Let’s face it: we live in an era where destruction is the new construction. Everything that’s built – from our political systems to our smartphones – seems designed to break down, morally or mechanically. Why? Because those who control the levers of power are about as capable as a screen door on a submarine. They wouldn’t know how to produce a good result if it was pre-packaged with a step-by-step manual. And yet, they remain at the helm, steering the ship while blissfully ignorant of the iceberg of reality dead ahead.

But how do they maintain this façade? Simple: they’ve surrounded themselves with a loyal legion of yes-men and yes-women, each one more clueless than the last. It’s a merry band of sycophants, all singing praises to their tone-deaf leaders. This isn’t just a failure of competence; it’s a symphony of mediocrity, where every note is off-key yet played with a baffling, unwarranted confidence.

Anything that could genuinely help us is quickly hijacked, repurposed into creating grand illusions, shimmering mirages in the desert of truth. These illusions serve one purpose: to sustain the lies so our rulers can stay in control and divert our energies to creating more illusions and lies.

Seeking information? Good luck navigating the labyrinth of corporate news, where disinformation is served up like a daily special. These purveyors of news have mastered the art of the smokescreen, obscuring any real story with a dense fog of half-truths and outright fabrications. They’re not in the business of enlightenment; they’re in the business of confusion, creating a world where up is down, left is right, and the truth is whatever their patrons decide it should be that day. We’re living in a world where the real stories, the ones that matter, are not just ignored – they’re actively silenced, buried under a mountain of trivialities and distractions.

In this great, twisted comedy of our modern age, where the jesters are kings and the kings have become footnotes, there’s a new act that’s been drawing crowds – the noble “fact checker”. Oh, how we’ve welcomed these brave knights of truth, armed with their swords of verification, ready to defend us from the dragons of disinformation. But hold your applause, folks, because this isn’t a tale of heroism; it’s another scene in the same tragic play where the script is written by those with the deepest pockets and the shallowest ethics.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “But isn’t it good that someone’s keeping an eye on all this fake news?” Sure, if they were actually doing that. But let’s not kid ourselves. These fact checkers are about as independent and grassroots as a billionaire’s front lawn. They sprouted up like mushrooms after a rain, seemingly out of nowhere, claiming to serve the public interest. Who’s really serving who here?

You see, the internet, for all its cats and memes, became a little too good at letting the cat out of the bag. Facts, the real pesky kind, started slipping through the cracks, finding their way to the public before the social media janitors could sweep them under the rug. And what do you do when you can’t control the narrative? You create a new one, a narrative about “protecting” the public from misinformation, all the while guiding them gently back to the pasture of approved truths.

Enter the fact checkers, the self-appointed guardians of reality, except their reality is one where the lines are drawn by corporate media and their puppeteers. These aren’t unbiased sentinels standing watch over the truth; they’re the narrative police, ensuring that the only stories that see the light of day are the ones that serve the right interests – and I don’t mean the public’s.

Think about it. No one’s sitting in their mansion thinking, “You know what I should do with my money? Fund an organization to sift through news articles for the good of humanity.” That’s not how this game is played. These fact-checking outfits are astroturfed creations, as organic as a plastic Christmas tree, designed not to enlighten but to steer.

And it’s not just them. Every Political Action Committee, every Non-Governmental Organization, every group that claims to be working selflessly for the betterment of society – they’re all playing the same game. They’re not fueled by altruism; they’re fueled by agendas, the agendas of those who write the checks. Their mission isn’t to serve the community; it’s to serve the interests of their donors, to create change that benefits those at the top, while the rest of us get to shoulder the consequences.

NGOs are the magicians of migration, moving millions of third-world migrants each year from poverty to the social safety nets of Europe and the United States where natives have to pay for people that can’t contribute and are unwanted. NGOs organize every step of the trip so it’s easier than a vacation. Professionals run the whole thing and every interaction with a legal restriction is gamed. Migrants are instructed to deliberately lose their identification so they can’t be returned to their countries. They are instructed how to take advantage of systems meant for a few dozen actual refugees, and they are brought to the border in waves so large it overwhelms the system meant for handling organic cases.

The wealthy sponsors pull the strings from behind a veil of plausible deniability. “We’re just donors,” they claim, hands raised in feigned innocence, as the NGOs carry out tasks that align suspiciously well with the sponsors’ agendas. It’s a neat trick – getting your cake, eating it, and then claiming you were on a diet all along.

The NGOs, for their part, play their roles with Oscar-worthy conviction. “We’re just doing our work,” they proclaim to the public, while in the backroom, the script reads differently. It’s not about change or advocacy; it’s about fulfilling a contract, delivering results that the sponsors can’t or won’t achieve openly. The noble cause? That’s just the costume they wear to the masquerade.

Migration run by NGOs is just revenge purchased by donors. NGOs act as mercenaries in the battleground of the elite’s ambitions. This isn’t about lobbying or mere influence peddling; it’s a more direct transaction. Money changes hands, and actions speak louder than words – especially when those words are carefully curated to mask the true intent. In response to millions of unwanted migrants, governments administered by people who share the interest of the NGO donors pretend to be helpless to stop NGOs, though it would be trivial to stop and reverse their actions, designate them as terrorist groups, or neutralize their leaders and sponsors.

In this shadow play of governance, it’s become clear that the rulers, those esteemed purveyors of wisdom and guidance, have decided to ditch the pretense of incompetence and ignorance in favor of an open embrace of chaos. It’s not just neglect; it’s a meticulously planned demolition derby with society as the crash test dummy.

Now, consider this: in a world where every system seems to be on the brink of collapse, where do you run? The rulers, tired of playing the benevolent leaders in our little societal play, one day decide to turn against the natives. What happens next? It’s a scene so bleak, so devoid of hope, that the very concept of a “future” has become an antiquated relic, like a dusty book on a forgotten shelf. The rulers, in their descent into madness, have not just severed their ties to the governed but to reality itself. They are captains of a ship that has already sunk, commanding orders to a phantom crew in the watery graveyard of their delusions.

In this world, economies don’t just falter; they vanish into the ether like mist. Currency, once the bloodline of commerce, is now as irrelevant as a pile of leaves in a forest. Markets don’t crash; they evaporate, leaving behind a populace grappling with the ghost of prosperity.

The institutions meant to serve the public good are now mausoleums of what once was. Hospitals, schools, and public services lie in ruin, monuments to a bygone era when such things mattered, when there was still something to save.

In the streets, the remnants of the populace wander like specters, shadows of their former selves. The fabric of society, once so unified and resilient, is now a tattered shroud, draped over the skeletal remains of a civilization that consumed itself.

The media, which once howled with the voices of dissent and debate, is now silent. The airwaves are empty, for there are no words left to speak, no stories left to tell. The silence is a requiem for the truth, a dirge for the last vestiges of hope.

And the rulers, those architects of apocalypse, find themselves not atop thrones of power, but in the rubble of their own making. Their madness, once a tool for control, has become their prison. They are kings of ash, rulers of a void, lords of nothing. Their motives, once driven by a lust for power, have dissolved into the ether of their broken minds.

In this terminal spiral, there is no redemption, no last-minute salvation. It’s a world where the light of humanity has been extinguished, not with a bang, but with a whimper — a slow, inexorable fade to black.