the Congo sprawl outwards because Bismarck saw double after a particularly potent schnapps?

Perhaps. And perhaps those shaky lines, drawn in a haze of hops and hangover, laid the groundwork for future conflicts. Resources, resentment, a festering sense of injustice – a potent cocktail, even without the booze.

Then consider the domino effect. Bismarck’s legacy, built on unsteady legs, crumbles. The power vacuum sucks in a new breed of leader, hungry and paranoid. Enter Hitler, a teetotaler fueled by a different kind of intoxication – a twisted ideology that had him high as a🪁 (kite) on delusions of grandeur.

So yes, there’s a delicious irony, wouldn’t you say? Bismarck, the boozer, might have unwittingly paved the way for a dry drunk who’d plunge the world into a firestorm. The Iron Chancellor, brought low not by iron, but by cirrhosis. A cautionary tale, indeed, for leaders who confuse a full flagon with a full head.

Perhaps, if Bismarck had swapped the schnapps for seltzer, things might have been different. But that’s just another line in the mad scribble of history, a “what if” lost in the haze of his perpetual inebriation.One could argue Bismarck’s boozy statecraft was a recipe for Deutschland’s descent into the inferno. Imagine, the fate of entire nations decided by a man reeking of stale beer and pickled brine! His proclamations, no doubt, slurred pronouncements delivered through a haze of nicotine and schnapps.

It’s a heady cocktail of speculation, for sure. But with Bismarck swigging wine at breakfast and Hitler frothing at the podium, one can’t help but wonder if Germany just couldn’t find the right balance. Perhaps the answer wasn’t rock bottom or uptight abstinence, but a healthy dose of moderation. A nation, like a man, needs a clear head to navigate the treacherous waters of history.