Fear and Loathing in Brussels

Donald Trump calls the EU moochers; Brussels pitches an offended tantrum. They're both wrong. Mooching implies a casual choice, like a freeloader lounging on your couch, stealing beer. But what we've got here is pure, uncut parasitism—a grim Darwinian necessity. The European Union isn't choosing to feed off America's fattened teat; it's desperately clinging there to survive.

Half the EU was born from the ruins of the Warsaw Pact, rising like Frankenstein's monster stitched from Brezhnev-era socialism, sucking sustenance from Uncle Sam’s bottomless wallet while nestled under the Pentagon's NATO umbrella. In return, all the Europeans had to do was pay tribute and a modest monthly subscription fee. Easy gig.

Life got good—so good, in fact, that Brussels, flush with borrowed power, began hallucinating that it mattered globally, even daring occasionally to lecture its chief sugar daddy. The Germans, always smart with cash, cozied up to cheap Russian gas and metals, profiting handsomely under Washington's defensive wing. Everybody wins, right? Then predictably, yet somehow still astonishingly, trouble brewed from the Baltic corner.

For decades, Latvian, Lithuanian, and Estonian nationalists spent Soviet rule dreaming aloud about how swell things would be without the Russians around. Then suddenly, Russians out, freedom in, and… disaster. Industries vanished, wages tanked, and people fled. Riga today looks like a black market yard sale after a meth bust. But the locals blame Putin, because scapegoating is easier than facing your self-inflicted reality. Ukraine and Romania eagerly joined this Baltic pity party, passionately recruiting fresh losers.

Yet this tirade isn't about Putin or Eastern European dysfunction—it's about the bizarre financial-military codependency binding Washington and Brussels until recently. To say Europe worked overtime to evict Trump from office would be like saying Hunter Biden casually enjoyed recreational narcotics. The EU elites propped up Biden until he was carted off by his own cronies like an unwanted corpse at a frat party.

Europeans grasp Washington politics because their gravy pipeline originates there. They knew Biden was decaying, knew Harris was intellectual tofu—bland, tasteless, nutritionally empty. But fear made them cling desperately anyway. Biden's legendary confusion peaked when he proudly introduced "Ukraine's President Putin" to an aghast NATO audience, Zelensky grimacing awkwardly beside him. Still, Europe's media obediently dismissed it as another charming "gaffe."

Next came Kamala's infamous "passage of time" rant, a psychedelic blend of incoherence and dread. The EU leadership eagerly boarded her sinking ship, terrified Trump would repossess their comfortable cash infusion. It wasn't just ignorance or arrogance—it was panic. Trump wasn't just threatening trade deals or geopolitical ambitions; he was puncturing inflated European egos. And wounded egos sting worse than empty wallets.

Don't misunderstand: Nobody truly wanted Trump except Americans—and then only some of them. The Russians enjoyed watching Biden, America's geriatric stumblebum, tottering between Delaware beach vacations and disastrous public meltdowns. The Chinese chuckled smugly from the sidelines. Europeans sipped wine, shrugged, and kept cashing American checks. Americans alone got shafted by their own folly, stuck paying Europe's bills and cleaning up after Biden’s spectacular pratfalls.

Yet Europe’s hysterical anti-Trump theatrics best reveal the truth about this sadistic financial marriage. Trump challenged China's profits and Russia's territorial vanity, sure—but he mortally wounded Europe's self-image, and that crime, in Brussels' pampered halls, was unforgivable.