There is a specific, pervasive odor that hangs over Washington D.C., a sensory blend of swamp humidity, overpriced steakhouse garlic, and the decomposing corpse of the American experiment. Usually, to ignore this stench, one looks to the monuments. You stare at the marble rigidity of Lincoln or the phallic overcompensation of the Washington Monument, and you pretend, for just a fleeting second, that this nation is grounded in something other than grift. But pretending is hard work, and frankly, I am exhausted. Fortunately, a new installation on the National Mall has arrived to relieve us of our delusions. It isn’t a statue of a war hero or a plaque for a civil rights leader. It is an oversized, blow-up replica of a birthday card Donald Trump sent to Jeffrey Epstein.

Yes, you read that correctly. In the space between the Capitol—where geriatric millionaires pretend to govern—and the White House—where a different geriatric millionaire pretended to govern—someone has erected a shrine to the year 2003. Specifically, a greeting card featuring a glossy photo of a string quartet, because nothing says "I am a man of culture" like stock photography. The handwriting, scrawled in that familiar, jagged Sharpie-script that looks like the EKG of a dying seismograph, reads: "Jeffrey, you’re the greatest... I’m looking forward to the hot buns." It is signed, naturally, with the autograph that has adorned everything from failed casinos to cease-and-desist orders.

The context, for those of you who have rightfully lobotomized yourselves to survive the news cycle, is that this artifact was unearthed by a congressional inquiry. The political Left, in their infinite capacity for performative theatre, decided the best way to address the intersection of high power and sex trafficking was to put a giant piece of cardboard on the lawn. It is the perfect encapsulation of modern activism: aesthetically hideous, functionally useless, and preaching entirely to a choir that already knows the tune. They believe this is a "gotcha" moment. They believe that blowing up the text to billboard size will suddenly cause the MAGA faithful to drop their red hats and weep in repentance. It won’t. If anything, the sheer absurdity of the phrase "hot buns" will likely be integrated into a campaign slogan by next Tuesday.

Then we have the response from the Man of the Hour himself. Trump, confronted with a document that bears his distinctively chaotic signature—a signature that looks like a barbed-wire fence failing to contain a lie—did what he always does. He denied it. He claimed he didn’t sign it. This is the part of the simulation that I find most tiresome. It is not the lying that offends me; all politicians lie. It is the laziness of the lie. It is the boredom of it. We are expected to believe that some forger in 2003 mastered the exact erratic pressure of Trump’s felt-tip pen just to send a generic compliment about glutes to a financier? Please. Insult my intelligence if you must, but do not bore me.

What truly fascinates me, as I stand here mentally vomiting, is how fitting this installation is. Why shouldn't the National Mall host a tribute to Jeffrey Epstein and Donald Trump's locker-room camaraderie? It is the most honest monument in the entire district. The other statues lie to you. They whisper about "liberty" and "justice" and "honor." This giant card screams the truth. It tells you that the ruling class is a small, incestuous club of wealthy hedonists who trade compliments about women's anatomy while the rest of you argue about tax brackets. It reminds you that in 2003, while the rest of the country was being marched into a desert war based on fabricated intelligence, the people at the top were busy discussing "hot buns."

I look at this grotesque display, and I don't feel outrage. Outrage requires hope that things could be better. I feel a profound, hollow validation. The Left thinks they are exposing Trump; the Right thinks they are being persecuted. Both sides are missing the point. The point is that this is who we are. We are a nation that has replaced the Gettysburg Address with a birthday greeting to a predator. We have traded the soaring rhetoric of the Federalist Papers for the mumbled denials of a man who can’t remember what he signed because he has signed his name to so many moral bankruptcies that they all blur together.

So, let the card stay. Anchor it into the soil. Let the tourists take their selfies in front of it. Let the children ask their parents what "hot buns" means in a geopolitical context. This is the heritage you built. You might as well enjoy the view.