The boomer on the plane couldn’t believe what I said. I exclaimed, “When a foreign student calls for the violent overthrow of the government, the only right they should have is to go home.” He looked at me like I’d grown horns. His brain couldn’t process that being a guest in one’s country comes with special terms and conditions. He could not fathom that maybe not everyone has a right to everything.
This is the generation that inherited the strongest country in the world, with the best institutions, the highest trust, and the clearest sense of direction. They took it all and sold it. They used to believe in something. Then they got rich. Then they said, screw it, I’ve got mine.
They used to say family was everything, then they divorced everyone and chased yoga retreats and second marriages. They told their kids not to talk about politics or religion, and now they don’t understand why no one knows how to stand for anything. They handed the universities over to corporations and foreign markets. When students of the home country decried the universities for being too expensive, they simply sold them to the world. They opened up the floodgates to pay their bills. They had to. They couldn’t, and still can’t, stop their decline.
But they can’t help it. The civil rights movement broke their minds. They took a specific struggle and abstracted it into a worldview. Suddenly, every non-white face on Earth was a victim. They imported the world and gave it privileges their own grandchildren don’t have. Then they told us there were too many of us. They told us we weren’t having enough kids. They locked us out of the housing market and told us we were lazy. They told us we couldn’t travel like they did because it damages the planet. They used coal, oil, and nuclear energy. Now they demand that we live without any of it. They had it all, and now they sit in judgment, dripping with resentment for the people they raised.
They have love for the stranger and contempt for the neighbor. They’ll sponsor a child halfway across the globe, but ignore the one struggling next door. They started a charity for every country, but their own. They walk through cities filled with crime, needles, and poverty, and smile because it’s not happening to them.
They hoard every position of prestige and refuse to leave. They cling to power until death. They love the sound of their own voices. They wrote the rules, broke the rules, then rewrote them so no one else could win. They despise the very people they were. They look to immigrants to replace their own sons to atone for their imagined sins, embedded into their cultural milieu by countless hours of MSNBC. Their eternal symbol of evil is the white man.
Who are they? They’re all the liberal professors at your university. They are the ones who sent all the real jobs overseas. They’re replacing your laptop job with an H-1B Visa. They are politicians with a $200,000 salary and a $0.5 billion bank account. They are bailing their business out with printed money to protect their reputation, and mocking you for buying your $5 daily coffee. After all, they had more discipline than you, back in their day.
Eternal addicts. Addicted to praise, addicted to control, addicted to being right. Their fathers fought and died in World War II. Men bled out on beaches so their sons could turn their country into a shopping mall with a diversity quota. And now, in whispers, some people say maybe the wrong side won in 1945. Not because they love Nazis, but because they’ve seen what came after. The ultimate betrayal by the entitled son. Shame is their legacy.
And Kier Starmer is the final form. The final boss. A name so cursed not a single Brit dares to give it to their son. A name only a globalist could love. The last gasp of an ideology that refuses to die, even as it drags everyone else down with it. They won’t quit. They won’t step aside. They can’t. Because letting go would mean admitting what they’ve done. And they will never, ever do that.
Just a note to say that the photo labeled Pocahontas is that of another grifter, Pelosi, the greatly skilled stock picker.
God damn, you're an excellent prose stylist.