“When the presidency becomes a farce, you know it’s over with the system.”
— Fran Hersh
This might be one of the last presidential elections—America is finally ready for a king, or a queen! The current political spectacle, embodied by a senile incumbent and candidates like Kamala Harris and Donald Trump, underscores a profound shift in what elections represent. Leaders are no longer chosen for competence or vision; instead, they’ve become symbols, placeholders for abstract ideas rather than actionable policies.
Kamala Harris exemplifies this shift. Her ascent, despite speaking in word salads, struggling to pinch together two coherent sentences, and being as detached from reality as her ideas about gender, demonstrates that being “dumb as a doll” is no longer a barrier to the top. Politics today seems to embrace a formula where image trumps substance. The American public isn’t electing leaders to solve pressing issues but is presented with symbols that merely evoke certain loyalties, values, or fears.
On the other hand, Donald Trump plays the role of a magician, pulling out policies like tricks from his sleeve without careful vetting. His proposals often lack scrutiny, yet they capture the public’s attention, feeding his larger-than-life persona. His approach underscores the spectacle that elections have become: candidates no longer need coherent, well-researched policies—just a flair for the dramatic. They don’t stand for competent leadership (a commitment to public service, evidence-based policies, transparency, ethics, and a focus on unity); instead, they serve as placeholders—like a ceremonial monarch—without substantive direction.
It might have been this way for some time—at least since Obama’s ‘hope and change’ that never came, or the ‘everyman’ appeal of Clinton—but now, with the ease of fact-checking and the rise of independent media on the internet, it has become evident to everyone. This disillusionment with leadership is increasingly reflected in the reality of the nation itself.
E Pluribus Unum America—in Theory
The American system was once seen as a balanced two-party structure, with one party representing workers and the other, business. But by the late 20th century, both the Democratic and Republican parties shifted from focusing on substantive economic policies to prioritizing symbolic, identity-based issues. Following the end of the Cold War, both parties embraced neoliberal economics, minimizing distinctions in economic policy. Instead, they differentiated themselves through cultural and social values, engaging in “culture wars” that emphasized symbolism over structural change.
As globalization eroded traditional jobs, the parties leaned even more into identity politics, with Democrats focusing on inclusivity and Republicans on traditional and nationalistic values. Media played a key role in amplifying this shift, favoring quick soundbites and emotional appeals over policy discussions. By the turn of the century, both parties had abandoned economic solutions in favor of symbolic, deeply polarized politics.
But in one thing they were united: in perpetual war.
Endless Wars
“The arrogance of officialdom should be tempered and controlled, and assistance to foreign lands should be curtailed lest Rome fall.”
— Cicero, De Officiis
It all began with Vietnam. Or maybe it ended with Vietnam. Vietnam marked a turning point—a war that began under the premise of halting communism but ultimately revealed a deeper pattern: an America willing to engage in protracted conflicts with unclear objectives and murky outcomes. Since then, the U.S. has repeatedly found itself embroiled in wars that seem endless—Afghanistan, Iraq, and, more recently, involvement in proxy conflicts.
These wars have been justified by high-minded ideals like spreading democracy and protecting human rights, but they often serve another purpose: maintaining elite control through fear and conflict. For the elites, war operates on a zero-sum game principle where the chaos and fear generated abroad and at home strengthen their grip on power. Just as in ancient Rome, where endless wars drained resources and diverted attention from internal decay, America’s ongoing conflicts benefit a powerful few while the nation at large bears the heavy costs—financially, psychologically, and socially.
With each new engagement, the cycle of war deepens. The war economy thrives, defense budgets swell, and new enemies are constantly identified or invented. This pattern has become almost self-perpetuating, less about national security and more about sustaining a system dependent on conflict.
Vietnam taught Americans to question these wars. But decades later, the pattern remains. The question is: will America learn from the rise and fall of past empires, or will it continue down the path of perpetual war, inching closer to its own decline?
The Beginning of the End?
A Harvard historian, Niall Ferguson, has equated America’s current state to that of the Soviet Union in the 1980s—an atmosphere filled with disillusionment, decline, and dysfunction. Like the Soviet Union’s chronic “soft budget constraint” (i.e., spending beyond its means), America faces unmanageable deficits, currently 6.4% of GDP ($1.833 trillion for the 2024 fiscal year, the highest outside of the COVID-19 period). This crisis is exacerbated by a debt burden now exceeding $35 trillion, or over 120% of GDP.
Public confidence in American institutions has plummeted. According to Gallup, trust in key institutions—including the Supreme Court, banks, public schools, and technology companies—remains shockingly low, with Congress seeing only an 8% approval rating. The social fabric itself is fraying as younger generations face a crisis of mental health tied to smartphone and social media use, while older Americans succumb to “deaths of despair,” driven by drug overdoses, alcohol abuse, and suicide. In 2022 alone, fentanyl claimed more American lives than were lost in three major wars combined—Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan.
Moreover, American life expectancy has been falling in ways not seen in other comparable nations, mainly due to preventable deaths from overdoses, alcohol, suicide, and obesity-related illnesses. Ferguson suggests that America’s healthcare system, plagued by inefficiency and rent-seeking practices, mirrors the Soviet system: a bloated bureaucracy benefiting vested interests rather than the public.
On the ideological front, Ferguson argues that America’s institutional priorities—centered on “diversity, equity, and inclusion” (DEI)—are reminiscent of Soviet propaganda. Despite claims of promoting equality, these policies often fail to benefit the poor and are criticized for lowering standards in education and healthcare, while prioritizing the interests of a growing bureaucratic class of DEI officers over genuinely supporting marginalized communities.
False and Crazy Narratives
“If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.”
— George Orwell
As proof that something is rotten in the state of Denmark is the proliferation of false narratives, which has reached a fever pitch. Nowhere was this clearer than during the COVID-19 pandemic, when the trusted realm of science revealed deep cracks in its foundation. Collaboration between public health institutions and Big Pharma created biased research, manipulated data, and promoted results favoring pharmaceutical profits over public welfare. These alliances had been laying the groundwork for decades, with clinical trials frequently set up to serve the interests of the pharmaceutical industry rather than true public health needs. The influence of major donors and corporate funding on scientific research had already eroded public trust, but the COVID-19 situation exposed the extent to which even public health itself can be co-opted.
A similar narrative runs through the climate change debate. Climate: The Movie, directed by Martin Durkin, presents viewpoints from prominent scholars, including Nobel laureate John Clauser and MIT meteorologist Richard Lindzen, who argue that while climate change is real, it may not be driven by human activity to the extent that mainstream academia asserts. The documentary itself has faced criticisms and efforts to debunk some of its claims, but the underlying message rings true: much of the academic community is incentivized to promote a human-driven climate model due to the significant funding they receive from political sources. Research that questions this model is often marginalized, keeping the public largely unaware that the trillion-dollar green energy industry might be built on shaky premises that thrive on a sense of urgency.
Beyond the hard sciences, social sciences have seen a similar decline in rigor. Once devoted to understanding societal complexities, entire faculties began shifting in the 1960s toward ideological pursuits under the banner of postmodernism. What were once inquiries grounded in objectivity have morphed into platforms for promoting fashionable but unsubstantiated theories, losing their grounding in measurable research. As a result, many so-called “scientific studies” within these fields are little more than speculative exercises, with entire disciplines resembling “social fantasies” more than sciences.
The effects have not been confined to academia. Journalism, once viewed as a bastion of objectivity, has succumbed to similar pressures. The past few decades have seen the rise of one-sided news coverage, where media outlets openly favor one political party or perspective, often at the expense of objective reporting. Instead of providing balanced viewpoints, major news networks have become cheerleaders for political agendas, further polarizing the public and eroding trust in unbiased information. This plague of partisanship has transformed the role of journalism from watchdog to participant in ideological battles, leaving the audience with little recourse to find a neutral source.
Meanwhile, the “gender police” and the Woke brigade—dressed and looking so outrageously you’d swear they’d just strolled off a Star Wars set, like extras from Jabba the Hutt’s latest shindig—are tirelessly on a mission to dismantle anything in civilization that’s managed to survive the last 5,000 years. This ideological fervor has spread further, infiltrating schools and universities where young minds are increasingly exposed to narratives that challenge long-held principles and fuel an escalating cultural upheaval.
Creating a fairer, more equal society is a natural part of progress; it would be disappointing if we didn’t improve upon our predecessors. But attempting to correct one injustice by committing another, such as through affirmative action policies that tilt the scales unjustly, ultimately makes us no better. The same holds for Woke claims that gender is merely a social construct—when, in truth, it is a natural phenomenon, while Wokeism itself is a construct of postmodern craziness.
But they are not entirely to blame. This shift didn’t happen in a vacuum. In many ways, they were also victims, not just aggressors—victims of a system that gave them little voice or political power. Much of this movement originated in the 1960s during an era of social upheaval and dissatisfaction with the establishment, when protests against the Vietnam War, a forceful draft, and glaring racial injustices went largely ignored by those in power. Without a genuine way to address these grievances, frustration grew, and the blame often shifted to traditional structures rather than the entrenched power systems that had shut them out.
The New Left and cultural Marxists, in their push for change, sought to dismantle what they saw as oppressive norms, but without fully understanding the true roots of their discontent. This ideological fervor infiltrated academia and journalism, transforming institutions once grounded in objectivity into platforms for promoting fashionable, often unsubstantiated theories. Had the people had more voice in political discourse and influence on the government, these issues might have been addressed openly, allowing for immediate public input and potentially preventing the deep social divisions we see today. Instead, as the frustrated voices of the 1960s entered the workforce, they reshaped media and academia, establishing narratives and values that continue to impact public discourse.
The Death of Liberal Democracy
When Donald Trump ran for the presidency in 2016, everyone was talking about the rise of populism. His campaign was heralded as degradation to primitivism, his views “unscientific,” a disruption to what many saw as the end of liberal democracies as we knew them, with panicked whispers of a turn toward something sinister—Putin’s Russia, or even worse, Hitler’s Germany. Then came Biden, and the media eagerly proclaimed a “return to normalcy.” Stability was restored. Democracy was saved. Or so they said. Ironically, this “normalcy” also saw the return of wars and conflicts that had mysteriously stalled during the “autocratic” Trump’s time in office. Turns out, maybe “normal” wasn’t exactly what it was cracked up to be.
And with Biden assertion to power “Trump’s” old friend, Vladimir Putin, jumped right in with a major war of his own. But as more independent reporters are beginning to admit, maybe Putin wasn’t quite the cartoon villain he was made out to be. Maybe NATO, forever inching toward Russian borders, had something to do with it. But, of course, the US Government could never be the baddies, right? Just ask the millions of Arabs, Afghans, and Vietnamese who’ve experienced the “blessings of democracy” firsthand over the past fifty years. If democracy means dropping bombs and sacrificing millions, maybe it’s time to question the project “democracy,” after all.
Now, we have the ultimate “Fight of Democracy vs. Autocracy” narrative. Ukraine and Russia, both democracies as well as autocracies in their own right, tearing each other apart in the name of freedom. Wouldn’t that be a fair fight? Let’s sacrifice a million Ukrainians so that Ukraine can join NATO, so Russia won’t attack it; never mind that Russia likely wouldn’t have attacked if they hadn’t been trying to join NATO (or better yet, pushed to do so to provoke Russia). This Zelensky must be a very clever guy.
Meanwhile, as weapons flood into Israel and Ukraine and global instability grows, it’s hard not to think back to the last days of Rome. Back then, pouring resources into endless conflicts and bribes drained the republic from within. And like the Roman Senate under Catiline’s influence, Congress today faces similar temptations. Israel, perhaps the cleverest in this arrangement, seems to have mastered the art of “influence” with American lawmakers: with strategic donations to senators and congressmen, it can secure its interests and tenfold billions in military aid from U.S. taxpayers.
The Republic has become a cloak for power games, with the human cost borne by nations far from the American political stage while the financial burden grows into debt that will weigh on the American people for generations. The military, meanwhile, is weakened by the erosion of both industrial capacity and soft power. Recent foreign policies, driven by threats, coups, and corporate exploitation, have proven costly and ineffective, creating more enemies than allies. As corporations outsourced production for profit, the U.S. economy now resembles Rome’s dependence on Egyptian wheat: America today produces little domestically, relying instead on a bloated GDP propped up by financial services—an economy focused on moving money rather than creating real value.
The Righteous West Is Always Fighting Someone
Red threat, domino theory, war on terror, and now—when someone speaks of the “fight of democracy against autocracies,” take it as a quack test—they’re about to spin a lie. In theory, liberal democracy means power vested in the people. In practice, however, what passes for liberal democracy is often little more than rule by elites, dressed up in the illusion of choice. This system has a more fitting name: a republic—or, more accurately, an oligarchy. As I wrote in my article, true democracy hasn’t existed in the West since the fall of Athens to the Macedonians in 338 BCE. What we have instead is a corporatocracy, where corporations and the wealthy shape the agenda, and politicians simply play the role of spokespersons.
Elections in this system are largely symbolic rituals. The public is given a choice from a limited pool of pre-approved candidates, all aligned with powerful interests. The issues that matter most are rarely up for genuine debate, and the choices offered to the public are illusory at best. Mass media, often controlled by corporate powers, shapes the narrative, steering public opinion and reinforcing the system’s boundaries. Through cycles of fear and reassurance, the elites maintain control, offering solutions to problems they’ve amplified for their own gain.
While Trump was seen as a threat to the establishment, it wasn’t because he was truly anti-establishment but because he disrupted the carefully crafted image of stability. His policies, often improvised, resembled political theater more than serious governance but served to rattle a predictable order. Biden’s election, by contrast, was hailed as a renewal of stability, a return to a system where leaders serve as symbols rather than agents of change. What we’re left with is a system in which elections are largely symbolic rituals, giving the public a limited pool of pre-approved candidates aligned with powerful interests.
What we’re witnessing, then, may not be the “death of liberal democracy,” or better to say, of the “republic,” but rather the death of an illusion. People are becoming increasingly aware of these hollow symbols and are beginning to demand something more. They’re no longer satisfied with the empty ritual of voting for symbolic candidates; they want true participation in the policies that impact their lives.
Flawed From the Beginning?
“In politics, nothing happens by accident. If it happens, you can bet it was planned that way.”
— Purportedly from President Franklin Delano Roosevelt
Already in Federalist No. 10 (1787), James Madison defended a republic over a democracy, warning against the “tyranny of the majority” and arguing that a larger, representative republic would dilute factionalism—though this has proven wrong to this day. In reality, the structure has fostered even more factionalism and polarization, as the only way for citizens to gain minimal influence has been to organize into political parties. True democracy, by contrast, would foster individualism, where each person’s vote counts directly, making organized factions unnecessary. In Ancient Athens, where democracy was practiced in its direct form, there were no formal political parties. Instead, citizens participated individually in the Ekklesia (the Assembly), making decisions on laws and policies themselves. While influential leaders could gather informal support, there were no structured parties; each citizen’s voice held weight, fostering a system where collective decision-making was grounded in individual participation rather than factional allegiance.
Madison’s preference for a republic was not purely philosophical; it had class interests at its core. Historian Charles Beard, in An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States (1913), argued that Madison and other framers—many landowners and creditors—designed a system to protect elite economic interests from popular interference. Carl Becker’s work, particularly in The History of Political Parties in the Province of New York, 1760–1776 (1909), provides context for these issues by exploring how conservative factions sought to preserve traditional power structures, setting the stage for later debates over the Constitution’s role.
In Beard’s view, a truly “just” Constitution would be simpler, transparent, and built to allow direct popular influence. True democracy would enable citizens to decide on key policies directly, reducing barriers that dilute their power. The Senate, disproportionately favoring smaller states, would be overhauled or abolished, and strict limits on lobbying and campaign finance would reduce elite influence, moving governance toward all citizens rather than a privileged few.
Nowhere is the Constitution’s elite-driven design more evident than in U.S. foreign policy—a domain nearly free of public oversight, crafted behind closed doors and layered in bureaucracy to keep the public from having a meaningful say. Here, Madison’s vision has inadvertently enabled the consolidation of a “deep state,” comprising elites from Georgetown, entrenched congressmen and senators, high-ranking bureaucrats, think tanks like the Council on Foreign Relations, corporate interests, military elites, and officials from the CIA and State Department. Long-serving legislators and entrenched bureaucrats, particularly within intelligence and foreign policy sectors, reinforce continuity in decisions, often operating beyond public accountability or democratic oversight. These actors work in concert, with corporate and military interests often aligned in shaping policy to serve strategic and economic agendas rather than the public interest.
While these individuals undoubtedly believe they are patriots working in the national interest, their insular approach and myopic focus prevent them from fully grasping what the national interest truly entails—how could they, if they rarely engage with or seek the perspectives of the people they claim to serve?
In conclusion, the cracks we see today are symptoms of a structural flaw that has always existed. Although I am not overly critical of the Constitution for its time—when monarchs ruled much of the world, and it was likely the best solution possible—it is now obsolete, unable to meet the demands of modern society and, worse, it has become a liability. In Flawed Democracy, I advocate for a New Democracy: a complex system where citizens vote directly on laws, guided by the expert counsel of a Council of 500 elected not by party affiliation but from and among each industry and field of science, representing a “distributed wisdom of the nation.”
As awareness of these flaws grows, so does the call not merely for reform but for a fundamental restructuring—one that could finally deliver a democracy we were promised but never fully realized. Whether this call will lead to New Democracy or something entirely new remains to be seen, but one thing is certain: the public’s patience with hollow rituals is running out.
Should We Shed a Tear for a Dying Republic or Embrace the Path to New Democracy?
When does a child become an adult? When it takes responsibility for its own decisions. If a person is never allowed to make choices—or mistakes—they remain a child for life. As citizens, we’ve grown accustomed to politicians “parenting” us, allowing us to blame them for every failure and cheer them for every success. But it’s time we take power into our own hands and forge our destiny by learning from our own choices. New Democracy would foster a more mature society, urging people to think collectively and become aware of their neighbors’ problems. It’s a pathway to a more compassionate, united society, not the polarized one fueled by politicians’ slogans and propaganda.
In New Democracy, people would have real influence over decisions, stripping power from elites who use war and fear as levers of control. This shift isn’t a collapse; it’s a transformation—a move toward a system where the public no longer serves as an audience but becomes an active participant. If this marks the “death of the republic” as we know it, then perhaps it’s the “birth of democracy” in its truest sense.
When people are given genuine power, they tend to act with mercy rather than tyranny—contrary to Madison’s fears. Tyranny is born from a disenfranchised mob, not from an empowered citizenry. A republic—an institutionalized oligarchy as it is—is inherently unstable, destined to end in either tyranny or democracy. We are at a pivotal moment: if we don’t embrace democracy, we risk falling into tyranny.
While blaming Russia, China, or North Korea for being autocratic enemies, America’s greatest threat may actually be its own republic. It’s a hard truth when one realizes they are their own worst enemy. A country, like a person, chooses its battles, decides to live and eat healthily or not, squanders resources or saves them—with no one else to blame. If we allowed our industry to escape and thereby lost our supremacy to another nation, it was due to our own political decisions, not because we were forced by any external power. As Professor Jeffrey Sachs points out, geopolitics doesn’t have to be a zero-sum game among hegemons. Yet today, elites maintain their power by manufacturing external threats, perpetuating wars, and thereby spreading fear at home.
The transition from a republic dominated by elite interests to a direct democracy would dismantle the structures that sustain war, fear, and inequality—and shift focus to protecting national interests, not corporate ones. It would signify not the end of cherished principles of freedom and rule of law but the beginning of a system where people finally live free from the shadows of elite rule. The death of the old republic could, therefore, mark the birth of New Democracy—one built on shared goals, genuine peace, and the people’s will guiding policy.