The State of the Union is an Oligarchs’ Paradise

The state of the union is strong, if you are an oligarch, a hedge fund, a defense contractor, or a data center. For everyone else, it is a slow emergency packaged as prosperity.

X-Ray Mike || Last night, the President told us the story of America from a teleprompter the size of a drive‑in movie screen. The chamber was packed with donors, lobbyists, generals, professional Christians, and a carefully curated scattering of regular people brought in as human props, each one a tragic anecdote waiting to be weaponized against their own class. He spoke of “greatness” and “revival,” of “the most powerful economy in the history of the world,” as if the country were not a hollowed‑out shopping mall whose last three tenants are a police recruitment kiosk, a payday lender, and a Church of Patriotism pop‑up shop selling t‑shirts printed with crosses, rifles, and the word “FREEDOM” in distressed fonts. He called this strength. He called this order. He called this peace. He did not mention that the escalators are frozen, the roof leaks, and half the country is living on Buy Now, Pay Later plans for groceries. He assured you that everything is fine. You heard the subfloor creak.

We are told we live in a democracy. The numbers disagree. For decades now, political scientists have been politely clearing their throats and saying that ordinary citizens’ preferences do not matter in any statistically measurable way, that policy responds almost exclusively to the desires of economic elites and organized business interests. The conclusion, translated from academic politeness, is simple: you do not live in a democracy; you live in a shareholders’ meeting disguised as one. In practice, this means that if a policy improves life for the bottom 80 percent but annoys a Fortune 500 CEO, it is a “radical” proposal that “lacks bipartisan support.” If a policy squeezes the bottom 80 percent but nudges the S&P 500 upward for the length of a cable news segment, it is “responsible governance” and “pro‑growth reform.” If an idea involves taxing unrealized capital gains on billionaires, it is “class warfare.” If an idea involves cutting food aid for children, it is “hard choices.” The true state of the union is this: the ruling class no longer pretends to be embarrassed by any of this. They have taken off the mask, discovered that nothing bad happens to them when they do, and are now experimenting with how grotesque they can become before the walls move. So far, grotesque enough.

Officially, the middle class still exists. Politicians invoke it, journalists mourn it, think tank fellows use it as a unit of measurement: “this bill will cost X number of middle‑class households.” It is the Sasquatch of American political discourse, blurry, beloved, and functionally extinct. In the real union, millions of people with degrees, jobs, and LinkedIn profiles live one medical emergency away from ruin. Rents devour half of take‑home pay, sometimes more. Homeownership, the core rite of the mid‑century dream, has reverted to what it was under aristocracy: a thing you inherit. Two jobs is normal, three is admirable, and having time to sleep is a suspicious sign you are not “hustling” hard enough. The President speaks of ‘good jobs’ while standing atop a labor market where ‘good’ means you get an ID badge and are allowed to use a bathroom instead of a bottle. He praises “record low unemployment,” and neglects to mention that most people are simply too broke to stop working long enough to revolt. Meanwhile, the stock market screams new highs like a dying animal, its chart puffed up by a quietly devalued dollar, and we are asked to interpret this as a vital sign.

The union is united in name and fractured in practice. Between the coasts and within them, a patchwork of micro‑regimes has emerged where your human rights depend on your ZIP code, your governor’s ambitions, and which think tank ghost‑wrote the latest slate of bills. In one state, you can marry who you love, read what you want, and get healthcare without an armed escort. In another, school libraries are purged like a ritual exorcism, teachers are surveilled for ideological impurity, and pregnancy is considered a sacred obligation enforced by men with badges and laws masquerading as scripture. The President praises “states’ rights,” by which he means the right of local elites to experiment with new forms of cruelty without federal interference. The laboratories of democracy have been retooled as laboratories of deregulation and repression. One tests how quickly you can privatize water before anyone notices the cancer clusters. Another tests how many immigrants you can cage before the courts intervene, if they ever do. A third tests whether you can simply declare entire political movements “terrorist organizations” and then wait to see who objects out loud. Each successful trial becomes a model bill, copied, pasted, and rolled out nationwide like a software update to the operating system of soft fascism.

The union once liked to imagine itself secular, pluralistic, rational. That was the brand. Underneath, a different country was always there, bible‑belted and vengeful. Now the mask is gone. Law is openly written in the cadence of the pulpit. The line between church and state is drawn in disappearing ink. In this new dispensation, Jesus has been reborn as a white, gun‑owning small‑business owner who hates taxes and refugees. The Sermon on the Mount has been replaced by a strip‑mall prosperity gospel promising wealth in exchange for obedience, tithes, and votes. Immigrants, queer people, women with agency, and non‑conforming teachers are the demons to be cast out. The President speaks the language of this faith fluently, not because he believes in anything beyond himself, but because he recognizes a ready‑made theology of hierarchy when he sees one. It is the perfect spiritual operating system for an oligarchic order, a cosmology in which inequality is not a problem but proof of divine favor. You are poor because you lack faith, discipline, and hustle. They are rich because, in this theology, wealth is treated as proof that both God and the money system have chosen them. The flag stands beside the cross on the stage, like twin altars in the same theocracy. The book of Revelation is treated as if it were a policy manual, not a vision or a warning.

The climate is breaking. Infrastructure is aging. Systems from power grids to water pipes to hospital networks strain and falter. The union is not being rebuilt for the twenty‑first century; it is being cannibalized to provide quarterly earnings. Potholes become craters. The bridges that politicians promise to ‘build back’ first appear on campaign posters, then on live footage as they fall apart. Wildfire smoke becomes seasonal décor for the sky. Floods redraw maps. Heat waves dissolve the illusion that “indoors” is always safe. The response is not a Marshall Plan, but a subscription plan. Disaster insurance becomes a luxury product. Private fire brigades materialize where the homes are expensive enough to be worth saving. Gated communities install their own micro‑grids, while the public grid resembles that sinking mall: overstressed and undermaintained. “Resilience” becomes another word for “you are on your own.” The rich retreat into enclaves ringed with cameras and private security while the rest are told to show “personal responsibility” by stocking bottled water and praying their landlord does not raise the rent after the next flood. The state of the union is not one of renewal, but of managed decline, organized around profit extraction.

There was a time when private power needed to pretend it was vaguely accountable. Today, platform and cloud empires behave like miniature sovereignties. They issue de facto laws in the form of Terms of Service and enforce them with algorithms and moderators instead of courts. In this political economy, your speech rights are throttled not by a constitutional amendment, but by an opaque content policy tweaked after lunch by a product team. Your ability to work, get paid, or even exist on the map depends on your reputation score, your rating, your quietly calculated risk profile. Every movement, purchase, click, and biometric signal becomes raw material for behavioral prediction markets. The President talks about “innovation” and “freedom from government overreach.” He leaves unsaid that the vacuum is filled by companies that can remove you from social space, employment, and payments simultaneously, and then call it a routine enforcement action. It is cheaper and cleaner to outsource social control to code. Nightsticks leave bruises. Loss of access looks like a technical glitch. The true state of the union is one where feudal rights, once tied to land, are now tied to servers you do not own, in jurisdictions you cannot pronounce, owned by people you will never meet. The landlords of the new regime are data traffickers with billion‑dollar valuations and non‑disclosure agreements. You do not own your feudal hut. You rent your online existence.

The union’s foreign policy is simple: the world is a supply chain with people inconveniently attached. Every crisis is an opportunity to test new weapons, expand bases, open markets, and write new intellectual property rules. The President calls this “peace through strength.” He wraps it in the language of human rights while selling bombs to regimes that treat human beings the way hedge funds treat distressed assets. For the domestic audience, war remains a useful solvent. It dissolves class consciousness into patriotic foam. It justifies surveillance. It provides a stage for bipartisan unity. Nothing brings the two parties together like the promise of a good, clean, profitable conflict far from home. As the planet warms and resources dwindle, war becomes less a last resort than a line item in long‑term planning. Climate refugees are pre‑labeled as security threats. Strategic choke points on sea lanes are cataloged like inventory. The logistics of extraction and enforcement blur. The state of the union cannot be separated from the state of the empire. The domestic oligarchy sits atop global supply chains fed by sweatshops, rare earth mines, and compliant dictatorships. The union is the metropole of a system that exports instability and imports profit. When the President speaks of “our interests,” he does not mean yours.

We still vote. There are still primaries, conventions, debates, and yard signs. The television coverage is immaculate. The graphics teams deserve awards. Yet the core of the system has drifted. District maps are drawn like Rorschach tests designed to interpret any sign of dissent as an ink stain to be contained. Voter suppression is rebranded as ballot integrity. Polling places vanish from neighborhoods that vote incorrectly. The machinery is fine‑tuned enough that entire blocs of people can be rendered politically negligible without anyone having to say out loud what they are doing. Money, meanwhile, does the talking. The price of admission to serious politics is measured in the number of billionaires who consider you a safe investment. Lobbyists now write so much of the legislation that we might as well print their names beneath the bill titles, like author credits. The result is a puppet show where every ‘serious’ economic idea is just a variation of neoliberalism, either softened with nice rhetoric or enforced with open cruelty. The media calls any candidate who even mildly challenges oligarchic rule “polarizing,” “divisive,” or “unrealistic,” as if quietly looting the future were the very definition of moderation. Political coverage treats fascist flirtations as branding decisions rather than existential threats. We have not abolished democracy; we have turned it into a spectator sport, something you display with yard signs and online arguments and consume as election‑night drama, while the real machinery of the system stays hidden and locked away. The state of the union is not dictatorship in the old, cinematic sense. It is a competitive authoritarian theme park where the rides are real, the injuries are real, and the results are quietly rigged in advance.

While all this happens, culture must go on. There are shows to stream, albums to drop, content to produce. The spectacle cannot pause long enough for people to notice what is under their feet. We get endless police TV shows where the justice system’s only flaw is that its cops care too much, never that the system itself is violent or unjust. We get endless tech thrillers in which the billionaire genius is morally complicated but basically necessary. We get endless superhero movies in which salvation comes from a gifted individual operating above the law, never from organized people changing the law. Even the dystopias feel airbrushed. The apocalypse is always aesthetic: neon, rain‑slick, beautiful. The ruins smell of wet concrete and opportunity. The extras are attractive and just traumatized enough to be interesting. Reality is less photogenic: mold, debt, cheap drywall, chronic illness, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights in a waiting room where you hold a number and a plastic clipboard and try not to think about the bill. The state of the union is upheld by a ceaseless production of distractions that treat structural horror as harmless background noise.

And yet, beneath the noise and the managed despair, something else moves. Workers in warehouses, hospitals, and fast‑food chains are unionizing in places where unions were supposed to be folklore. Tenants are organizing rent strikes in buildings owned by private equity firms that do not even know the names of the streets they own. Teachers are walking out not only for raises, but for the right to teach something closer to reality than state‑approved fantasy. Mutual aid networks quietly do the work the state refuses to do, feeding people, evacuating them, getting them medicine, raising bail. They form the shadow infrastructure of a society that is not yet allowed to exist, but insists on being born. These are not yet revolutions. They are proofs of concept, evidence that people can act outside the scripts written for them by parties, platforms, and their corporate sponsors. The oligarchic order understands this better than some of its opponents. That is why it reacts so violently to even modest experiments in solidarity, why it treats a union drive at a coffee shop like an act of terrorism and a city council proposal to tax luxury properties like the storming of the Bastille. The state of the union is precarious precisely because the system has become too efficient at funneling wealth upward and too clumsy at disguising it. The contradiction is not sustainable forever. The question is not whether something gives. The question is what, and who.

The joke, of course, is that what we call the “State of the Union” is really the quarterly report of a civilization in slow liquidation, a going‑out‑of‑business sale for late industrial modernity where the fluorescent lights flicker, the shelves are half‑empty, and management insists everything is fine while prying the copper wiring out of the walls. The same oligarchic logic that treats workers as expendable inputs and ecosystems as externalities now treats the entire planetary life‑support system as a consumable, to be burned for one more bump in GDP and one more record stock buyback. The union is not merely unjust; it is structurally suicidal. The fusion of surveillance platforms, fossil capital, and security states has given our elites godlike powers of extraction and control paired with the emotional maturity of arsonists, so that every problem, from resource depletion and mass migration to pandemics and climate chaos, is either ignored, securitized, or monetized, never actually solved. In this sense America is not an exception but the flagship of a broader collapse, an empire that once hallucinated itself as the “end of history” now serving as the premier example of how a high‑tech, highly educated society can knowingly sprint toward ecological and social breakdown while livestreaming the whole thing in 4K, wrapped in patriotic branding and subscription services. The real punchline is that the “freedom” so loudly celebrated from the podium is the freedom of an economic death cult to keep sawing through the last load‑bearing beams, while the rest of us are told that asking for breathable air, drinkable water, and non‑precarious lives is utopian, irresponsible, or, worst of all, bad for investor confidence.

If the President were honest, his State of the Union might sound something like this: “My fellow Americans, the union is strong for those who matter. Your sacrifices have been invaluable in supporting record stock buybacks, historic CEO compensation, and the continued expansion of our security and surveillance industries. We understand that many of you are struggling with housing, healthcare, climate disasters, and a generalized sense of dread. We hear you. Your anxiety is essential fuel for our culture wars and an effective tool for enforcing discipline at work. We will continue to invest in the things that keep America great: armored vehicles for local police, tax breaks for data centers, and faith‑based initiatives that teach you to blame the poor, the foreign, and the different for your pain. Together, we will ensure that this great nation remains a safe haven for capital, a robust marketplace for private security and digital control, and a shining city on a hill you may admire from a distance but never afford to live in. God bless America, and God bless our quarterly returns.” The applause would be thunderous. The cameras would pan across smiling faces. Pundits would praise the speech as “presidential.”

Outside the chamber, the real union would look the way it already does. Essential workers would finish double shifts and go home to eviction notices. Delivery drivers would race an algorithm’s impossible expectations. Teachers would buy supplies for kids whose parents have three jobs. Families would refresh their bank apps and hope the next payment does not bounce. Communities would breathe smoke, drink suspect water, and pretend it is all fine because thinking otherwise hurts too much. And yet people would keep helping one another in ways that cannot be monetized. They would keep telling each other the truth in hushed conversations, in group chats, in stolen moments when the boss is not listening. They would keep imagining what it would mean for the state of the union to be measured not in stock tickers and missile inventories, but in whether everyone has enough and nobody has too much.

The ruling order calls this dangerous. It is correct. The real State of the Union is not the speech; it is the growing awareness that this cannot continue, and that somewhere beyond the billboards and slogans there must be a country that belongs to its people rather than its stock market. The question is not whether that country exists yet, but whether we will build it before the roof comes down.