There is a certain, exquisite brand of exhaustion that comes from watching the geriatric titans of the West attempt to conduct trade policy like a group of toddlers fighting over a particularly jagged Lego brick. The latest installment of this theater of the absurd involves the EU-US trade deal, a document so bloated with corporate concessions and legal jargon that it’s a wonder it hasn’t collapsed under the weight of its own hypocrisy. Now, it sits in “limbo,” which is diplomatic speak for the fact that everyone involved has successfully managed to ruin everything again through a combination of ego, incompetence, and a baffling obsession with frozen tundra.

Ursula von der Leyen, the high priestess of European stagnation, recently graced us with a quote so nauseatingly sentimental it could cause instant hyperglycemia in a stone gargoyle. “In politics as in business – a deal is a deal,” she chirped. “And when friends shake hands, it must mean something.” It’s a touching sentiment, if you ignore the last five centuries of European history or the fact that a handshake in the modern geopolitical era is usually just a way to check if the other person has a concealed dagger. The idea that friendship exists between two massive, soul-crushing bureaucratic entities is the kind of fairy tale we tell children so they don’t grow up to be nihilists like me. In reality, a handshake is just a primitive, germ-sharing ritual masking a desperate desire to pick the other person’s pocket.

The catalyst for this latest breakdown is a delightful cocktail of American lunacy and French narcissism. We have the "Board of Peace," a name so transparently Orwellian it makes 1984 look like a lifestyle magazine. The US, in its infinite, grease-fueled wisdom, has decided that the path to global harmony involves inviting France to this Board while simultaneously eyeing Greenland like a starving man eyes a rotisserie chicken. Why Greenland? Perhaps because the melting ice caps offer a convenient metaphor for the state of American democracy, or maybe because someone at the State Department confused a game of Risk with actual foreign policy. It is the peak of moronic greed: threatening to burn down the global trade system because you weren't allowed to buy a giant ice cube.

Not to be outdone in the department of performative outrage, the European Parliament has suspended the ratification of the trade deal struck last July. Their reason? They are "deeply concerned." In Brussels, being "deeply concerned" is the primary industry. It’s what they do instead of being useful. They are offended by France’s flirtation with the Board of Peace and terrified of US tariffs, so their solution is to stop their own lifeline. It is a masterful display of cutting off one’s nose to spite a face that was already ugly to begin with. The Parliament isn't protecting jobs or the environment; they are protecting their delicate sensibilities from the orange specter across the pond.

Let’s talk about those tariffs. The US is threatening extra levies, because apparently, the only way to prove you’re a friend is to hold your partner’s wallet hostage. It’s the geopolitical equivalent of a protection racket, run by people who think trade war is a compliment. The Right sees these tariffs as a stroke of genius, a way to put America first while ensuring that the average citizen pays double for a toaster that breaks in six months. The Left, meanwhile, is busy drafting strongly worded memos and retreating into their safe spaces of multilateralism, a word that has come to mean losing slowly while feeling morally superior. Both sides are playing a game where the only prize is a slightly faster descent into irrelevance.

And then there’s France. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, but always insisting on wearing a white dress and screaming during the vows. Their membership in the Board of Peace is a chef-d’oeuvre of betrayal. By cozying up to the American administration’s latest vanity project, they’ve managed to alienate their European brothers while ensuring that the rest of the world views the EU not as a unified bloc, but as a collection of bickering roommates who can’t agree on whose turn it is to take out the trash. Macron’s ego requires a global stage, even if that stage is a rickety platform built on the delusions of his rivals.

The tragedy of this limbo isn't the lost revenue or the disrupted supply chains—though the Economy ghouls will certainly weep over their spreadsheets. The real tragedy is the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of the actors involved. We are governed by people who believe that deals are made of honor and handshakes, while they simultaneously sharpen the axes they intend to bury in each other’s backs. They talk of strategic autonomy and peace boards while the world burns and the concept of a friend becomes a relic of a pre-digital age where words actually had definitions.

In the end, this trade deal will likely go the way of all things: buried in a shallow grave of amendments, sub-clauses, and bitter tweets. We will be left with the tariffs, the tension, and the lingering scent of Ursula’s desperate optimism. Greenland will remain cold, France will remain arrogant, and the Board of Peace will continue its work of ensuring that peace remains a distant, laughing memory. Meanwhile, the rest of us get to watch the slow-motion train wreck from the cheap seats, wondering how we ever let these clowns drive the locomotive in the first place. It’s not just a trade deal in limbo; it’s the sanity of the entire Western world.