Brussels is currently vibrating with the low-frequency hum of collective, high-strung anxiety—the kind usually reserved for when the artisanal cheese subsidy is under threat. The European Union’s finest minds, a collection of individuals whose combined charisma wouldn’t light a single LED bulb, have scuttled into emergency talks. The catalyst? A blond-tufted property developer turned accidental hegemon has decided he wants to buy Greenland. Yes, we have reached the stage of human history where the leader of the 'Free World' treats sovereign territory like a distressed shopping mall in the suburbs of New Jersey, and the response from the European elite is to hold a meeting. It’s a perfect storm of idiocy meeting impotence.

Let’s look at the players in this tragicomedy. On one side, we have Donald Trump, a man whose understanding of geography is likely limited to the delivery radius of a well-done steak. To him, Greenland isn’t a self-governing territory within the Kingdom of Denmark; it’s a giant, white 'Fixer Upper' with great potential for a gold-plated hotel and perhaps a very cold casino. His 'threats'—which sound more like the petulant whines of a toddler denied a toy at the supermarket—have sent the EU into a tailspin. He sees a map and sees a Monopoly board; he sees an ally and sees a difficult landlord who refuses to accept his low-ball offer. It is a level of crude, transactional thuggery that would be impressive if it weren't being practiced by someone with the nuclear codes.

Then we have the EU leaders, the self-appointed guardians of 'shared values' and 'multilateralism'—phrases that, in Brussels-speak, mean 'we have no army and our only weapon is a sternly worded press release.' They are gathering to 'chart a new course' for transatlantic ties. This is a delightful euphemism for trying to figure out how to remain relevant when your primary strategic partner thinks your continent is a theme park for tourists and your nations are merely annoying hurdles in his quest for global real estate dominance. These leaders represent the pinnacle of the technocratic dream: the belief that any crisis, no matter how absurd or existential, can be solved with a three-day summit, an expensive lunch, and a PowerPoint presentation on 'Strategic Autonomy.'

There is something profoundly pathetic about watching the descendants of empires—the people who once carved up Africa with a ruler and a glass of port—suddenly realize that the shoe is on the other foot. The irony is thicker than the melting ice caps. For centuries, Europe played the game of 'Manifest Destiny' with a level of brutality that would make even a modern American billionaire blush. Now, they are the ones whining about 'sovereignty' and 'international norms' because a man who eats his pizza with a fork wants to buy their friend’s backyard. It’s not a defense of principle; it’s the panic of a former bully who has realized he’s now the smallest kid in the yard.

The emergency talks themselves are a masterclass in performative futility. What exactly is the 'new course'? More meetings? A new committee on 'Arctic Sensitivity'? The reality is that the 'transatlantic tie' is currently a frayed piece of twine held together by a mutual desire to ignore how much they despise each other. The EU needs the US for security because they’ve spent their defense budgets on high-speed rail and universal healthcare (which, to be fair, is more useful than a stealth bomber until the bombs start falling), and the US needs the EU as a captive market for its tech monopolies and processed corn syrup. It’s a marriage of convenience where both partners are poisoning each other’s coffee.

Meanwhile, the people of Greenland—the actual humans who live on the ice the US wants to buy and the EU wants to 'protect'—remain, as ever, a footnote. Neither side cares about the Greenlanders. To Washington, they are an obstacle to mineral extraction and missile defense; to Brussels, they are a convenient rhetorical shield to use against 'American populism.' The EU leaders will speak of 'respect' and 'sovereignty,' but they wouldn't know Greenland if it bit them on their taxpayer-funded loafers. They are there to save their own egos, to pretend that the 'Liberal International Order' isn't just a fancy way of saying 'the rules we made up to stay in charge.'

As this summit plods along, we can expect the usual outcome: a joint statement full of vacuous adjectives like 'robust,' 'unified,' and 'forward-looking.' They will claim they have 'strengthened' their ties while the orange-hued wrecking ball across the ocean is already looking for his next target. Perhaps he’ll try to buy the French Riviera next, or maybe trade Florida for a used submarine. In the end, we are left with a choice between a greedy moron who wants to buy the world and a group of performative hypocrites who can’t even agree on the shape of the table they’re using to discuss it. The ice is melting, the world is burning, and our leaders are arguing over the deed to a glacier. Sleep well, humanity. You’ve earned the oblivion that’s coming.