Imagine a deadbeat stepdad, refusing to work, living in the house his stepson built, throwing constant temper tantrums and squandering the fortune the kid’s real dad, who died in the war, had amassed.
Now imagine that guy wearing a “World’s #1 Dad” t-shirt.
Now imagine that guy is Europe, that t-shirt is the Noble Peace Prize, that hardworking kid is the U.S.A., and that t-shirt is a present he bought himself for not burning down the house when he passed out on the sofa with a lit cigarette last night.
Now stop imagining — there’s no reason: On Oct. 12, 2012, the Nobel Prize Committee (a self-congratulatory liberal club) awarded the European Union (a self-congratulatory liberal club) the Nobel Peace Prize for six decades of “the successful struggle for peace and reconciliation and for democracy and human rights,” or, translated into American, for 60 years of “living off of the old man’s legacy and in our house while managing to not light the place on fire.”
The hell are we talking about? Let’s lay it out:
1) The old man’s legacy
Old man Europe was a handsome man. From Rome to London, he built a civilization that dominated the planet, spreading liberty, culture, technology and riches from Sidney to Boston. Through his most successful project, England, he laid the foundations of many of today’s most prosperous nations: South Africa, Australia, Hong Kong, New Zealand and the United States.
He had his flaws, but he built beautiful cities, cultivated just law, spread the Word and believed in himself.
That Europe — to be clear –is not the same thing as today’s turtle-necked bureaucrats patting themselves on the back. That Europe slit its wrists in World War I, leaving a widow who scoured the dive bars for a new man — communism, Naziism — before finally settling on some schlub we’ll just call decline.
That schlub may walk around wearing the old man’s clothes, but we noticed something last time he showed us how boss all his stuff was: He’s showing off the old man’s architecture, cooking the old man’s recipes, bragging on the old man’s art, playing the old man’s music, even drinking the old man’s booze, all while contributing a fat zero and stinking up the joint.
And not only that, but he’s been living off the eldest son — U.S.
2) Our house
Gotta wonder what the committee was smoking when it claimed to be repping six decades of “struggle for peace and reconciliation and for democracy and human rights.”
Maybe it’s because we weren’t sipping the same grappa, but we recall that party went down a little differently: Forty of the last 60 years were spent with half of the house overrun by Red squatters while the U.S. stood guard, keeping the bastard at bay, until one day we just hauled off and whooped his ass. And where was stepdad this whole time? He was yelling at the TV about nukes and polar bears. And playing soccer.
And since then, there have been a whole host of lesser pests, from Kosovo to Libya, all of which required the good ol’ U.S.A. to step on in and clean up the mess. Let’s not even mention the fact that everyone in the E.U. hates each other and their currency is collapsing.
But screw it. Stepdad wants that t-shirt, and he’s going to buy it.
3) “World’s #1 Dad”
At first glance, we wonder, why now? Had Europe given itself a shiny medal after the launch of the Euro (the single biggest destroyer of wealth in Europe since Adolf and Eva’s’s road trip, ’39-’45), we could have chalked it up to a celebratory, if arrogant, gesture by the sophisticated, metropolitan class. Seriously: If 60 years of not gassing yourself doesn’t deserve $1.2 million dollars, what does?
But Oct. 12, 2012 isn’t Jan. 1, 2002: Europe is in the late stages of cirrhosis of the liver from too much damn partying.
Then, on second thought, maybe Europe awarding itself the Nobel Prize today fits just fine. It’s now or never, right? Stepdad’s not doing so well. Like any aging rock star, his brain is slowing from years of neglect; his liver is failing from years of abuse; his tattoos are fading from too much Mediterranean sun; and he’s sporting a mean gut from too much pasta.
And like with any aging rock star, the committee better hurry up and induct him into the hall of fame before he kicks the bucket. A real-life “This is Spinal Tap” sort of thing.
It would be a hysterical if it wasn’t so dark. Then again, we kinda like dark comedies. So have at it, E.U. And please don’t call us when the money runs out. Oh wait, you already did.
