There is something perversely refreshing about the blunt, unvarnished idiocy of modern geopolitics. We have finally dispensed with the tiresome veneer of diplomacy, the whispered secrets in gilded halls, and the polite fictions of international law. Instead, we are treated to the spectacle of a man who views the globe not as a collection of cultures or histories, but as a series of underperforming assets waiting for a rebranding. The latest item on the celestial shopping list? Greenland. A massive, icy expanse that is neither green nor particularly keen on being the site of a new gold-plated tower, and yet, it has become the latest obsession for a Commander-in-Chief who treats the State Department like a middle-management firm tasked with finding him a nice summer home near the North Pole.

When asked how far he would go to seize this sovereign territory, Donald Trump offered the kind of cryptic, low-effort teaser usually reserved for a season finale of a failing reality show: 'You’ll find out.' It is the ultimate expression of the modern political vacuum. We no longer have policies; we have 'reveals.' We don't have strategies; we have cliffhangers. The 'You’ll find out' rhetoric is the hallmark of a leadership style that has realized its audience—the voters—have the collective attention span of a concussed goldfish. Why bother with a white paper or a feasibility study when you can just hint at a coming attraction? The sheer intellectual laziness of it is breathtaking. It is the verbal equivalent of a shrug while holding a nuclear briefcase.

On the one side, we have the performative gasps of the liberal intelligentsia, clutching their collective pearls at the 'assault on norms.' They act as though the world was a pristine garden of mutual respect before this particular bull decided to browse the china shop. They weep for the 'international order' as if that order wasn't always just a thin mask for American hegemony. On the other side, we have the 'patriots' on the Right, who would likely cheer for the annexation of the moon if it meant they could own the libs for forty-eight hours. They see Greenland and think 'manifest destiny,' failing to realize that the Danish government isn't exactly a nineteenth-century frontier outpost waiting to be bullied by a cavalry charge of Twitter trolls.

Then there is the NATO situation, a comedy of errors that would be hilarious if it didn't involve the theoretical defense of the Western world. Trump’s warning that the alliance is only as strong as the United States allows it to be is the kind of quiet part that isn't supposed to be said out loud. It is the language of a protection racket. It’s a lovely little continent you have there, Europe; it’d be a shame if something happened to it because you didn't pay your protection money or let us buy your biggest island. NATO, that dusty relic of a Cold War that everyone pretends is still relevant, is being revealed for what it has always been: a glorified Homeowners Association where the guy with the biggest lawn mower gets to make all the rules.

The decline of the American empire is not happening with a bang, but with a series of terse, annoyed replies at a press briefing. The commitment to global stability is now a variable, subject to the whims of a man who views alliances as transactional liabilities. If you aren't helping us acquire more real estate to offset the rising sea levels we’re ignoring, then what good are you? The existential dread of the European Union is palpable, yet they continue to play along, terrified that the big, loud neighbor might actually stop paying the security guards.

This is the world we have built—a world where the map is a menu and the chef is actively trying to burn the kitchen down. The 'You’ll find out' doctrine is the perfect encapsulation of our era. We are all strapped into the passenger seat of a car driven by someone who doesn't believe in maps, and when we ask where we’re going, he just smiles and tells us to check the ratings. It is a masterpiece of nihilism. We are debating the acquisition of an ice-covered landmass while the very ice in question is melting, led by a man who views the melting as a way to clear the parking lot for future development. It would be tragic if it weren't so undeniably pathetic. We are witnesses to the final, wheezing breaths of the Enlightenment, replaced by a transactional void where everything is for sale, nothing is sacred, and the only certainty is that we will, indeed, 'find out'—and we probably won't like what we see.