THE SYSTEM'S NAUSEA VOMITS DICTATORS

The Romanians just got whacked on the head — and not with just any old lid, mind you, but with an enameled one, rusted through by 40%, held together with crooked screws. But of course, it didn’t come alone. Oh no. Like any cheap horror flick produced by state television in the '80s, the lid dragged along a Turkish toilet overflowing with ideological slop. A national feast. After so many years of the "good life" — that is, grilled sausages, trashy pop music, and loans with interest rates as high as Everest — naturally, comes the collapse. In Russia, it took a while: vodka, gulag, balalaika, more vodka. But us? We’ve hit fast-forward. Who has time for a slow-motion collapse when we’re such an efficient people? You won’t even get a chance to search for plane tickets. The websites will be down anyway. What good is the internet when the shelves are empty and your bank card’s balance is hollower than an election promise? Shops will be stripped bare. Nude. Like a wet dream of austerity. Then begins the era of “shut your mouth or we’ll take your ankles too.” The resident brute — rocking daddy’s haircut and a barracks vocabulary — becomes minister. Orders are barked from the presidential palace while you dance like puppets on strings yanked by a blind pianist.

Silence in A Major

Irony? You voted for your conductors. And now, the final symphony begins: “Silence in A Major.” Not “A” as in Los Angeles — don’t flatter yourselves — but “A” as in the off-key droning that follows, conducted by the patriotic trumpets belting out a hymn to the leader in F minor, on the way to a major disaster. The crude chorus of relic-kissing sycophants will hum, with crocodile tears staining the nation’s cheek, the anthem of the new Messiah of Dâmbovița. The cretins — yes, no quotation marks, no euphemisms, no apologies — who cast their vote for the distinguished Mr. Simion will watch, delighted, as his name is carved into the blood-soaked bone of Romania. It’s a tattoo of rust and blood, a registered trademark of gutter populism, hammered with a chisel into the spine of a nation that long ago misplaced its shame.

The Drunken Ballerina

Romania plunges once more into darkness, like a drunken ballerina stuck in the same fall she’s been rehearsing for thirty years. Only this time, the pit is deeper. And the lights? Cut not by mistake, but deliberately — methodically — with the cold satisfaction of an inquisitor disguised as a social media influencer. This nobody — scraped from the mud of national frustration and catapulted forward by a diaspora that confuses voting with a Facebook group therapy session, and by local cheerleaders who thought “let’s just burn it all down, maybe something good will rise from the ashes” — is now in the lead. Leading in a race to nowhere. They vote to get revenge. They think that if the system makes them sick, they can just vomit up a dictator and feel better. Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. But Simion’s gaze says it all — in the dialect of subway corners and back-alley bars with no receipts: “He’s got no mother, no father.” Not a metaphor. A blueprint for government. Fascism doesn’t arrive with tanks anymore. It comes through livestreams. Through applause from people who mistake aggression for strength, and ignorance for authenticity. People who haven’t read a book in years but can quote the entire playlist of populist rants. And the rule is simple, as on Ukraine’s frontlines: the state is everything. The individual? Cannon fodder. Or ballot fodder. So we continue the descent into the national madhouse, trumpets blaring, while the spectator-nation claps for its own gravediggers — like at the premiere of an absurdist play where the curtain drops before the show even starts. Round two will be a grotesque wedding between stupidity and verbal violence, officiated by a political priest and serenaded by party musicians. Guests of honour? The ones who mistook the ballot box for a dumpster and the voting slip for a baseball bat. No wedding gifts — just hate, and the howling of impotence, wrapped neatly in: “Let’s try this one, they’re all the same anyway.” No, they’re not all the same.But you’ve made them so.

Romania Isn’t Dying — She’s Committing Slow Suicide

Romania braces for a new era — the Age of Bronze, because there was no time for gold, and we’ve long since run out of iron. The leader? A brute in saviour’s clothing, barking slogans straight from Facebook, convinced that economies are run through memes and diplomacy is best handled with fists on the table. And the people? The people are glued to their screens, typing out tragic statuses instead of writing their future. Digital tears will flow. Keyboards will glow red with outrage. But reality? Reality will stay the same: silence, fear, and a nation embracing voluntary amnesia. Forgot what dictatorship feels like? No worries. You’ll relearn it —Daily lessons delivered by bodyguards and party screams. The ending? Oh, it’ll be poetic — how could it not? The last light will flicker out in a one-room apartment in the provinces, just as the television trumpets the results with grandiose finality: “The people have spoken. Nothing more to add.” You wanted change? You’ll get it. A boot on your neck. The hollow smile of the leader plastered across every billboard. And a future pinned down with thumbtacks. You voted out of spite. You’ll be governed with vengeance. Romania isn’t dying. Romania is committing slow suicide —stamp in one hand, remote in the other.

The People? What People?

No offense, but what follows is simply the logical consequence of what you asked for.No one forced your hand — they just stroked your ego, inflamed your frustrations, served you hatred by the kilo and delusions in a buy-one-get-one-free combo. You bit. You chewed. You swallowed. Now comes the digestion — slow, painful, and irreversible. If more than half decide it’s time to get smacked in the face, then so be it. That’s how it went for the Americans. That’s how it went for the Russians. No one resists anymore. The rest will either fall silent, emigrate, or learn to fake happiness beneath the Leader’s portrait. “It’s the will of the majority,” they’ll say. No. It’s just the collective euphoria of self-cancellation. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: The people aren’t always right. When they let themselves be dazzled by cheap charisma and slogans recited like a pioneer’s pledge, they stop being a people. They become a maneuverable mass — clapping in sync, thought unplugged. When the buffoon finally grabs power, you won’t ask, “What’s happening to us?” You’ll whisper: “Why didn’t I leave sooner?” The people? What people? The ones who stay silent? The ones who burst out laughing when the press is silenced? The ones who scream “traitor” at anyone who dares to think? No. That’s no longer a people. That’s just a herd with voting rights, led by the metaphorical whip of fear and the sugar cube of fake sovereignty.