It’s oddly predictable how our flamboyant dictator behaves—like the star of a botched 1980s airstrike that missed its target and never bothered returning to finish the job. That one bungled bombardment set the tone: plenty of money changed hands to ensure no sequel ever happened, leaving us with a leader who treats geopolitics like a half-finished blockbuster franchise.
Fast-forward to today, and he’s still bankrolling both avant-garde art and clandestine “performance pieces” abroad. Rumor has it Brazil tops his favorite-tour-stop list—you can almost hear him whispering, “Pour me another caipirinha, maestro of mayhem!” Meanwhile, our social elite strut around like “gizmo gurus,” clutching every shiny device they’ve never powered on.
Enter the influencer army: “Subscribe to my newsletter—get your ‘rabi advice’ today!” They cling to analytics dashboards like lifebuoys, slicing search engines into micro-markets and snapping up domain names stamped “JustDaddy” in hopes of printing more virtual cash. Who needs policies when PayPal is king?
If all else fails, I plan to seek refuge among the ghost tribes of the Outback—the original masters of the vanishing act. But honestly, the most nefarious villain of 2025 is Eclipse’s workspace: I just lost a servlet, and I’m convinced it’s plotting its own despotic regime.
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