Esteemed citizens of the world, welcome to the highest-grossing, biggest-budget show of our global circus! Our venue: Washington, London, Brussels, or some nameless, colossal global parliament. Our lead actor slams his fist on the podium so hard that the ancestors of the mahogany desk wince in pain. "You are bringing about the end of humanity! You have burned and destroyed the global economy!" he roars. The "eternal global nemesis" across the aisle is not one to be outdone. Loosening his tie as if pulling the pin on a nuclear grenade, he thunders, "History will not forgive you! We will bury you in those seats!" The vein on his forehead is so swollen it looks ready to declare independence and form its own sovereign nation.

And what about us mere mortals? We are having collective heart attacks in front of our screens in homes around the world, assuming World War III has broken out, sprinting to supermarkets in sheer panic to hoard toilet paper and canned beans. Through our tears, we whisper, "Wow... These guys are sacrificing themselves for our freedom and the future of the planet!"

But wait... Even though the director doesn't yell "Cut!", the exact moment the red light on the cameras goes off, that bloody gladiator arena instantly turns into a Hollywood VIP backstage lounge. Those two titans, who looked ready to launch intercontinental ballistic missiles at each other seconds ago, now exchange a flirtatious wink as they take off their lapel microphones.

"How was my verbal left hook, Bill? I really escalated it well, didn't I?" "You were magnificent, Jean-Pierre! Especially the way your voice trembled when you said 'History will not forgive you'—pure Oscar material. Thanks to you, my poll numbers in Europe just shot up two points."

Just two hours later, we find ourselves in an ultra-luxury, Michelin-starred restaurant where a regular citizen would be charged a fee just for peeking through the door. This duo, who were at each other's throats at the podium, are now engaging in a deep philosophical debate over the menu's "endangered albino lobster with white truffles and edible gold leaf."

"Buddy, do you think we should order the 1982 vintage Bordeaux, or skip straight to the Champagne to celebrate? By the way, yell at me a little harder in tomorrow's session; my voter base absolutely loves that kind of existential victimhood." "No worries, Mr. President, I promise I will gnaw on that mahogany podium for you tomorrow! Anyway, when are we heading to your yacht in the Caribbean for spring break? The kids need some ocean air."

Ultimately, this magnificent illusion we call politics is nothing more than a colossal WWE wrestling match performed by necktied elites with degrees from Harvard or Oxford. Everyone pretends to smash each other over the head with steel chairs in front of the cameras, but the chairs are plastic, the pain is fake, and the outcome of the match was already predetermined in the sauna of an exclusive country club. We have no choice but to bow respectfully before this monumental hypocrisy and sheer stomach capacity that preaches "global survival and ideological warfare" by day, while devouring "lobster, caviar, and cigars" by night.

While we tear each other apart online on X, Reddit, or Facebook with strangers from the other side of the world, grinding our teeth to the gums, they are having a "fierce and ruthless" debate over who gets to expense the dinner (paid out of the pockets of global taxpayers, of course). In the end, in this absurd global theater, the miserable extras who always pay the highest ticket price but never, ever get a single line on stage are, regardless of geography, always us.