You know what the world feels like right now? It’s like that party you didn’t even wanna go to. Somebody said there’d be free food, so you drag yourself over, and guess what? The food’s long gone, the drinks taste like tap water, and the host is cornering you in the kitchen trying to sell you crypto. That’s life in 2025. Welcome to the ******* party.
And somehow—somehow—everybody’s acting like this is normal. Normal? You got billionaires strapping on space helmets for fun while half the country can’t cover rent. People rationing insulin like it’s some luxury champagne at a wedding—only the bill’s higher than the mortgage. Half the world’s starving, the other half’s gluten-free. And they call that balance. They call that justice. Forget the Statue of Liberty—we’re down to a Slot Machine of Liberty. Pull the lever: maybe you get rights, maybe you get *******.
The politicians? Jesus. They’re basically used-car salesmen in cheap suits. They’ll pitch you the end of the world with a warranty and free undercoating. You ask about healthcare, they say “pray.” You ask about schools, they say “pray harder.” At this rate, we’ll need health insurance just to get a blessing. “Sorry, kid, Jesus doesn’t cover pre-existing conditions.”
And the news? It’s not news—it’s disaster ****. All high-def panic, screaming about democracy circling the drain, and then, bang, straight into commercials: trucks, beer, antidepressants. That’s the American trinity—panic attack, pickup, Prozac. We’re not watching the news, we’re just rubbernecking civilization’s slow-motion car crash.
Meanwhile, everyone’s ******. Masks, no masks. Shots, no shots. Books, no books. You can’t even say “Merry Christmas” anymore without someone acting like you just declared war. But you can pick up an AR-15 like it’s a two-for-one at Costco. Ban Dr. Seuss, sell bullets like Tic Tacs. And then we wonder why the country’s lost its **** mind.
And don’t get me started on social media. That’s not conversation—that’s a firing squad with Wi-Fi. Salem with hashtags. One slip, one bad joke, and you’re cooked. Trial at noon, buried by sundown under a pile of emojis. Jury’s just a bunch of strangers with usernames like HotDog69. Judge is a trending topic. Good luck appealing that one.
And the craziest part? People live there. They don’t just scroll—they move in. They walk into traffic glued to their screens. Nobody looks at the sky anymore. Nobody even looks at each other. Just hunched over, waiting for a little dopamine hit. And the algorithm’s the new God: invisible, almighty, telling you what to buy, what to hate, what to believe. Forget the Bible—it’s Terms and Conditions now. Click “accept” for salvation.
And hope? Don’t make me laugh. Hope’s been hocked. Stripped for parts. The people running this circus don’t deal in hope—hope doesn’t buy yachts. Fear does. Anger does. Keep people scared, keep ‘em ******, you can sell them anything. “Be afraid of your neighbor. Be afraid of the air. Be afraid of tomorrow.” And while you’re chewing on that fear, they’re picking out a bigger island to hide on.
So here we are. World’s burning. Half the room’s dancing, half the room’s choking on smoke. Nobody knows where the exits are, but the band just keeps on playing. And the worst part? We all paid to get in. We all bought a ticket. Cover charge, no refunds. And the tab? Still running.