Tag: Trump

American invasions of Mexico to go after bandits always go well

Well, here we are again, ladies and gentlemen. Another round of America’s favorite geopolitical drinking game: Invade Mexico, Why Not? Our perennial fixation with turning our southern neighbor into a glorified shooting range has been resurrected by none other than Donald J. Trump. Yes, the man whose diplomacy skills rival those of a raccoon raiding a garbage bin now promises to “take care of” Mexican drug cartels. How? By doing what we’ve done so spectacularly well in the past: sending in the troops, making a mess, and coming home with a collective hangover of denial and debt.

Trump’s latest plan to “obliterate” cartels seems to draw inspiration from that proud American tradition of botched interventions, from Pancho Villa to Pablo Escobar. The former president has proposed using the full might of the U.S. military to eliminate the cartels, as if Mexico is just waiting for the 82nd Airborne to roll in and clean house. Never mind that this is the geopolitical equivalent of trying to kill a fly with a flamethrower. The crowd loves it. The idea of yet another righteous crusade — this time to liberate Mexico from itself — is red meat for the MAGA faithful.

Manifest Destiny: The Remix

This isn’t the first time Uncle Sam has glanced south of the Rio Grande with murderous intent. In 1916, we sent General Pershing on his infamous “Punitive Expedition” to capture Pancho Villa. You might remember how that ended — with U.S. forces wandering the Mexican desert for months, accomplishing nothing except annoying the locals and proving that, yes, you can lose a war to guerrillas on horseback. But hey, why learn from history when you can reenact it with bigger guns?

Trump’s vision of cartels as cartoon villains ripe for an American ass-kicking betrays a staggering ignorance of how these organizations work. Cartels aren’t just armed thugs — they’re deeply embedded in Mexican society, often providing jobs, security, and social services in places the government has long neglected. Waging war on them is like trying to uproot a forest by burning the trees one at a time.

But nuance doesn’t sell well at rallies. What does? Bombs, bayonets, and the promise of a swift, righteous victory over those dastardly foreigners. Just slap a couple of Predator drones on the problem, and boom — no more drugs, right?

Collateral Damage, American-Style

Here’s the kicker: Trump’s war on the cartels won’t just destroy Mexico. It’ll destroy us too. Imagine the headlines: U.S. Forces Accidentally Bomb Mexican Wedding. The fallout would be immediate, catastrophic, and entirely predictable. Millions of Mexicans fleeing violence would pour into the U.S., creating a refugee crisis that would make the current border situation look like a Sunday picnic. But don’t worry — Trump has a plan for that, too: just build the wall higher. Maybe add some flamethrowers.

Meanwhile, the cartels, who have had decades to perfect their survival tactics, would laugh themselves silly. Every missile we drop on a cartel stronghold will be replaced by two new ones. Every “victory” will give the cartels fresh propaganda to recruit new members. And let’s not forget the drug trade itself — which thrives, by the way, because Americans can’t stop snorting, injecting, and swallowing anything that gets them high.

The War We Deserve

What’s truly galling about all this is how eagerly Americans swallow the fantasy of military intervention as a cure-all. We can’t fix our own cities, can’t control our own opioids, can’t even agree on what the hell “freedom” means anymore — but sure, let’s go save Mexico from itself.

A War with Mezcalito: Hallucinations on the Borderline

Hey, but let’s pause for a moment and consider who you’re really fighting here. It’s not just the cartels, amigo. You’re picking a fight with Mezcalito. And Mezcalito, as any true seeker knows, isn’t just some dime-store hallucination. This isn’t a crack den demon or a backyard shaman’s fever dream. Mezcalito is the spirit of the land itself — the eternal trickster, the cactus whisperer, the phantom guide who sees the world’s true shape and laughs at your foolish attempts to control it.

When you declare war on Mexico, you’re declaring war on Mezcalito. And that, my friends, is a war you cannot win. Mezcalito is older than nations, older than borders, older than war itself. He’s been here long before some suit in Washington drew a line across the desert and called it sovereignty. Mezcalito doesn’t recognize your laws, your flags, or your helicopters. He recognizes the desert winds, the peyote buttons, and the sacred dance of chaos that will rip your plans to shreds.

Don Juan Was Right, You Know

If this is starting to sound like something out of The Teachings of Don Juan, that’s because it is. Castaneda had it nailed decades ago: Mexico isn’t a place. It’s a state of mind, a realm of shifting realities where nothing is as it seems. The deeper you go, the more you realize you’re not in control. You’re in Mezcalito’s world now, and he doesn’t play by your rules.

This isn’t just spiritual mumbo jumbo — it’s baked into the history of every half-cocked U.S. adventure south of the border. From Pershing to the DEA, every time we’ve tried to impose our will on Mexico, the land itself has pushed back. Not just with bullets or barricades, but with something far more insidious: entropy. Logistics collapse. Morale crumbles. The border turns into an infinite Escher staircase where no one knows which side they’re on anymore.

Enter the Era of Drugs and High-Octane Madness

This isn’t the 1910s, either. This is the age of fentanyl, psychedelics, and high-octane paranoia. Mezcalito isn’t just hiding in the desert now — he’s in every high school, every tech startup, every gleaming skyscraper where stressed-out executives microdose mushrooms to “unlock their creativity.” He’s not just a border problem; he’s a global phenomenon.

You think you’re fighting the cartels? Good luck. The cartels are just Mezcalito’s foot soldiers, moving with the precision of a Unix operating system. Yes, I said Unix, because Mezcalito knows the code better than you ever will. He’s hacked into the system, rerouting your supply chains, slipping his ghost through your firewalls. Fentanyl labs in Sinaloa? Mezcalito’s script. Bitcoin-funded coke deals? Mezcalito’s ledger. You’re not just up against drug runners with AK-47s — you’re up against a cosmic force that sees your war plans as a bad joke.

When the Dust Settles (If It Ever Does)

At the end of this war — if you even make it to the end — you’re not going to recognize either side of the border. Mezcalito’s trick is to show you the truth: that the border was always an illusion, a fragile construct designed to keep chaos at bay. But chaos doesn’t care about your fences or your checkpoints. It seeps through, carried by rivers of blood, sweat, and tequila.

Your soldiers will come back with thousand-yard stares, their minds fried not by combat, but by the sheer futility of fighting an enemy who doesn’t exist in the way you want him to. Your drones will crash. Your supply lines will vanish. And somewhere in the desert, Mezcalito will laugh, because you never understood what you were dealing with.

A War for the Ages, or Just Another Bad Trip?

So go ahead, Mr. Trump. Rally the troops. Send them south with their high-tech weapons and low-grade understanding of what they’re walking into. But don’t be surprised when this war spirals into something you can’t even comprehend. You’re not just fighting cartels. You’re fighting the spirit of the land, the chaos of the cosmos, and the relentless force of entropy itself.

And when it’s all over — when Mezcalito has had his way with you — don’t say we didn’t warn you. You wanted a war? You got one. Welcome to the desert, where nothing is what it seems and everything you thought you knew turns to dust.

Trump Baroque

Trump Baroque is a gaudy, all-American fever dream—a steroid-jacked carnival of excess where reality itself is dragged into the ring, bloodied and screaming, and pumped full of the same greasy adrenaline that fuels WWE smackdowns, Real Housewives screaming matches, and Sopranos-grade betrayals. It’s not politics anymore; it’s a no-holds-barred grudge match, a theater of madness where every handshake is a power play, every insult a tactical nuke, and every victory tastes like a cold McDonald’s cheeseburger devoured under fluorescent lights at 3 a.m., with ketchup smeared on a golden tie.

This is not the natural order of things. This is a hostile takeover of reality—a savage, brain-splitting cacophony of narcissism and spectacle, where nothing matters except the show. The truth? Irrelevant. Integrity? A joke. All that counts is who’s screaming the loudest, who’s standing last, and whose name is lit up in gaudy neon on the side of the collapsing casino that used to be the American Dream.

The Trump Baroque aesthetic thrives on chaos. It’s a gold-plated nightmare, a carnival of grotesques. Picture a gilded Oval Office with more mirrors than Versailles, endless echo chambers reflecting one inflated ego after another. Picture backroom deals brokered over buckets of KFC, punctuated by fist-slams on faux-marble tables. Picture a mob boss swagger wrapped in a reality-TV sheen, where every betrayal is scripted but somehow still cuts deep.

The players in this psychedelic opera are larger-than-life caricatures. The Boss—part Don Corleone, part Vince McMahon—is the maestro of this deranged symphony, orchestrating feuds, firing off insults like cheap fireworks, and always keeping the crowd on edge. His inner circle? A rogues’ gallery of sycophants and backstabbers, clinking champagne flutes one minute and plunging daggers into each other’s backs the next. Loyalty is a punchline. The only rule: never let the spotlight leave your face.

Every scene is a spectacle. Every action is a power move. A handshake becomes a test of dominance. A rally morphs into a gladiatorial pit. The line between reality and performance dissolves in a haze of cheap cologne and sweat, leaving nothing behind but the faint, sickly smell of burned-out ideals.

And yet, beneath the absurdity, there’s a method to the madness—a perverse genius to the spectacle. Trump Baroque doesn’t just rewrite the rules; it burns the rulebook, tosses the ashes into a Diet Coke, and raises a gold-plated chalice to toast the chaos. In this universe, the only sin is to lose the crowd, and the only victory that matters is the one that makes the headlines.

So here we are, hurtling through a nightmare of our own making, trapped in a surrealist painting drenched in gold leaf and smeared with ketchup, where the stakes couldn’t be higher, and the absurdity couldn’t be louder. This is Trump Baroque—a vulgar, glorious, star-spangled apocalypse. God help us all.

Pigfuck and The Sisters of Mercy

“Our faith in the integrity of the system has been restored! After all, democracy is alive and well—as long as we’re on top, of course. It’s a beautiful thing, really: ballots counted, recounts recounted, audits audited, until—by some miracle of divine intervention—Republicans win! Then, and only then, is the system above reproach, a paragon of fairness, with not a shred of fraud to be found.

Funny how it works, isn’t it? Win, and we have the most secure election ever held. Lose, and suddenly the whole thing reeks of foul play, conspiracies lurking in every precinct. In short, elections are ‘stolen’ exactly as often as they are lost. Democracy, folks—it’s foolproof, provided you pick the right fools.”

Our “faith” in the integrity of the system has been restored—if, of course, by faith, we mean a cynical grin and a shot of bourbon while the clowns spin their wheels. This, my friends, is the greatest farce in the American political circus: Republicans hollering from the rooftops that democracy has been stolen from the People—until, by some celestial coin flip, they end up winning. Then, somehow, the entire operation is as pristine as a monk’s prayer book.

Think about it. The same bloodshot-eyed politicians who spent years spreading election paranoia like they were spreading manure suddenly morph into pious defenders of the very machine they’d spent so much time bashing. It’s as if the voting booths, those hallowed “sacred instruments of democracy,” become sanctified only when they turn out to be dispensers of red ballots. I can almost hear them: “Ah yes, the American people have spoken.” Right—so long as they’re speaking with a conservative accent.

But oh, when they lose, it’s suddenly the crime of the century! The earth shakes, the skies darken, and before you know it, the same officials who declared themselves the holy defenders of democracy are rampaging through their own playbook of conspiracies, frantically declaring it all a rigged spectacle. Out come the wild-eyed claims, the imaginary fraudsters, the phantoms of dead voters and ballot dumps—all so they don’t have to swallow the bitter pill of an election defeat. And yet, when they win, these problems magically evaporate.

The game is rigged, all right. But it’s not the ballot counters or the polling stations who are rigging it—it’s the spin doctors and fear-mongers. They’ve got a good racket going: win, and democracy is sacred; lose, and democracy is a lie. It’s a shell game, a three-ring carnival, and they’re selling you snake oil with one hand while they pick your pocket with the other. And every time you tune in, every time you let yourself get sucked into their pantomime of rage and righteousness, you’re just buying another ticket to the circus.

And then we have the Sisters of Mercy—our noble Democrats—tossing up their hands and bowing down to the almighty patriarchy of power and wealth, while still cooing sweet, syrupy promises to the poor sods who trusted them. Make no mistake, these so-called “champions of the people” are doing nothing but rolling over for every boardroom warlord and tech titan that dangles a dollar in their direction. They’re not so much a resistance as a pitiful curtsy—a bow to the billionaires, a nod to the corporations, a submissive little grin to anyone who’ll keep them fat and funded.

They prance around talking about “hope” and “change,” but what does that translate to? Just another soporific cocktail of half-measures and empty gestures, designed to keep the electorate in a cozy stupor while the corporate machinery churns on, louder than ever. They don’t earn the people’s trust; they leech off it, riding the coattails of progressive rhetoric while offering nothing substantial in return. Behind the scenes, they’re every bit as beholden to power as the villains they claim to oppose.

The reality is, they’ve perfected the art of symbolic resistance—a neat little trick where they stand in front of the cameras, shaking their fists, mouthing platitudes about “fighting for the common man,” all while giving the green light to the same backdoor deals and loophole-ridden legislation that feeds the beast. They’re not a counterforce to Republican corporate pandering; they’re the polished flip side, selling out with a smile, waving a rainbow flag while signing off on a corporate tax cut.

And they wonder why the electorate’s trust is thin as a politician’s spine.

But this is all comfort food for the periodic arrival of the real villains in this melodrama: the ethno-nationalist, fascist, pig-headed wing of the industrial-corporate complex. The Democratic Party may be complacent, but it’s the other side—the red-faced, boot-stomping maniacs—who take that complacency and turn it into a weapon. They’re the ones salivating on the sidelines, just waiting to take the reins of the machine, to twist and reshape it in their image, with slogans that smell of blood and soil.

The Democrats, bless them, think they’re holding the line, playing a noble game of resistance. But all they’re really doing is keeping the seat warm. Their tepid half-measures, their sanitized rhetoric, their cozy relationship with Wall Street—it all amounts to a mere intermission before the fascist show rolls back into town. They’re the warm-up act, lulling everyone into a sense of security so that when the hardliners show up with their chest-thumping nationalism and crude, industrial-strength authoritarianism, people are too dazed, too weary, to resist.

And the “villains,” these ethno-nationalist corporate beasts, they’re not here to play pretend. No, they don’t bow, they don’t nod politely to the corporate overlords—they are the overlords, unabashedly wielding power and privilege as a blunt instrument, smashing down anything or anyone who gets in their way. They aren’t beholden to the system; they want to own it outright, to reshape it into their own monstrous vision, where democracy is just a dusty word and the electorate is nothing more than a mass of consumers to be exploited or discarded.

So while the Sisters of Mercy are busy shuffling papers and mumbling slogans, the real threat is waiting in the wings, ready to barrel through with corporate backing and a base pumped full of rage and righteous ignorance. They’ve got no use for comfort or moderation, and the sad fact is, they’re not going anywhere. They’ll just keep coming back, riding on the waves of populist fury, dressed up as patriots, until the last semblance of democracy is a thin, fraying disguise for the ugly machinery grinding away underneath.

Impaired Narcissism

There’s a long list of historical leaders whose impairment signaled a rapid collapse of futures for corresponding empires

Biden type

King George III (England): Mental illness, likely porphyria. Loss of American colonies, rise of constitutional monarchy.

Paul von Hindenburg (Germany): Cognitive decline, facilitated Nazi rise. Collapse of Weimar Republic, rise of Nazi dictatorship.

King Charles II (Spain): Inbreeding, physical and mental disabilities. War of Spanish Succession, division of empire, decline of Habsburg Spain.

Emperor Ferdinand I (Austria): Epilepsy, possible hydrocephalus. Limited central authority, increased influence of regional nobility.

Emperor Rudolf II (Holy Roman Empire): Melancholy, mental disorder. Weakening of imperial authority, increased religious conflict, Thirty Years’ War.

King Louis XVI (France): Indecisiveness. French Revolution, fall of monarchy, rise of the First French Republic.

Tsar Nicholas II (Russia): Ineffective governance. Russian Revolution, fall of the Romanov dynasty, rise of Soviet Union.

Pope Clement VII: Indecision. Protestant Reformation, weakened Papal authority, loss of political power.

Emperor Nero (Rome): Cruelty, erratic behavior. Great Fire of Rome, increased persecution of Christians, instability leading to Year of the Four Emperors.

Emperor Caligula (Rome): Extreme cruelty, possible schizophrenia. Economic strain due to extravagance, assassination, power struggle.

Sultan Ibrahim I (Ottoman Empire): Severe mental illness, paranoia. Political instability, decline in administrative efficiency, increased influence of court factions.

King Ludwig II (Bavaria): Eccentric behavior, mental disorder. Financial strain due to extravagant projects, loss of Bavarian independence.

Emperor Justin II (Byzantium): Severe mental illness, violent behavior. Territorial losses, weakened military, increased pressure from external enemies.

Tsar Ivan IV (Ivan the Terrible, Russia): Paranoid, violent actions. Centralization of power, establishment of Oprichnina, increased internal strife.

King Henry VI (England): Bouts of insanity. Wars of the Roses, prolonged civil war, weakening of the monarchy.

Emperor Qin Shi Huang (China): Paranoia, extreme measures for immortality. Centralization of power, standardization, massive infrastructure projects, rapid collapse of Qin Dynasty.

Terms of Use

Good evening, valued constituents,

By continuing to participate in this democratic process, you hereby agree to the following terms and conditions, which are subject to change at any time, with or without prior notice.

Your vote, opinions, and support, whether explicitly expressed or implied through your presence, shall be utilized by this administration in accordance with its objectives, which may be revised at our sole discretion. While we endeavor to fulfill promises made during this campaign, there is no guarantee, either expressed or implied, that all commitments will be met. Actual results may vary.

We reserve the right to interpret public opinion as we see fit, and any suggestions provided by you, the citizen, may be implemented or ignored at our sole discretion, without the expectation of acknowledgment. Engagement in civic activities does not create an obligation on behalf of this administration to take direct action.

By participating in this political process, you waive any right to hold us accountable for unforeseen economic downturns, policy shifts, or general dissatisfaction with governance. We disclaim any liability for unintended consequences resulting from our policies, including but not limited to job losses, inflation, or decreased quality of public services.

This administration retains the exclusive right to redefine ‘success’ at any time, and the definition of key terms such as ‘progress,’ ‘prosperity,’ or ‘transparency’ may be adjusted to align with our evolving objectives.

Your trust is important to us, and we take every measure to protect it—however, we assume no responsibility for any erosion of public confidence resulting from actions or inactions on our part. Any grievances must be submitted in writing, though responses are not guaranteed.

By continuing to reside within the jurisdiction of this government, you acknowledge and accept these terms and conditions. Failure to comply with our interpretation of civic responsibility may result in future restrictions or limitations, to be determined at a later date.

Thank you for your continued participation, and we look forward to your ongoing compliance.

Best regards,

Your Administration”

Obama Style:

“My fellow Americans,

Before we begin, I want to remind you of one thing: we are in this together. But as we move forward, we must recognize that not every promise can be fulfilled exactly as intended. Now, here’s the thing—by participating in this democracy, you agree to certain terms and conditions, which are necessary to keep things running smoothly. We have to be honest with each other. Not every plan will turn out the way we want it to, and sometimes progress takes time—more time than we’d like.

Now, let’s be clear: while our administration will work hard to achieve the goals we’ve laid out, there are no guarantees. We will do our best, but there are complexities beyond our control. You may not always see the changes right away, and sometimes you might not even feel them, but that doesn’t mean we’re not working on your behalf.

As citizens, you have a vital role to play, but your engagement doesn’t automatically mean every suggestion will be implemented. It’s important to understand that we will continue to make decisions based on the broader good—even if it’s not immediately obvious.

Let me be clear: if something doesn’t go according to plan, we cannot, and will not, be held liable for every unintended consequence. This is the reality of governance. We’re moving in the right direction, but change is hard.

So, as you go about your lives, trust in the system—trust that we are doing what we can. And together, if we stay patient and hopeful, we’ll get to where we need to go. Thank you, and God bless America.”

Trump Style:

“Folks,

Let me tell you, nobody knows the system better than me. I know how it works, and it’s complicated, believe me. So, when you support us—and you do, in tremendous numbers—you agree to certain things. It’s all part of the deal, okay? And let me just say, it’s a great deal. But here’s the thing: we’re not responsible for everything. If something doesn’t go right, don’t blame us. We’re doing amazing things, but sometimes things happen. You all know that.

Now, we’re doing fantastic work, the best work. But no promises, okay? We’re going to try to fix things, but there’s a lot of mess left by the people before us. You understand that. And if things don’t go as planned—well, not my fault. Could be anyone’s fault, really, but not ours. You’ve seen the numbers, they’re incredible. Nobody’s done what we’re doing, but nobody can fix everything overnight. It takes time, folks, but we’re winning.

So, by being part of this country—the greatest country in the world—you agree that we can’t be blamed for everything. We’re doing our best, and it’s a great best, probably the greatest anyone’s ever seen. If things get tough, well, that’s just how it goes. We’ll figure it out, though. Don’t worry.

And believe me, if someone tries to tell you it’s not going well, they’re wrong. We’re making the best deals, the best moves. You’re gonna love it. But hey, if something goes sideways, you can’t come back and say we didn’t warn you. You agree to that, right? Believe me, it’s all under control. Thank you.”

Both versions carry the “terms of use” vibe but in the signature styles of Obama’s thoughtful, structured rhetoric and Trump’s confident, fast-paced delivery.