Not Diplomacy, But Necrophilia

It is only fitting that a man who shits on a toilet of gold and another who parades through the world a gloating war criminal, drenched in blood in every way except in a way that actually stains him, would mark a massacre with a gilded trinket. And so there was Benjamin Netanyahu, grinning as he placed a golden pager into Donald Trump’s hands—a shimmering trophy of an Israeli attack that killed over 30 people and maimed hundreds more.

The gift celebrates the September 17 attack, in which thousands of pagers, reportedly used by Hezbollah members, were rigged with explosives and remotely detonated. The devices, designed to require both hands to operate, ensured that when the message arrived, it would take fingers, hands, and whatever else was unlucky enough to be in the blast radius. A stump for a wrist, a crater for a body.

The absurdity is staggering, but it is not without precedent. This is the logic of empire laid bare: violence turned into spectacle, a severed head in a velvet-lined box. This is not diplomacy; it is necrophilia.

If there is any lingering illusion that these people see life as anything but fodder, meat, and collateral, let this settle it: slaughter as a souvenir. The execution is the event, the bomb is the branding, and every human reduced to ash is nothing but a moment to be memorialized in gold, then fondled by bloated, laughing men in suits.

This is not just an insult; it is a declaration of power, a reminder that they do not have to hide their crimes. They can gild them, laugh about them, turn them into collectibles. This is what empire does: it does not simply kill; it erases the weight of killing, replaces it with medals, ceremonies, and grotesque little trophies.

The golden pager is not just absurd—it is a monument to the shamelessness of power, a symbol of an empire so certain of its impunity that it no longer even pretends to grieve.

And yet, this tacky garbage will decay. Metal tarnishes, memories linger, and rot always finds its way through the cracks. The golden pager will sit on some shelf, dulling, collecting dust, a useless, stinking relic of an empire too gorged with its own cruelty to notice that the walls are crumbling around it.