If there is a purgatory specifically designed for the intellectually solvent, it is surely the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. Here, amidst the pristine snow and the stench of hypocrisy so pungent it could peel paint off a private jet, the world’s self-appointed saviors have gathered to mourn a corpse they murdered themselves. The corpse in question? The 'US-led global system of governance.' The murderer? Their own insatiable greed, masked for decades as 'liberal democracy.' And now, we are treated to the spectacle of Mark Carney—identified in reports as the Canadian Prime Minister, a title that suggests either a glitch in the Matrix or that the Davos elite have simply decided to start assigning government roles by committee—telling a room full of billionaires that the party is over.

Carney, the poster child for high-functioning technocratic boredom, stood before the assembly of the dammed to declare that the 'old world order is not coming back.' It is a statement so blindingly obvious that it qualifies as profound only to people who have spent the last ten years insulated by security details and trust funds. He speaks of a 'rupture' in the global system, a polite euphemism for the fact that the peasantry has finally realized the game is rigged and has started lighting fires in the parlor. Carney warns that 'nostalgia is not a strategy,' a rich sentiment coming from a demographic whose entire existence is predicated on the nostalgia for a time when they could loot the global economy without anyone asking difficult questions on Twitter.

But the comedy of this frozen circus is only heightened by the impending arrival of the antidote to Carney’s polished ennui: Donald Trump. The President of the United States is en route to the Swiss Alps, presumably to turn over tables and demand to know why he can’t buy Greenland with a Discover card. The juxtaposition is almost too perfect, a literary device too heavy-handed for fiction but just right for our current reality. On one side, you have Carney and the European leaders, the representatives of the 'rules-based order'—which is code for 'we make the rules, you follow the order.' They are terrified, clutching their pearls and their portfolios, desperate to maintain the illusion that they are still steering the ship.

On the other side, you have the orange wrecking ball, the manifestation of the 'rupture' Carney fears. Trump’s scheduled showdown with European leaders over Greenland is the kind of dadaist absurdity that proves we have slipped into a timeline written by a drunk historian. The very idea that the 'US-led system' is enduring a rupture is an understatement; it is enduring a violent evisceration, and the man holding the knife is the one flying in on Air Force One. Carney attempts to frame himself as the 'unflinching realist' ready to tackle this chaos, but what is his weapon? A PowerPoint presentation? A sternly worded communiqué? The delusion of these people is that they believe competence is a substitute for power. It is not.

The 'great power competition' Carney laments is simply the return of history, crashing through the windows of the Belvedere Hotel. The elites in Davos spent decades stripping the gears of the nation-state, outsourcing sovereignty to supranational bodies and markets, and now they are shocked—shocked!—that the vacuum they created has been filled by nationalism and populism. They look at the crumbling infrastructure of their 'global governance' and blame the voters for being ungrateful, rather than admitting that a system designed to benefit the 0.1% at the expense of everyone else might eventually encounter some structural integrity issues.

So, as Trump descends from the heavens to argue about purchasing landmasses like they are hotels on a Monopoly board, and Carney lectures the void about the dangers of looking backward, we are left with the grim reality. The 'Old World Order' isn't coming back, not because Trump killed it, but because it committed suicide by avarice. The 'New World Order' isn't a shadowy cabal; it's just a chaotic free-for-all where the loud eat the weak. The tragic irony of Davos is that everyone in that room thinks they are the protagonist of history, when in reality, they are merely the band playing 'Nearer, My God, to Thee' while the water rises around their ankles. Enjoy the fondue, gentlemen. It tastes like ash.