Ladies and gentlemen, strap in, light up, and prepare for the political joyride of your goddamn life. We are careening down a bloodstained highway where the potholes are made of broken dreams, and the road signs scream “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here!” The engines of our democracy are choked with the toxic sludge of corporate greed, and the only people left with seatbelts are the ones who had the foresight to be born rich.

You see, all this identity politics gibberish—this fever-dream obsession with who’s using what bathroom and whether your neighbor’s kid might be secretly trans—it’s just a smokescreen. A neon-lit distraction cooked up by the money-sucking, power-hoarding death cult of America’s ruling class. Meanwhile, those billionaires you worship like capitalist demigods are strip-mining your future and selling off your sanity at clearance prices.

And the Right? Oh, those pearl-clutching titans of hypocrisy, those self-proclaimed defenders of decency? “We don’t wanna talk about race! We don’t wanna talk about gender! The liberals made us do it!” Sure, buddy. Just like you didn’t wanna drink but somehow woke up face-down in a casino parking lot wearing someone else’s shoes. It’s the grift that never stops grifting.

The Great Divide and Plunder

This isn’t new. This is history on repeat, but with better special effects and worse dialogue. Step One: Scapegoat the marginalized. Step Two: Stoke the fires of paranoia until the dimmest bulbs in the room are practically glowing with rage. Step Three: Swipe every last dime while people are too busy screaming at drag queens to notice the billionaires walking out the back door with their pensions.

And at the rotten, festering core of this circus? None other than the bloated orange messiah himself—Donald J. Trump. A man who managed to fail at running a casino. A CASINO. That’s like starving to death in an all-you-can-eat buffet. But this is America, land of the perverse and home of the willfully blind, where a guy who couldn’t sell steaks or vodka still somehow convinces millions that he’s a financial genius.

The Real War Is Class War

Let me give you a dose of reality so pure it should be classified as a Schedule I narcotic: A broke white kid in West Virginia has more in common with a broke Black kid in Baltimore than either of them do with some yacht-hopping, Silicon Valley sociopath who just spent $44 billion to ruin a social media site for fun. And guess what? Those billionaires know it. That’s why they spend fortunes convincing you that your real enemy is the immigrant down the street, not the billionaire who just foreclosed on your grandma’s house.

They want you frothing at the mouth over DEI policies while they’re busy looting your bank account with a vacuum hose. They want you terrified that your kid might be learning about gender in school while they sell your entire future to the highest bidder. And guess what? It’s working.

The Reckoning

This is a full-throttle blitzkrieg of class warfare, and most people are too hypnotized by Fox News and Twitter spats to realize it. Meanwhile, the ultra-rich are already skipping town—hauling their golden parachutes into private jets, salting the earth behind them, and leaving the rest of us to fight over the scraps like a pack of rabid raccoons.

And while liberals gnash their teeth and whimper about “decency” and “decorum,” the machinery of authoritarianism is clicking into place. They will beg for civility until the last moment—until the black bag is over their heads, and the only thing left of them is a collection of polite think-pieces on why it was all so unfortunate.

So, what’s the answer? WAKE. THE. FUCK. UP.

Class consciousness is our only shot at climbing out of this hellscape. Learn from history before history grinds you into dust and snorts you off a billionaire’s marble countertop. Because the people in power aren’t coming to save you. The only way we stop this runaway train is if we grab the wheel and crash it into something useful.

And if you’re still wondering if this is all a joke—oh, my sweet, gullible friend—it is. And the punchline? The joke’s on you.