Prologue: The Gods Depart, the Masks Remain
In Homer’s Iliad, the gods meddled in mortal wars not out of justice but vanity. They played favorites, seduced heroes, and stoked conflict for sport. Mortals bled for causes they barely understood. Today, the gods are gone, but their masks remain. What we call politics is not governance but theater: a Greek tragedy repurposed for prime time.
Act I: The Rise of the Warriors and Elders
The stage fills with figures who claim gravitas, each donning a mask from myth:
Donald Trump enters as the Aging Actor, a faded Agamemnon who refuses to exit, mistaking bluster for command.
Bernie Sanders speaks as Nestor, weary yet insistent, urging the assembly toward forgotten ideals.
Alexandria Ocasio‑Cortez stands as Cassandra, warning of looming crises, but condemned to be mocked or ignored.
Chuck Schumer plays Dolus, the trickster spirit, feigning concern, weaving masks of care but revealing only hollow gestures.
Tammy Duckworth embodies Achilles wounded yet unbowed, her scars a reminder of sacrifice.
Mark Kelly appears as Ajax, the warrior‑senator, invoking duty and law against unlawful commands. His defiance is not rebellion but fidelity to the code, yet he is punished for speaking the truth aloud.
Act II: The Pageant of Illusion and Image
The spectacle shifts from warriors to illusionists, image‑makers, and opportunists:
Marjorie Taylor Greene shrieks like the Harpies, swooping in to unsettle order.
Pete Hegseth blusters as Thersites, loud but empty, mistaking noise for wisdom.
Karoline Leavitt echoes like the cursed nymph, repeating borrowed words without conviction.
Kristi Noem appears as Circe, the enchantress of image, weaving charm into power plays, but her spells reveal farce more than transformation.
JD Vance wanders as Odysseus without honor, shifting loyalties for optics rather than survival.
Gavin Newsom shines as Apollo in modern dress, radiant and polished, a master of image and presentation.
J.B. Pritzker looms as Plutus, god of wealth, shaping the stage through resources and patronage.
Act III: The Chorus of Outsiders
The chorus murmurs as outsiders enter, complicating the script:
Erika Kirk becomes a modern Helen, glamorous and grieving, suddenly central to the spectacle.
Usha Vance lingers as Penelope, silent and sidelined, her loyalty threadbare and no longer useful to the plot.
Robert F. Kennedy Jr. shifts as Proteus, cloaking himself in prophecy and persuasion, but slipping between forms so often that truth itself becomes unstable.
Rob Reiner exits as the Director, a storyteller whose passing should have inspired reflection. Instead, his death was repurposed by Donald Trump as another line of grievance, not mourning but monologue.
Act IV: The Chorus Awakens
The chorus, the people, watches, half‑entranced, half‑aware. Some begin to see the seams in the costumes, the stage lights, the script rewritten nightly to flatter the leads. They recognize that this is not governance but theater: a tragicomedy of ambition and betrayal, where the masks of gods conceal only mortals desperate for applause.
Curtain Call: From Spectacle to Governance
The play has run too long. The masks are cracked, the stage lights harsh, the script exhausted. We have cheered, jeered, and gasped at the spectacle, mistaking theater for leadership. But we the people were never meant to be passive spectators.
It is time to rise from the seats. It is time to demand governance, not entertainment. It is time to strip away the costumes and insist on substance.
The Harpies may shriek, the Circe may enchant, the Proteus may shift, and the Aging Actor may cling to his role, but we hold the true power. The tragedy ends not when the actors exit, but when the audience refuses to be fooled.
The curtain must fall. The pageant must end. And we must insist: govern us, do not perform for us.
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