As I look ahead, I am filled with foreboding.
Like the Roman, I see the River Tiber foaming with much blood—
But it's because someone launched a TikTok blood ritual challenge. Sponsored by Gatorade.
I didn’t want this job. I wanted to write long-winded essays about jurisprudence and maybe get invited to Shabbos dinner by neocon think tanks.
But no. They needed a Constitutional Dictator.
A Decider.
A man with just enough wisdom to quote Carl Schmitt and just enough vanity to think Helen Andrews might write a respectful obituary.
You think I wanted to suspend habeas corpus?
No! I loved habeas corpus. We went to school together!
But I read Darel Paul. I read Caldwell. I read the Age of Entitlement and I snapped.
Someone had to stop the bureaucrats from replacing national sovereignty with polyamory policy panels.
They said, “You can’t declare a state of exception over brunch menus.”
I said, “Watch me.”
They said, “This is not how liberal democracy works.”
I said, “This is not how liberal democracy survives.”
I gave a speech to Congress. Half of them were checking Grindr. The other half were setting up DEI working groups for Visigoths.
One senator asked if ‘Gibbon’ was the monkey from Encanto.
I have a dream: that the Rule of Law will return—
But all I get is the Rule of Vibes.
Legions replaced by HR departments.
Civic virtue replaced by curated trauma.
The Constitution replaced by a Canva slideshow that says:
"Love is Love. Borders are Violence. Also Please Wash Your Hands."
But me?
I remain.
The last man who knows what subsidiarity means.
The last man who read Book VI of the Aeneid on purpose.
The last man with a working theory of inflation.
Let the rivers foam.
Let the cities burn.
Let the mobs chant their slogans and the elites toast themselves on yachts named “Equity.”
When the dust clears, I’ll still be here.
Wearing a laurel crown made of unpaid student debt notices.
Clutching my emergency copy of Federalist 10.
And muttering, like a mad Enoch Powell:
"This was a warning, not a wish."
