History isn’t repeating. It’s been kidnapped, gutted, and dumped on the freeway, twitching in the headlights. Every smug political scientist with a bookshelf full of Weimar Republic tomes thinks they’ve got the playbook, but none of that fragile German handwringing prepares you for the lunatic spectacle unfolding now. Everybody in Substack is trying to lecture us about fragile democracies and brownshirts in beer halls, but that’s kiddie stuff. None of those stale metaphors prepare you for the cartoonish, incoherent circus we’re trapped in now.
If you follow the analogy close, Orange Mussolini is running Germany like a vaudeville act, jackboots in one hand and a rubber chicken in the other shouting fascist slogans through a megaphone full of mothballs. Nazis, instead of skulking in beer halls, are funneling money into the Zionist meat grinder, turning the Levant into a grotesque blood carnival underwriting a massacre like venture capitalists funding a blood-soaked startup.
Meanwhile, Molotov crawls out of the mausoleum, wearing Putin’s rubber mask, mowing down peasants and grinding Ukraine into paste while grinning like a wax corpse in Red Square. And for the grand finale, the “Allies,” those enlightened bastards of democracy, are shoveling money into the pockets of real, actual Nazis — like some obscene charity drive for genocidal lunatics doling out aid like a perverse reward for helping the nazis holocaust the jews.
It’s history turned inside out, an obscene parody of the 20th century written by lunatics with a broken Ouija board. The moral clarity people keep reaching for in old Weimar analogies is a dead letter. This isn’t Hitler’s rise, this isn’t fascism as your grandfather understood it. This is a grotesque burlesque of cause and effect — an incoherent carnival where every monster wears the wrong mask, and the whole crowd is cheering them on. Mussolini as president of the UD of Weimar, Molotov as Putin, Nazis as Zionists, Zionists as butchers, and the whole Western world applauding like demented seals. It’s history liquefied, run through a blender full of amphetamines, and sprayed across the wall of the 21st century.
The Weimar analogy is a broken compass, spinning in circles, pointing straight into Hell. We are living in a grotesque parody of the 20th century, a cracked-mirror burlesque where cause and effect don’t even shake hands. The script is lost, the actors are drunk, and the stage is on fire. And still the bastards in the balcony clap, convinced they’ve seen this show before.
This is not the death of ideology. Ideology is alive, weaponized, and moving at the speed of a viral feed, more potent and diffuse than ever. What has died—what has been publicly executed in this grotesque burlesque—is the utility of historical analogy itself.
We clutch at these analogies like talismans, desperate for the moral clarity of a world where jackboots only marched in one direction and monsters wore their correct faces. But that compass spins because the map is gone. We are not reliving the 20th century; we are haunted by its dismembered parts, rearranged into a shape that defies any familiar pattern. This is a phenomenon the old playbooks cannot name: a carnival of hyper-connected nihilism where signifiers are detached from their meanings, and every horror is live-streamed, monetized, and inverted.
The true terror of our moment is not that history is repeating, but that it has ceased to provide instruction. We are left alone in the asylum, without the comforting delusion that we’ve been here before. The stage is on fire, the script is ash, and we are the first audience for a play that has no name.
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