In America, we cling to the charming belief that ordinary people control their destiny. The campaign ads assure us, the yard signs remind us, and the bumper stickers plead with us. But here’s the secret the grown-ups already know: what will happen, will happen.

The stock market will wobble, hurricanes will make landfall, factories will close, and billionaires will make decisions that ripple through your grocery bill like the hand of an angry god. Your ballot, bless its earnest little heart, changes none of this. It’s like tossing a pebble into the Mississippi and waiting for New Orleans to move.

The Hamster Steering the Freight Train

We Americans are invited to feel important every four years by pretending we can nudge the direction of the republic. In reality, we are the hamster strapped to the steering wheel of a runaway freight train. The wheel spins, the hamster squeaks, and the train continues downhill at precisely the same speed. But oh, what a noble squeak!

Voting, after all, is not about control—it is about ritual. It’s our civic séance, our collective attempt to summon the illusion of agency. The sticker you proudly slap on your jacket—“I Voted”—is not evidence of power. It’s proof you attended the ceremony.

The Professional Liars We Call Leaders

Enter the politicians, those gifted artisans of deception. Their job is not to tell the truth; truth has no constituency. Their job is to sculpt lies so soothing, so flattering, that we forget the walls are closing in. They are the therapists we never asked for but keep re-electing.

When they say, “We hear you,” they mean, “We hear the lobbyist’s check clearing.” When they promise, “No new taxes,” they mean, “There will be new fees, surcharges, and levies with names so creative you’ll need a thesaurus.” And when they thunder, “Change is coming,” they mean, “We’ve ordered a new font for the website.”

But before you sneer, remember: we need them to lie. Without those lies, the average citizen would be reduced to standing in the driveway every morning, coffee in hand, whispering, “I have no control over any of this,” until the neighbors called for a wellness check. Politicians lie for the same reason parents tell their children Santa Claus exists: because the truth is unbearable.

The Theater of Futility

Our entire democratic apparatus functions like a Broadway show. The costumes are crisp, the dialogue rehearsed, the conflicts staged. We buy tickets every few years, clap at the familiar lines, and shuffle back to our lives while the actual decisions are made in green rooms we’re not allowed to enter.

Even protest—the ultimate expression of “people power”—is often just another act in the play. March, chant, wave a sign, feel righteous, and then go home to stream the highlights of the protest on the very social media platforms owned by the billionaires who profit from your rage.

The Inevitable Comfort

So where does this leave us? Oddly enough, in a place of serenity. If what will happen will happen, you are relieved of the crushing responsibility of fixing anything. Relax. Watch the game. Buy the gadgets. Debate passionately over which politician is the “lesser evil,” knowing both are contractually bound to disappoint you.

It’s liberating, really. When the house always wins, you don’t need to play the game well—you just need to play it loudly enough to feel alive.

A Modest Proposal

Instead of demanding honesty, we should celebrate the artistry of our leaders’ lies. Give out Oscars for “Best Campaign Promise Never Fulfilled.” Hand out Grammys for “Most Soothing Sound Bite About the Middle Class.” Put their speeches on Broadway and sell the soundtrack.

After all, they are not deceivers—they are entertainers, mood stabilizers, and caretakers of the grand illusion that we are in control. And we should be grateful. Without them, the curtain would lift, and we’d see the hamster on the train, squeaking helplessly as the inevitable rolls on.

And nobody wants to watch that show.