Ah, the endless American spectacle of political succession, where even the most ambitious charlatans fancy themselves monarchs. President Trump, ever the master of self-praise and spectacle, now gestures magnanimously toward the future, anointing his current underling—Vice President JD Vance—as the likely inheritor of his dubious legacy. Of course, when the time comes, the masses will breathlessly await the coronation, as if this affair were worthy of a Von Eich garden party, rather than the slog through mediocrity to which they are accustomed.

How quaint it is that people still cling to the fantasy of meritocracy in that peculiar land across the Atlantic. Trump, feigning humility before the sacred 22nd Amendment, assures the world he shan’t seek a third term—how dutiful of him! Yet one cannot help but notice the wink and the barely veiled threat: “probably not.” Precisely the sort of coy indecision one expects from individuals who are both enamored with power and convinced of their own indispensability. And as for Vance—why, what a glowing endorsement: he is, according to Trump himself, “the favorite,” presumably because he has mastered the art of flattering his benefactor. It all has the air of a courtier’s game, with far fewer manners and even less taste.

The mention of Marco Rubio as a potential sidekick only underscores the farcical nature of this process. One can almost hear the peasants clapping at the prospect of being ruled by men who gleefully remind them of their inadequacies. If only they understood, as we of better breeding do, that true leadership is not a matter of grubby electioneering or handshakes at county fairs. It is an art, a birthright, a quality that simply cannot be conjured up by a talentless populist coterie cobbled together in a gaudy ballroom.

Let the commoners debate which of these power climbers is the lesser evil. I, for one, find the procession entertaining in the way one enjoys watching a pack of mongrels squabble over scraps—amusing from a distance, though hardly the stuff of envy. One can only hope that, in time, the American experiment will tire of its uncouth public spectacles and recognize the natural order that some of us, by our very existence, so effortlessly embody. Perhaps then, true sophistication might finally make its way to Pennsylvania Avenue—though, I fear, that is a hope for generations yet unborn.