PAF
Member
- Joined
- Feb 26, 2012
- Messages
- 13,559
h/t Occam's Banana
What is left of MAGA is not a movement of people anymore.
It is a machine of obedience, an unthinking chorus that chants on cue, mouths moving in sync to words they did not write, serving ends they will never taste.
They call it strength, patriotism, tradition, but all I see is a hollowed mass where individuals once stood.
They are no longer living their own lives. They are living as surrogates for someone else, their time and energy siphoned to feed a grifter’s empire. They tell themselves this is their fight, their rebellion, their restoration, yet they are simply pawns, devoting their existence to the preservation of one man’s ego and the parasitic ecosystem that has grown fat around it.
The zealots are worse than the grifters. At least the grifters are aware, at least they are doing something for themselves in a crooked way. They know what they are doing and they steal openly, even if it means hollowing out the country to line their own pockets. It at least has a kind of coherence.
The zealots, though, dissolve into nothing, surrendering every shred of their individuality to the dream of belonging. They believe their obedience is freedom, that their subservience is courage. They cheer while their chains tighten, convinced they forged them themselves. They carry water for the very people who mock them behind closed doors, and they do it with pride. They have not simply been conquered, they have been pacified, and they kneel with gratitude while insisting they are standing tall.
What makes this especially grotesque is that it is not even in service of something formidable. If this was the iron discipline of an empire that conquered continents, at least the scale of the illusion might match the devotion.
But no, this is in service of the cheapest, most transparent carnival of corruption imaginable. A government packed with incompetence and greed, lurching backward on every promise, unraveling its own slogans faster than they can be repeated. Loyal crooks where "public service" is nothing more than self-service and every position is handed out as a favor. A stage where slogans of strength mask the steady selling off of the country piece by piece, where the language of order hides chaos, favoritism, and impunity.
It is a spectacle of corruption so obvious it barely bothers with disguise, yet the followers drink it as though it were salvation, convinced it is greatness. Every failure is paraded as triumph, every betrayal of principle excused as part of some grand design. Anyone with even the faintest sense could have seen this coming from a mile away. The writing was already on the wall during the first administration, but when the campaign season began, everyone chose amnesia, too fragile to accept what it truly was.
It is just another mask for the same deep state they once railed against, only worse. Because the very people who would have otherwise been the fighters, the dissenters, the ones ready to tear at the machinery, are now subdued. They are not just subdued, they are actively participating in their own nightmare, the same nightmare they once warned against. They have become the obedient army of the very order they claimed to hate, and they smile while doing it. They are wasting their lives in the ugliest way possible.
Imagine living decades only to give yourself away so cheaply, to devote every ounce of breath to carrying water for a man who sees you as disposable, to march under a banner that betrays its own words every single day. And for what? For the thrill of belonging to a crowd, for the comfort of avoiding the anxiety of thinking for yourself, for the false security of a leader who thrives on your dependency.
They should feel shame deeper than death itself, but shame requires a self, and that has been surrendered.
They have allowed themselves to be emptied, and in the place where their individuality should be stands a slogan, a hat, a chant. There is no greatness here. There is no rebellion. There is only obedience in its most pitiful form.
When the years of this administration finish, they will look back at what they defended and see nothing but ruins and lies. And it will be too late, because they will have already given away the only thing that could have mattered: their own lives, which they never truly lived.
What is left of MAGA is not a movement of people anymore.
It is a machine of obedience, an unthinking chorus that chants on cue, mouths moving in sync to words they did not write, serving ends they will never taste.
They call it strength, patriotism, tradition, but all I see is a hollowed mass where individuals once stood.
They are no longer living their own lives. They are living as surrogates for someone else, their time and energy siphoned to feed a grifter’s empire. They tell themselves this is their fight, their rebellion, their restoration, yet they are simply pawns, devoting their existence to the preservation of one man’s ego and the parasitic ecosystem that has grown fat around it.
The zealots are worse than the grifters. At least the grifters are aware, at least they are doing something for themselves in a crooked way. They know what they are doing and they steal openly, even if it means hollowing out the country to line their own pockets. It at least has a kind of coherence.
The zealots, though, dissolve into nothing, surrendering every shred of their individuality to the dream of belonging. They believe their obedience is freedom, that their subservience is courage. They cheer while their chains tighten, convinced they forged them themselves. They carry water for the very people who mock them behind closed doors, and they do it with pride. They have not simply been conquered, they have been pacified, and they kneel with gratitude while insisting they are standing tall.
What makes this especially grotesque is that it is not even in service of something formidable. If this was the iron discipline of an empire that conquered continents, at least the scale of the illusion might match the devotion.
But no, this is in service of the cheapest, most transparent carnival of corruption imaginable. A government packed with incompetence and greed, lurching backward on every promise, unraveling its own slogans faster than they can be repeated. Loyal crooks where "public service" is nothing more than self-service and every position is handed out as a favor. A stage where slogans of strength mask the steady selling off of the country piece by piece, where the language of order hides chaos, favoritism, and impunity.
It is a spectacle of corruption so obvious it barely bothers with disguise, yet the followers drink it as though it were salvation, convinced it is greatness. Every failure is paraded as triumph, every betrayal of principle excused as part of some grand design. Anyone with even the faintest sense could have seen this coming from a mile away. The writing was already on the wall during the first administration, but when the campaign season began, everyone chose amnesia, too fragile to accept what it truly was.
It is just another mask for the same deep state they once railed against, only worse. Because the very people who would have otherwise been the fighters, the dissenters, the ones ready to tear at the machinery, are now subdued. They are not just subdued, they are actively participating in their own nightmare, the same nightmare they once warned against. They have become the obedient army of the very order they claimed to hate, and they smile while doing it. They are wasting their lives in the ugliest way possible.
Imagine living decades only to give yourself away so cheaply, to devote every ounce of breath to carrying water for a man who sees you as disposable, to march under a banner that betrays its own words every single day. And for what? For the thrill of belonging to a crowd, for the comfort of avoiding the anxiety of thinking for yourself, for the false security of a leader who thrives on your dependency.
They should feel shame deeper than death itself, but shame requires a self, and that has been surrendered.
They have allowed themselves to be emptied, and in the place where their individuality should be stands a slogan, a hat, a chant. There is no greatness here. There is no rebellion. There is only obedience in its most pitiful form.
When the years of this administration finish, they will look back at what they defended and see nothing but ruins and lies. And it will be too late, because they will have already given away the only thing that could have mattered: their own lives, which they never truly lived.
