The Russians are rattling their nuclear sabers once more, howling throughout state-run airwaves like getting old rock stars determined for a comeback. “Ultimatum,” “armed,” “don’t overlook the nuclear half!”—yeah, yeah, we get it, Sergey. The Chilly Conflict hangover by no means actually left the Kremlin, did it? However flip on the TV in Anytown, USA, and that doomsday chatter barely registers a pulse. The common American is just too busy peeling again one other bag of Cool Ranch and doom-scrolling TikTok to note the diplomatic mushroom cloud on the horizon. We’ve changed crimson alerts with crimson dye #40 and numbed our collective mind with apathy thick sufficient to cease a hypersonic missile.
Gene Wars and Retail Casualties
However candy Jesus, point out {that a} blonde actress with cheekbones sculpted by the gods may need an unfair genetic benefit and also you’ve acquired DEFCON 1. Sydney Sweeney dares to seem in an American Eagle advert with out apologizing for her DNA, and the outrage industrial complicated lights up like post-strike Baghdad on evening imaginative and prescient. Phrases like “regressive” and “racist” get launched like verbal cruise missiles from social media bunkers lined with participation trophies, comfortable blankets, and hormone tea. Nobody’s storming the seashores for world stability anymore—however they’ll positive as hell cancel a 100-pound mannequin for smiling flawed in denim. It’s not a struggle of concepts. It’s a hissy match with hashtags. I’m not having any of it.
“Ain’t That America”
We’ve turn into a nation that yawns at warheads and screams at waistlines.
You may virtually odor the irony wafting off the bloated corpse of widespread sense.
The actual battlefront isn’t abroad—it’s within the tradition’s frontal lobe, rotting from the within out with identification crusades and viral tantrums.
We’ve traded geopolitical grit for clickbait neurosis, and the troops have been changed by keyboard commandos in bathrobes.
Whereas Moscow sharpens its knives, we’re busy canceling catalog fashions and crying about crop tops.
The Russians are rattling their nuclear sabers once more, howling throughout state-run airwaves like getting old rock stars determined for a comeback. “Ultimatum,” “armed,” “don’t overlook the nuclear half!”—yeah, yeah, we get it, Sergey. The Chilly Conflict hangover by no means actually left the Kremlin, did it? However flip on the TV in Anytown, USA, and that doomsday chatter barely registers a pulse. The common American is just too busy peeling again one other bag of Cool Ranch and doom-scrolling TikTok to note the diplomatic mushroom cloud on the horizon. We’ve changed crimson alerts with crimson dye #40 and numbed our collective mind with apathy thick sufficient to cease a hypersonic missile.
Gene Wars and Retail Casualties
However candy Jesus, point out {that a} blonde actress with cheekbones sculpted by the gods may need an unfair genetic benefit and also you’ve acquired DEFCON 1. Sydney Sweeney dares to seem in an American Eagle advert with out apologizing for her DNA, and the outrage industrial complicated lights up like post-strike Baghdad on evening imaginative and prescient. Phrases like “regressive” and “racist” get launched like verbal cruise missiles from social media bunkers lined with participation trophies, comfortable blankets, and hormone tea. Nobody’s storming the seashores for world stability anymore—however they’ll positive as hell cancel a 100-pound mannequin for smiling flawed in denim. It’s not a struggle of concepts. It’s a hissy match with hashtags. I’m not having any of it.
“Ain’t That America”
We’ve turn into a nation that yawns at warheads and screams at waistlines.
You may virtually odor the irony wafting off the bloated corpse of widespread sense.
The actual battlefront isn’t abroad—it’s within the tradition’s frontal lobe, rotting from the within out with identification crusades and viral tantrums.
We’ve traded geopolitical grit for clickbait neurosis, and the troops have been changed by keyboard commandos in bathrobes.
Whereas Moscow sharpens its knives, we’re busy canceling catalog fashions and crying about crop tops.
If the top comes, it received’t be with a bang or a whimper—it’ll be drowned out by somebody with neon inexperienced hair and a nostril ring yelling “problematic” into a hoop mild.
