What if I told you the entire state of the human species — its madness, its hypocrisy, its genius, and its doom — could be found on one page of a free London newspaper?
I’m not speaking in metaphor. I mean it literally.
One physical page. July 9, 2025. Metro UK.
This wasn’t journalism. It was performance art. A collage of contradictions. A holy mess. A masterpiece of nonsense. It read like someone dared reality to out-satire satire — and reality said, “Hold my Nobel Peace Prize.”
Trump Nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize
Top headline. Front and center. Netanyahu — a man currently presiding over a live-streamed demolition derby of Gaza — formally nominates Donald J. Trump for the Nobel fucking Peace Prize.
You heard me right.
The same Trump who tried to stage a dumbed-down, methy version of a coup in flip-flops back in 2020. The same Trump whose most consistent peace treaty was with fast food. The man who thinks diplomacy involves threatening NATO on Twitter.
Netanyahu’s hand reaches across a table, holding a document like he’s passing Moses the Ten Commandments — and there’s Trump, grabbing it like he just won a free round of golf in Armageddon.
This is peace now.
Not justice. Not dignity.
Optics. Men in suits signing napkins and calling it progress.
Killer Putin & the Weapons of Peace
Just below the Peace Prize circus: the next act in the Theatre of Hypocrisy.
Putin — labeled “killer,” which is rich considering who’s doing the labeling — has rejected a ceasefire. In response, the U.S. promises more missiles, more tanks, more tools of peace.
Because clearly, when someone refuses to stop killing, the only logical response is to give everyone better weapons to continue killing for a good cause this time.
In this universe, missiles are called “defensive aid.”
Tanks are called “freedom machines.”
And every bomb dropped comes with a little whisper: “This hurts us more than it hurts you.”
The Jester tips his hat.
“Peace is war in better marketing.”
Epstein Files Still Sealed, Abuse Inheritance, and Other Crimes for the Footnotes
In the right margin — where the quiet truths rot — we find the crimes of the rich and protected.
- A woman fighting her own abuser in probate court.
- The Epstein client list remains conveniently lost in bureaucratic fog.
- Victims still scream. Billionaires still sleep like babies.
No photos. No national address.
Just a few inches of text between missile shipments and beetle tech.
It’s almost poetic.
The depraved walk free. The dead get headlines. The abused get columns. And the rest of us get distracted.
Man Sucked Into Plane Engine
This one got exactly three sentences.
A man walked onto a runway and got inhaled by a plane engine.
Gone. Pulverized.
Like a mosquito in a blender.
No name. No age. No story.
Just: “Man trespassed. Engine spun. Game over.”
That’s it. That’s the story.
Meanwhile, Trump got an entire spread about his nomination for peace, by his buddy.
Welcome to the meat grinder, friend.
Beetles with Backpacks. Hope Comes in Segments.
Then, at the bottom — the punchline — science.
Real, beautiful science.
- Beetles with microchips strapped to their backs, trained to locate humans buried in rubble.
- A modified herpes virus being used to fight skin cancer.
Yes. In a world where politicians trade weapons and pedophiles get sealed files, a herpes virus and a beetle are our best shot at saving lives.
You couldn’t write this if you tried.
While men in $40,000 suits hand out fake peace treaties, a little beetle walks through a collapsed school building and whispers, “I got you.”
Nature never promised us mercy, but at least it’s not lying about it.
The Polish Fisherman Who Found Time
And there, buried in the bottom right corner like an afterthought — a story so small you’d miss it if you blinked.
A fisherman in Poland, casting his line along the Vistula River, noticed something strange.
The water was low. Drought-stricken.
And through the shallows, he saw stone. Not just rock — remnants.
He had found the ruins of an ancient village — submerged and long forgotten. A ghost of human life, frozen in mud.
No alarms sounded. No scholars wept. No leaders gathered. Just one man and a glimpse into who we used to be — before empires, before missiles, before beetles with radios.
The story ran with no photo. No poem. No follow-up.
Just:
“A Polish fisherman found something.”
And that was that.
In a world drunk on immediacy, he had pulled time itself from the river…
and the world turned the page.
The Fool Leans Over the Page
This page isn’t journalism.
It’s not news.
It’s a mosaic of madness. A mirror made of broken pieces.
A layout straight out of hell’s waiting room.
It says:
- Peace belongs to those with good PR.
- Truth is whatever fits in the margin.
- Death is cheaper than irony.
- And hope… well, hope now has six legs and a microchip.
- And history, when it quietly surfaces, is ignored — unless it makes a good headline.
We used to read the paper to understand the world.
Now we read it to see if it’s still spinning.
This page spun.
And the Fool — cracked and barefoot — leaned in to kiss it on the forehead.
“Thank you,” he said, “for finally being honest.”
And from the Jester who wrote this on Medium
to the master jester who put those articles on that Metro London page:
Your wink to the universe was seen by the Fool. Bravo.