Let’s talk about Disneyland.
The Magic Kingdom. The Happiest Place on Earth. A beautiful, clean, and completely fraudulent paradise built on a swamp by a man who was afraid of mice. It’s the perfect metaphor for the whole goddamn American experiment, isn’t it? A beautiful, expensive, and completely artificial fortress of dreams, surrounded by a moat of quiet, grinding reality.
Now, imagine this. You’re a good man. You’ve played by the rules. You’ve worked your shitty job, you’ve paid your taxes, and you’ve saved up your pennies to take your kid to the Magic Kingdom. Three hundred and fifty goddamn dollars for one ticket. You stand in line, you go through the metal detectors, you let the smiling, dead-eyed teenagers in the clean uniforms search your bags. You do everything they tell you to do. You’re a good, respectable, and completely castrated customer.
And you’re standing there, on Main Street, U.S.A., the smell of popcorn and quiet desperation in the air, and you see them.
A group of them, hopping the fence.
Not sneaking in. No. A bold, beautiful, and completely honest act of invasion. They just climb right over the goddamn wall, right there in broad daylight, and they land on the clean, green grass of the promised land.
And what happens next? Do the stormtroopers, the private army of clean-cut, all-American boys in their security uniforms, come running with their tasers and their pepper spray? Do they tackle them, cuff them, and drag their asses out into the real world where the rules still, occasionally, apply?
No.
Mickey Mouse himself comes running over, not with a nightstick, but with a goddamn welcome basket. He hands each one of them a hundred-dollar gift certificate, a pair of mouse ears, and a lifetime pass to the Magic Kingdom. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice a high-pitched, and completely insane squeak. “You found a weak spot in our defenses. Welcome to the family.”
And you, you stand there, with your three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar ticket turning to ash in your hand, and you watch this. You watch them reward the cheaters, the invaders, the ones who just pissed all over the quiet, unspoken contract you thought you had with the world. You, the veteran, the taxpayer, the poor, dumb bastard who has spent his whole life playing by the rules, you’re the sucker. The chump. The one who actually paid for his ticket to the goddamn circus.
You think Disneyland would ever do that?
Of course not.
Disneyland is a business. A beautiful, ruthless, and completely honest machine for separating a man from his money. It has to protect its product. It has to protect its paying customers. A business has to be based in reality.
A country, apparently, does not.
Because that’s the whole goddamn story of America right now, isn’t it? The whole country has become the Magic Kingdom, and the fences are down.
And the people who own the park, the ones who live in their own private, gated communities with their own private security, the ones who have locks on their doors and bars on their windows, they’re the ones standing on the castle walls, waving the invaders in. Disney, that great, beautiful, and completely soulless cathedral of “woke” capitalism, they’ll sell you a lecture on your own bigotry and a rainbow-colored mouse ear in the same goddamn transaction, all while their own private army is making sure that no one with a dirty face gets within a hundred yards of their clean, profitable fantasy.
And you have to ask yourself, why? Why would they do this? It’s not a noble cause. It’s not compassion. It’s a quiet, slow-motion act of war. It’s a war against America itself.
They hate the park. They hate the man who built it. They hate the whole goddamn, beautiful, ugly, and completely human enterprise. And they’ve figured out that the easiest way to burn the whole thing to the ground is to just open the goddamn gates and let the jungle in.
And who are they letting in? These aren’t just the poor, tired, and huddled masses from the country next door. No. These are professional travelers, a multinational army of the dispossessed, who have crossed five continents to get here. An invasion funded by a quiet, unholy alliance of billionaires who hate the country that made them rich, and a collection of international busybodies, the Red Cross and the UN, who have made a profitable business out of managing the decline of Western civilization.
And there’s no plan. That’s the most beautiful, ugly, and completely honest part of the whole goddamn scam. They’re not inviting these people to become Americans. There’s no integration program. There’s no “English only” class. There’s no path to becoming another quiet, respectable, and completely soul-crushed Duracell battery in the great 9-to-5 machine.
No. They’re just importing a permanent underclass, a vast, chaotic, and completely dependent population that will have no loyalty to the country, no understanding of its history, and no desire to be a part of its future. They’re just importing the chaos.
They want to take it back, they say. Take it back from the evil, white colonizers. Take it back for the “original people.” What a load of horseshit. The real original people of this continent were a bunch of tough, beautiful, and completely ruthless bastards who would have eaten these new invaders for breakfast.
The Obamas, the Bidens, the Clintons… they don’t stand up and say, “Welcome to America. Now here’s your uniform, here’s your shovel, and here are the goddamn rules. You will learn the language, you will respect the flag, you will work until your back aches, and you will become one of us. And if you don’t, we’ll throw your ass right back over the fence.”
No. They just apologize. They bow. They scrape. They act guilty. Because their entire political project is built on a foundation of our own quiet, respectable, and completely manufactured shame.
So what’s the point of this whole goddamn sermon?
It’s this.
You’re standing in the middle of the Magic Kingdom, and you’re the only one who seems to notice that the whole damn place is a lie. You’re the only one who understands that a park with no fences, no rules, and no paying customers isn’t a paradise. It’s a goddamn jungle.
And you’re standing there, with your three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar ticket in your hand, and you’re watching the owners of the park hand out free passes to the animals who are coming over the wall to eat you.
And you have to ask yourself one last, simple, and completely honest question.
Who’s the real sucker here? The man who hops the fence? Or the one who was dumb enough to buy a ticket in the first place?
