The parental figure enters slowly, hands on hips, surveying the absolute carnage.
Blocks smashed.
Crayons decapitated.
The walls look like a young Jackson Pollock went rogue.
A deep sigh.
“Right. Everyone sit down. Yes—all of you. I don’t care if you have nukes or a permanent security council seat. Bottoms on the floor. Cross-legged. Now.”
A visual sweep of the playroom reveals a scene of epic, multi-coloured disarray.
And yes—world leaders as squabbling children is exactly the vibe.
Donald, sweetheart.
We’ve been over this.
You do have to share.
No, yelling “MINE!” at 140 decibels doesn’t make it legally yours.
Teasing the others until they cry isn’t “alpha strong leadership”—it’s just being the playground bully.
And please stop waving your plastic toy around shouting, “It’s the biggest, believe me, nobody has bigger toys than me.”
We can all see it’s from the dollar store.
Vladimir.
Playtime is over. Time to go home.
Yes, I know you love that toy.
But you can’t just invade someone else’s half of the sandbox, turn it into a muddy crater, and then demand the nice part too because “historical reasons.”
Before you leave: pick. up. your. mess.
No, knocking the whole Lego tower over and saying, “It was like that when I got here,” does not count as denazification.
And stop sulking in the corner you dug yourself—this isn’t 4D chess. It’s a tantrum.
China, darling…
We need to talk about the frog-in-the-boiling-water routine.
You can’t move your toys one millimetre closer every single day for twenty years and then blink innocently and say,
“Oh? It’s always been mine?”
Put. The. Stuff. Back.
Yes—including the shiny pretend islands and the suspiciously well-armed fishing boats.
Europe.
Stop rolling your eyes and drafting 27-page position papers on whose turn it is to pick up the red crayon.
You didn’t start the mess—fine.
But you’re standing in a perfect diplomatic circle debating the wording of the apology while the glitter is still wet on the wall.
Grab a broom. Help. Now.
Middle East.
Chairs. Down.
I don’t care who threw the first block in 638, 1099, 1948, or last Tuesday at 3:17 p.m.
This isn’t “proportional response.”
This is just flinging furniture.
Everyone breathe. Count to ten. Extinguish the small fires. We’ll talk later.
And America, love.
You don’t get to trash half the playroom, storm out in a huff, then swagger back in five minutes later wearing a giant “World’s Best Grown-Up” sash and start lecturing everyone else on responsibility.
Also, stop egging on the naughty ones just because the chaos makes great TV.
The parental figure claps sharply.
“Right. New rules—and I mean it this time:
• No hitting.
• No stealing.
• No screaming ‘fake news’ or ‘deep state’ when someone politely points out the Legos you just yeeted across the room.
• If you break it, you fix it.
• If you can’t play nicely, we turn this whole planet around, and everyone goes straight to bed. No recess tomorrow.”
A long, guilty silence.
Someone sniffles.
Someone mutters under their breath.
Someone checks their phone under the table like nothing happened.
The parent softens—just a little.
“I don’t expect perfection.
But I do expect you to remember this isn’t your personal ego playground.
It’s a shared space.
And everyone still has to live here when you’re done throwing tantrums.”
Now.
Who wants to help clean up first?
(No hands go up… but for once, nobody immediately starts building a new wall either.)
If only life resembled this.
