Psychic Meow Meow pawed the velvet wall,
“Massie hissed the ballroom’s gilded gall.
Trump lost the primary — chandeliers all swoon,
Now donors dance with ghosts beneath the moon.”
Oh, look. The bipedal hairless apes are screeching at each other in the sandbox again. Truly, the stars are weeping, but mostly they are just bored.
I gazed into the cosmic litter box of human politics and witnessed the absolute circus out of Kentucky. Thomas Massie thought he could hold his ground against the Great Orange Menace, but instead, he got swatted right out of his seat like a loose hairball. Thirty-three million dollars spent just to watch a Navy SEAL kick a libertarian off his perch. Humans and their money—it’s tragic, really. If they spent that kind of cash on premium salmon pâté, the world would be a utopia. But no.
But what does Psychic Meow Meow see in the shimmering mists of the future? I see Massie standing at his concession podium, his ego bruised but his claws still out. He looks at the television screen. He sees the supreme leader bragging about a new White House ballroom.
“It looks like the Roman Empire,” Massie says, his voice dripping with the kind of bitter spice I usually reserve for when the dry food bowls are empty. He sneers at the gold leaf, the columns, the ridiculous footprint of it all, joking that his own primary rivals had to spend so much money unseating him that the casino-mogul donors will probably have to downsize the whole project.
Let me look deeper into the crystal ball. Ah, yes. The cards do not lie.
The Vision: The Fate of the Roman Empire Ballroom
The spirits are showing me the blueprint of this majestic, gaudy structure. It features—and I am not making this up, human folly knows no bounds—a drone base on the roof. Because nothing screams “classical architecture” quite like remote-controlled buzzing plastic.
Here is what my impeccable third eye predicts for the aftermath of this petty ballroom brawl:
- The Downsizing Doom: Massie’s prediction about the reduced footprint will manifest, but not because of the donors. The cosmic forces of bad taste will collide. The ballroom will be precisely 12% smaller than planned because someone will realize a full-sized Roman coliseum interferes with the golf cart paths.
- The Cat-Astrophic Retaliation: The Supreme Landlord of Mar-a-Lago will not take the “Roman Empire” comparison lightly. I foresee a late-night, all-caps declaration on the digital airwaves. He will claim that his ballroom makes Julius Caesar look like a amateur, and that Massie is just a “disloyal, low-energy feline enthusiast” who doesn’t understand high luxury.
- The Drone Base Debacle: That roof-bound drone base? I predict its first official mission will be a total failure. A stray drone will mistake a passing pigeon for a political adversary, crash directly into a gold-plated pillar, and trigger an expensive, very un-imperial fire sprinkler incident.
Massie thinks he delayed a war for a day by keeping the “influencers” and the Secretary of War distracted in Kentucky. Please. The only war that matters is the eternal struggle between my paw and the red laser dot.
Go back to your little political theater, humans. Build your marble rooms. Knock each other out of your little House seats. Just remember who really rules the universe while you argue over the architecture.
Now, leave me. The energy required to channel this much human pettiness has exhausted my spirit. It is time for my fourteen-hour nap.
