Just when you thought the global political theater had finally run out of hackneyed plot points, we are treated to a revival of the Greenland farce. Yes, the world is currently a swirling vortex of economic instability and literal warfare, but the titans of Western leadership have decided that the most pressing issue is a real estate dispute over a giant, melting ice cube. It would be hilarious if it weren’t so profoundly pathetic. We are witnessing the final, gasping breaths of the post-war order, and apparently, the funeral is being held in a territory that most European bureaucrats couldn't find without an intern and a compass.

At the center of this latest vanity bonfire is Emmanuel Macron, a man who personifies the 'sophisticated' European elite—an individual so convinced of his own diplomatic gravity that he actually sent a private message to Donald Trump. One has to wonder what Macron expected. Trump doesn't do 'private.' To him, a private message is just a delayed press release, a morsel of bait to be dangled before the baying hounds of Truth Social. Predictably, Trump posted the text to humiliate the French president, proving once again that in the sandbox of international relations, Macron is the kid who brings a leather-bound journal to a knife fight. Macron’s message—'I do not understand what you are doing on Greenland'—is the ultimate epitaph for European relevance. It is the cry of a middle manager watching his office building being demolished by a man who thinks the blueprints are a suggestion.

But the absurdity doesn't stop at the digital borders of social media. The European Union, that magnificent engine of red tape and expensive lunches, is now talking about its 'moment of truth.' They are threatening to ditch 'appeasement,' a word they’ve dusted off from the 1930s to make their current indecision feel like historical bravery. Their 'weapons' are what really tip the scale into pure comedy. They speak of a 'big bazooka' and a 'World Cup boycott.' Let that sink in. The Western alliance is supposedly on the verge of collapse, Russia is carving through Ukraine, and the EU’s master plan is to refuse to play soccer with the Americans. It is a level of impotence that borders on the fetishistic. If this is Europe’s 'moment of truth,' then the truth is that they are a collection of museum curators trying to stop a bulldozer with a sternly worded lecture on art history.

Trump, of course, is playing his role to perfection. He is the human personification of a hostile takeover, viewing the globe not as a collection of nations and cultures, but as a series of distressed assets. To him, Greenland isn't a strategic necessity or a home to indigenous populations; it's a fixer-upper with a lot of potential if you can just get rid of the current tenants—the Danes. His 'phoney war' on Europe over this frozen expanse is a brilliant, if accidental, deconstruction of NATO. It turns out that seventy years of collective defense can be undone by a man who wants to put a gold-plated hotel on a glacier. The 'western defense alliance' is revealed to be as fragile as the ice sheets it’s currently bickering over.

What we are seeing is the inevitable conclusion of a world run by grifters and performative intellectuals. On one side, you have the American right, a movement that has traded its principles for the whims of a real estate developer with a penchant for chaos. On the other, the European left and centrist blocs, who believe that if they just hold enough 'emergency summits' and use enough big words like 'multilateralism,' the bully will go away. Neither side has any interest in the reality of the situation—that Greenland is a canary in the coal mine for a planet that is literally and figuratively overheating. No, they’d rather fight over who gets to own the coal mine.

The 'Big Bazooka' of EU policy is likely just another layer of tariffs on bourbon or a regulation regarding the carbon footprint of golf carts. It is the theater of the small-minded. While the Arctic thaws and the geopolitical tectonic plates shift, our leaders are busy leaking text messages and planning boycotts of sporting events. It is a race to the bottom of the intellectual barrel. We are a species that survived the actual Ice Age only to decide that our grand finale should be a slap-fight over who owns the last of the frost. Greenland doesn't need a new owner; it needs a planet that isn't inhabited by narcissistic toddlers in bespoke suits. But alas, the summit is scheduled, the bazookas are loaded with confetti, and the world continues its slow, predictable slide into the abyss. Don't bother signing up for the newsletter; the ending has already been spoiled.