Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

From Privateers to Presidents: A Brief History of State-Sponsored Theft, Now With Oil

If all of this feels strangely familiar, that’s because we’ve actually done this before. Not yesterday. Not last decade. Centuries ago. Back when empires at least had the decency to admit they were empires.

They were called privateers — state-sanctioned pirates. Governments handed out “letters of marque,” basically permission slips that said: Go ahead, board enemy ships, steal their gold, disrupt their trade — just don’t forget who signed the paperwork. England did it. Spain did it. France did it. Early America did it too. Theft, but with a flag and a flourish.

And, as history so helpfully teaches us, privateers had a habit of doing what pirates always do: they stopped pretending the loot belonged to the crown and started keeping it for themselves. Surprise! When you legalize theft, it eventually stops respecting your rules.

Which brings us neatly back to Donald Trump and his Defense Department cosplay generals, now apparently auditioning for the role of 21st-century privateers — only without the honesty or the paperwork.

Because let’s be clear: we are no longer talking about wartime interdictions or defensive naval actions. We are talking about seizing oil tankers from a sovereign nation and openly stating that this is being done for our benefit and to control their markets. That’s not sanctions enforcement. That’s not diplomacy. That’s not even clever euphemism.

That’s just theft with extra steps.

So what do we call a country — or more accurately, a government — that decides other nations’ resources should be taken because it can? That their oil is somehow less “theirs” and more “ours,” simply because we have the biggest navy and the loudest press conference?

Empire is the word they’re avoiding.

Piracy is the word they’re denying.

But history doesn’t care what spin doctors call it.

And now the obvious question presents itself: Is Donald Trump about to revive privateers — oil edition? Should we expect the creation of a shiny new agency, perhaps the Department of Strategic Hydrocarbon Acquisition? Or maybe something more on-brand, like the Patriot Oil Recovery Force? Will billionaire donors get letters of marque granting them permission to “liberate” tankers in exchange for a campaign donation and a photo op?

Because once you normalize the idea that oil belonging to another country is fair game, you’ve crossed a line that international law was specifically designed to stop us from crossing again. The entire reason piracy was outlawed — universally, without ambiguity — is because once everyone decides theft is justified by power, there is no rule left but force.

And let’s not kid ourselves: Venezuela being “in the Americas” does not magically make it “America.” Geography is not ownership. Proximity is not sovereignty. The Monroe Doctrine is not a deed. And Donald Trump is not Poseidon, no matter how much he seems to enjoy throwing tridents at international norms.

So yes — if you’re sitting there thinking, “I thought piracy was illegal,” congratulations. You understand international law better than the current administration. Because what we are watching is not strength, not leadership, not strategy.

It’s the resurrection of an old, ugly idea:

If we want it and can take it, it must be ours.

That idea didn’t end well for the privateers.

It didn’t end well for the empires.

And it won’t end well now — no matter how many tankers they manage to haul off before the world stops pretending this is normal.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

We’ve all seen the video by now. Or at least anyone who still bothers to look up from the constant churn of national absurdity long enough to recognize when a line has been obliterated has seen it. Minnesota. Daylight. A vehicle moving at what appears to be walking speed—five miles an hour if physics was feeling generous. And somehow, in that moment, an ICE agent decided this was the scenario that required bullets.

Not patience.

Not distance.

Not de-escalation.

Bullets.

I’m Gen X. We were raised on a steady diet of “question authority,” after-school specials about consequences, and the radical idea that adults—especially armed ones—should possess a baseline level of self-control. We were told deadly force was a last resort, reserved for imminent danger. Not irritation. Not ego. Not someone in a slow-rolling car who didn’t behave with sufficient gratitude.

Yet here we are.

A 37-year-old woman is dead. Not because she was charging anyone. Not because she displayed a weapon. Not because the vehicle posed an unavoidable threat to life. The car was barely moving. The agent steps back. The video shows it plainly. And still, the trigger was pulled.

If this qualifies as “imminent danger,” then the phrase no longer means anything at all.

What makes this worse—far worse—is what happened next. Instead of transparency, we got obstruction. We are now told the FBI is blocking any investigation into the shooting. Not reviewing jurisdiction. Not coordinating agencies. Blocking. Slamming the door shut before accountability can even knock. Which is remarkable, considering federal oversight is supposedly designed for moments exactly like this—when lethal force is used in public, on video, with no credible threat apparent.

Then comes the narrative laundering. Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem—“Christie gnome,” because sarcasm is all that’s left—has accused the now-deceased woman of recognizing the agent’s vehicle, as if awareness itself is grounds for execution. As if knowing who is confronting you retroactively justifies being shot. That’s not a defense; it’s a smear campaign aimed at someone who can no longer respond.

And then there’s Donald, doing what Donald does best: speaking loudly, confidently, and in direct contradiction to reality. He has stated—out loud—that the officer was run over and is in the hospital recovering. Except the video exists. We’ve all seen it. The agent is not struck. Not clipped. Not dragged. He is standing. He fires. End of story.

This isn’t a dispute of facts. It’s an attempt to overwrite them.

Gen X has been around long enough to recognize the pattern. Inflate the threat. Invent injuries. Blame the victim. Delay long enough for outrage fatigue to set in. We’ve seen this movie before, and the ending is always the same: no charges, no consequences, and a quiet expansion of what armed agents are allowed to get away with.

Here’s the real danger. If this agent is not charged—state and federal—then the message is unmistakable. Every asshole in a black ICE vest and face mask now has the temerity to believe they can shoot someone and simply claim they were afraid. That “imminent danger” can mean “I didn’t like how this interaction felt.” That video evidence can be ignored if the right people say the right lies loudly enough.

We were promised body cams and accountability. We were told video would protect the truth. Well, here it is—clear, brutal, undeniable. If the response is still stonewalling and fiction, then the entire accountability project was a lie from the start.

Gen X doesn’t gasp anymore. We sigh. We grind our teeth. We mutter “here we go again.” But resignation is not consent.

Charge the agent.

Stop the obstruction.

End the gaslighting.

Because if a slow-moving car now qualifies as a lethal threat, if investigations can be blocked and deaths rewritten with press releases, then we are no longer talking about law enforcement.

We’re talking about sanctioned fear with a trigger.

And that should scare the hell out of all of us.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Once upon a time—say, roughly between powdered wigs and cholera—the ruling philosophy of international relations was wonderfully simple: might makes right. If you had an army, a navy, and the self-confidence of a man who’d never been told “no,” congratulations, you owned half the planet. This was imperialism, a system built on the elegant logic that brown land full of resources clearly existed for white men with flags to “discover.” 🔱

The 18th and 19th centuries were the golden age of this thinking. Empires strutted around the globe like toddlers in antique uniforms, planting flags, renaming rivers, and announcing to millions of people, “Good news! You now belong to us.” Britain perfected it, France romanticized it, Spain looted it, and everyone else took notes. Morality was optional; cannons were not.

Then came the 20th century, which—after two world wars, tens of millions of dead, and a near-total collapse of civilization—collectively decided that maybe, just maybe, imperialism was a bad idea. World War I showed us what happens when empires trip over their own egos. World War II finished the lesson with an exclamation point made of mushroom clouds. The takeaway was supposed to be clear: national sovereignty matters, conquest is bad, and no one gets to redraw the map just because they feel nostalgic for empire.

We even wrote it down! The UN Charter. Self-determination. Decolonization. A whole postwar order built on the radical notion that countries shouldn’t be treated like Monopoly properties. For a while, it almost worked. Former colonies became nations. Borders stabilized. “Imperial ambition” became something you admitted only after three drinks and a tenure appointment.

And then—enter stage right—Donald the Madman Trump, strutting into history like a man who skimmed the 19th century and thought, Yes, this. Let’s do this again. Why learn from history when you can cosplay it? Why respect international law when you can bully it? Why cooperate when you can dominate?

To Trump and his global acolytes, the post–World War II order isn’t a hard-won framework that prevented another global catastrophe—it’s an inconvenience. Treaties are for suckers. Alliances are protection rackets. Sovereignty is conditional, apparently, on whether Dear Leader finds your country useful, annoying, or rich in something he wants. Oil? Minerals? Strategic location? Congratulations, you’re suddenly in his line of sight, justified by some half-baked excuse scribbled on a napkin and shouted at a rally.

This isn’t strength; it’s imperial nostalgia with a Wi-Fi connection. It’s the belief that loudness equals legitimacy and that power excuses everything. It’s the same old imperial logic, just updated for cable news: if we can do it, then we should, and if anyone objects, they’re weak, ungrateful, or enemies.

What’s most impressive—if horrifying—is how casually this regression is embraced. As if the last century never happened. As if Verdun, Hiroshima, decolonization movements, and international law were just a rough draft we can throw away because one man misses the thrill of dominance. History, in this worldview, isn’t a warning—it’s a menu.

So here we are, being dragged backward toward an era the world bled itself dry to escape. The age of empires, revived not by kings or emperors, but by a man who thinks diplomacy is a zero-sum game and governance is personal branding. The 21st century was supposed to be about cooperation, shared challenges, and collective survival. Instead, we’re being offered a rerun of imperialism—now with more bravado, less shame, and absolutely no understanding of how catastrophically it ended last time.

But sure. Let’s give “might makes right” another try. What could possibly go wrong?

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Here we are again, standing in that uniquely American space where sarcasm becomes a coping mechanism because reality keeps insisting on doing improv without a script—or a conscience.

According to the official bedtime story, Trump and his garden-gnome honor guard at ICE haven’t even been at this whole “aggressive enforcement” thing for a full year. Barely a season, really. The paint is still drying on the policies. The jackboots are practically new. And yet—miraculously, tragically, inevitably—we’ve already arrived at the point where a U.S. citizen is shot and killed in Minnesota, and the explanation arrives pre-packaged, shrink-wrapped, and labeled “defensive.”

Defensive.

That word is doing Olympic-level gymnastics these days.

Because apparently “defensive” now includes armed federal agents killing the very people they are sworn—at least nominally—to protect. One imagines the PowerPoint slide: Step 1: Escalate. Step 2: Fire. Step 3: Call it self-defense. Transparency achieved.

And of course, Trump and his loyal ICE gnomes—grim little figures polishing badges and talking tough—are shocked. Shocked! Who could have predicted that unleashing militarized tactics, vague rules of engagement, and a culture that treats force as a personality trait might end with a body on the ground? Certainly not the people who have spent years insisting that more guns, more fear, and fewer guardrails somehow equals “law and order.”

What’s especially rich is the insistence that this all happened too soon to judge. “It hasn’t even been a year,” they say, as if constitutional rights come with a trial subscription period. As if we’re supposed to shrug and say, Well sure, a citizen died, but give authoritarianism a chance—it’s still learning!

The line, we’re told, hasn’t been crossed. No, no. The line was apparently somewhere behind us, and we sprinted past it while shouting about caravans and crime statistics scribbled in Sharpie. When the state kills a citizen and reflexively labels it “defensive,” that’s not an accident—it’s a preview. It’s the beta version of a system where accountability is optional and uniforms function as moral absolution.

And Minnesota—quiet, cold, unassuming Minnesota—becomes the stage for this little morality play. Not a border. Not a war zone. Just America, doing what America does best when fear replaces judgment: pretending this is normal.

So yes, Trump and his ICE gnomes will scowl for the cameras, mutter about threats, and insist there was no alternative. There’s always no alternative when you design a system that refuses to imagine one. But let’s not kid ourselves: when the government kills its own citizen and calls it self-defense before the blood is dry, that’s not enforcement.

That’s the sound of a line being erased—carefully, deliberately—while we’re told to stop asking questions and admire how firm the handwriting looks.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Here we go again: another episode in the long-running American series “Failing Upward: The Musical,” starring Pete Hegseth, a man whose résumé reads like a Mad Lib filled out by cable news producers at 2 a.m.

Pete Hegseth—yes, that Pete Hegseth—has apparently decided that his second-string, weekend-shift Fox News hosting gig, combined with a National Guard record he now treats like a medieval title, qualifies him to menace Mark Kelly. Mark Kelly. Actual combat veteran. Actual Navy captain. Actual astronaut. A man who has been shot into orbit by NASA, not launched into relevance by a teleprompter and a makeup team.

And yet here we are, watching Pete Hegseth puff out his chest and threaten reductions in retirement rank like a kid who just discovered the volume knob on a megaphone.

Let’s be clear: this is not a disagreement about policy. This is not a principled stand. This is Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater cosplay-authoritarianism, where a man confuses proximity to power with possession of it. He’s doing the political equivalent of borrowing someone else’s uniform and demanding a salute.

Hegseth’s claim to fame is not battlefield heroics. It’s not strategic brilliance. It’s not even original thought. His primary contribution to American life has been nodding vigorously on Fox News while saying things that sound tough but dissolve on contact with facts. He is a vibes-based warrior, a man whose understanding of strength comes from studio lighting and applause cues.

And now he wants to play Big Man™ by threatening the retirement rank of someone whose service record could bench press his entire talking-point binder.

There is something especially grotesque about this genre of chest-thumping: the loudest demands for “respect” coming from those who have done the least to earn it. Hegseth speaks endlessly about honor while publicly trying to humiliate someone whose honor is so self-evident it literally left Earth and came back with scorch marks.

This isn’t leadership. It’s insecurity with a microphone.

Mark Kelly didn’t become who he is by sneering at others from a TV set. He didn’t serve for applause, didn’t fly missions for clout, didn’t orbit the planet to impress donors. His record speaks quietly, confidently, and without the need for props.

Pete Hegseth, by contrast, needs the props. He needs the threats. He needs the performance of dominance because without it, there’s just a man yelling at the mirror, hoping rank will magically appear if he says “rank” loudly enough.

Threatening a decorated veteran and astronaut doesn’t make you tough. It makes you small. It doesn’t project strength. It projects panic—the kind that arises when you realize your authority exists only as long as the cameras are rolling.

This isn’t about Mark Kelly’s rank. It’s about Pete Hegseth’s ego. And like so many in this era, he mistakes cruelty for courage, volume for valor, and television time for legitimacy.

History tends to be unkind to people who confuse themselves with the uniform they’re borrowing. And it’s downright merciless to those who try to bully actual heroes to feel tall.

But by all means, Pete—keep posturing. The astronaut will still be an astronaut when the lights go out.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

So let’s ask the question slowly, carefully, using small words, flashcards, and maybe a felt board—because apparently that’s where we are now:

How does Dumb Donald abduct the sitting president of Venezuela, drag him into the United States, plop him in front of a U.S. judge, and charge him with American drug crimes for acts that did not occur on U.S. soil… and somehow Congress just shrugs like this is a Tuesday?

Short answer: it doesn’t work. Long answer: it really doesn’t work—but we’ve replaced law with vibes, and Dear Leader vibes hard.

In the before-times, back when we pretended words like “sovereignty,” “jurisdiction,” and “international law” meant something, there were rules. Boring rules. Annoying rules. Rules that prevented presidents from playing Grand Theft Auto: Hemisphere Edition. You couldn’t just grab a foreign head of state and say, “Mine now,” like a toddler in a sandbox with nuclear codes.

But Dumb Donald has never been burdened by the weight of “how does this actually function?” His operating system has always been: If I want it, it must be legal. If it isn’t legal, scream ‘DRUGS!’ and Sharpie the rest.

And oh, what a magic word “drugs” has become. Drugs are the universal skeleton key. Drugs unlock war powers. Drugs unlock extrajudicial abductions. Drugs apparently unlock teleportation, because suddenly Venezuelan soil is U.S. soil if you squint hard enough and shout “cartel” three times into a mirror.

Let’s be clear: the alleged crimes did not happen in the United States. The accused was not arrested while committing a crime on U.S. soil. There was no extradition process honored, no international tribunal, no cooperation with legitimate global institutions. Just a raid, a snatch, and a press conference.

That’s not law enforcement. That’s piracy with better branding.

In any sane constitutional universe, this would trigger alarms. Big ones. Congressional hearings. Emergency sessions. Senators solemnly intoning phrases like “dangerous precedent” and “constitutional crisis.” Instead, Congress has adopted the role of a houseplant: decorative, quiet, and aggressively photosynthesizing nothing.

Because here’s the problem they’re avoiding: if the U.S. can kidnap their president and try him in our courts for their crimes, then congratulations—we have officially declared that borders are optional and power is the only jurisdiction that matters.

That’s not democracy. That’s empire cosplay.

And before anyone reaches for the tired defense—“Well, he’s a bad guy!”—congratulations, you’ve just vaporized the entire concept of law. Courts are not vibes-based morality contests. The law does not operate on “trust me, bro.” If it did, we wouldn’t need constitutions, judges, or Congress. We’d just elect a very loud man with a Sharpie and let him point at maps.

Which, notably, is exactly what we did.

So how does this work, legally? It doesn’t. The argument boils down to: We’re big. We’re angry. And we said so. That’s it. That’s the memo. That’s the doctrine. Manifest Destiny, now with cable news chyrons.

And Congress? Congress is letting him get away with it because stopping him would require courage, spine, and the terrifying act of telling their own voters that no, the president is not a king. That accountability still exists. That shouting “national security” doesn’t turn a kidnapping into a court case.

It’s easier to clap. Easier to tweet flags. Easier to pretend this is strength instead of the legal equivalent of flipping the Monopoly board and declaring yourself banker for life.

The truly impressive part is the precedent. Because if this is okay—if this is legal now—then every authoritarian with a grudge just got a how-to guide. Kidnap first. Prosecute later. Invent jurisdiction as needed. Call it justice.

And one day, when another country decides an American official committed crimes their way, on their terms, and drags them before a foreign court, we’ll suddenly rediscover the sacredness of sovereignty and scream about international norms.

Funny how that works.

This isn’t law. It’s theater. Expensive, dangerous theater performed by a man who thinks the Constitution is a suggestion and Congress is set dressing. And the scariest part isn’t that Dumb Donald did this.

It’s that so many people looked at a presidential abduction, shrugged, and said, “Yeah, that tracks.”

That’s not just nonsense.

That’s how republics end—one illegal act at a time, rubber-stamped by silence.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I remember when MTV actually meant Music Television, which feels like one of those phrases archaeologists will one day translate the way we translate ancient runes—apparently this channel once played songs… with pictures?

I was there at the beginning, a Gen X witness to the original sin and original glory: “Video Killed the Radio Star.” The Buggles flickered onto the screen, all jittery futurism and wide-eyed prophecy, and we collectively thought, Well, that’s it. The future has arrived. The irony, of course, would take a few decades to fully ripen, because it turns out the video didn’t kill the radio star—reality television killed the video.

Back then, MTV was church. You didn’t choose what you watched; you waited. You sat through videos you didn’t like because the one you loved might come on next. It taught us patience, musical literacy, and the fine art of judging people entirely by their hair. We learned geography from accents, sociology from fashion, and rebellion from anyone wearing leather indoors. If you wanted to know what cool looked like, MTV told you. Loudly. Repeatedly. With fog machines.

VJs were our trusted guides—part DJ, part older sibling, part impossibly cool alien. They spoke directly to us, live, unscripted, occasionally wrong. It felt human. Dangerous. Like someone might say something they weren’t supposed to. That alone made it revolutionary.

And then… slowly… quietly… the videos started slipping away.

At first it was fine. A show here, a countdown there. Real World arrived, and we said, “Okay, but surely this is temporary.” Then came more “reality.” And more. And somehow fewer guitars. Fewer drummers. Fewer videos altogether. Music Television began showing everything except music, like a restaurant that slowly stopped serving food but insisted it was still a diner because there were pictures of pancakes on the wall.

By the time MTV officially closed its doors, it felt less like a tragedy and more like a formality. Music television didn’t die yesterday—it died years ago, somewhere between the 47th season of a reality show about nothing and the moment we realized an entire afternoon could pass without a single song being played.

What finally killed MTV wasn’t technology or YouTube or TikTok. It was the decision to stop trusting music to hold our attention. The belief that songs weren’t enough. That art needed drama, confessionals, and manufactured conflict to matter.

And yet here we are, Gen Xers, still remembering when three minutes could change your life. When a video could make you feel seen, understood, or at least slightly cooler by association. We didn’t just watch MTV—we grew up inside it.

So yes, MTV has closed its doors. But let’s be honest: the channel left the building a long time ago. What remains is the memory of a time when music didn’t need an algorithm, when discovery was accidental, and when a bunch of strange little videos taught us how big the world really was.

Video didn’t kill the radio star.

MTV killed MTV.

And Gen X?

We’re still humming the soundtrack. 🎶

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

January Sixth has become one of those dates that doesn’t age—it just ferments. Like milk left on the counter, or a democracy left unattended with a sharpie and a grievance.

It is now the fifth anniversary of Donald Trump’s first very sincere, very peaceful, very tourist-friendly attempt to overthrow the government so he could stay in power. Five years. Traditionally, anniversaries are for reflection, growth, maybe a tasteful plaque. Instead, we got the sequel nobody asked for: Somehow, He Returned.

There is a special kind of terror reserved for moments when you realize history didn’t repeat itself because we failed to learn—it repeated itself because we shrugged and said, “Eh, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Many of us are still dumbfounded. Not the “how did my keys end up in the freezer?” dumbfounded. The existential, staring-at-the-wall, whispering are you kidding me dumbfounded. After the lies, the coup attempt, the indictments, the public admiration for autocrats, the casual suggestion that laws are more like vibes—after all that—he got back into office. Again. Four years later. On purpose.

And yet, those of us who actually saw who he was the first time are not surprised. Exhausted? Yes. Terrified? Constantly. Surprised? Not even a little.

Because this is what happens when accountability is treated like a suggestion box that everyone agrees to ignore.

Now here we are in 2026, lighting our grim little anniversary candles while watching the same man test the limits of power like a toddler repeatedly touching a hot stove—not because he doesn’t know it burns, but because he enjoys watching everyone else panic. Venezuela first. Who’s next? Greenland? Canada? Nigeria? Whoever happens to have oil, minerals, water, rare earths, or just the audacity to exist with resources he wants.

It’s less foreign policy and more estate sale logic: Look at all this stuff. Be a shame if someone liberated it.

And the justification, as always, is flexible. Drugs. Terror. Christianity. Freedom. National security. Spin the wheel, pick a reason. The goal isn’t coherence—it’s permanence.

Which brings us to the quiet part that keeps people up at night: is this the plan? Escalate. Provoke. Expand. Because history tells us there’s nothing quite like a big, scary, endless conflict to justify staying in power. You can’t change leadership during a world war, after all. That would be irresponsible. Unpatriotic. Dangerous. Please ignore the fact that the war may have been entirely optional.

It’s a neat trick. Set the house on fire, then announce that you alone must remain in charge of the hose.

What’s most chilling isn’t even the damage itself—though the damage is vast, measurable, and generational. It’s the normalization. The way the unthinkable keeps becoming the Tuesday headline. The way words like “coup,” “authoritarian,” and “political violence” have been folded into casual conversation, as if this were all just another quirky phase of American self-discovery.

Five years after January Sixth, we are still arguing about what we all watched with our own eyes. Still debating whether an attack on democracy counts as an attack if it fails the first time. Still pretending that intent doesn’t matter if incompetence intervenes.

So yes, some people are shocked. Others are confused. A few are still insisting this is all totally fine and actually very strong leadership.

But those of us who paid attention back then? We’re not shocked at all. We’re watching the same story continue, louder and more dangerous, and wondering how many anniversaries it will take before “never again” stops meaning “see you next time.”

Happy January Sixth. Blow out the candles carefully. The house is already full of gas.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It seems we must once again return to Geography 101, a class the nation apparently skipped while memorizing bumper stickers. “America,” despite what Donnie the Would-Be King bellows into microphones, is not a magical synonym for “wherever the United States happens to be stomping today.” America is a hemisphere. Two of them, in fact. North America. South America. A whole sprawling landmass full of countries that stubbornly insist on existing whether Washington acknowledges them or not.

The United States, by contrast, is a single country—one nation-state occupying a modest portion of the Americas. It has borders. It has limits. It has sovereignty that extends precisely as far as its Constitution, its laws, and the consent of its own voters allow. Or at least it used to, before geography and civics were replaced with chest-thumping nationalism and Sharpie-based foreign policy.

So when Donnie sends a SEAL team into Venezuela, yes, technically he can puff out his chest and say he acted “in America.” Gold star. He’s not wrong in the same way saying “I’m in the solar system” doesn’t mean you own Mars. Venezuela is in America. It is not the United States. And that distinction matters—unless you’re an aspiring strongman who believes maps are more of a suggestion than a boundary.

The problem with calling every military adventure “defending America” is that it quietly erases sovereignty—starting with other countries’ and eventually working its way home. Because once you convince people that “America” means “wherever we decide our interests live,” it’s not a long walk to claiming sovereignty over voters themselves. If borders are imaginary abroad, consent is optional at home.

And that seems to be the real project. Donnie doesn’t just want to police the hemisphere; he wants to rule the narrative. He wants “America” to sound big, holy, inevitable—so that any act, no matter how illegal, reckless, or imperial, can be baptized in patriotism. Invading Venezuela? American leadership. Ignoring Congress? American strength. Disregarding voters? Well, clearly they’re just standing in the way of America too.

But here’s the inconvenient truth no amount of flag-waving can bury: the United States has no sovereignty beyond its laws, its Constitution, and the will of its people. Not over Venezuela. Not over the Americas. And certainly not over its own citizens when they dare to disagree.

Empires confuse themselves with continents. Democracies don’t. And when a leader starts speaking like the landmass belongs to him, history suggests he’s already bored with the idea that the country doesn’t.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

We are told, repeatedly and with great solemnity, that we have a peace-time president. The phrase is rolled out like a talisman, meant to ward off inconvenient questions, much like “thoughts and prayers” or “this hurts me more than it hurts you.” And yet, in the same breath, we are asked to accept that this very peace-time president authorized a SEAL Team to enter Venezuela, seize its sitting president, and spirit him away into custody. One is tempted to ask: at what point does peace begin to resemble war wearing a borrowed suit?

Supporters insist this was not an act of war. It was a surgical operation. Precise. Clean. Professional. The language is important, because language is how we launder violence into something more palatable. Wars are messy, expensive, and politically dangerous. “Operations,” on the other hand, sound like something that happens in a well-lit room with stainless steel instruments and a signed consent form. Venezuela, it seems, did not get to sign.

If this is what a country that doesn’t want another war does, then war has been rebranded rather than rejected. We no longer invade; we “intervene.” We no longer overthrow governments; we “remove destabilizing actors.” We no longer kidnap foreign heads of state; we “take them into custody.” The actions remain remarkably familiar, even if the vocabulary has been scrubbed for prime time.

The justification, of course, is necessity. We were told there was no choice. There never is. Necessity is the most reliable excuse in the empire’s toolbox. It bypasses debate, sidesteps international law, and frames skepticism as naïveté. You either support the mission or you don’t care about security, democracy, or whatever value happens to be useful that week.

But necessity has a curious habit of flowing in only one direction. When another country violates sovereignty, it is an outrage. When we do it, it is leadership. When they send armed forces across borders, it is aggression. When we do it, it is restraint. Peace, apparently, is defined not by the absence of force, but by who controls the narrative afterward.

There is also the matter of precedent, that tedious concept we only worry about once it’s too late. If sending elite troops into a sovereign nation to seize its leader does not constitute an act of war, then what does? If this is peace, what exactly are we trying to avoid? Tanks in the streets? Bombs on the evening news? Or merely the inconvenience of admitting that peace is not something you declare—it is something you practice.

In the end, the contradiction is the point. Calling a leader a peace-time president while applauding acts that would have once been unambiguously described as war is not confusion; it is strategy. It allows a nation to feel virtuous while behaving aggressively, to claim moral high ground while standing on someone else’s soil with a gun.

So yes, perhaps this is what a country that “doesn’t want to start another war” does now. It just doesn’t call it a war. And as long as the word is avoided, we are expected to believe that peace—however heavily armed—still exists.