The thing about the end of the world is, it never happens in a flash of white light, not like the movies. It comes in a slow, sticky ooze, like a bad summer sunburn that peels off in big, unsightly flakes. It comes during the dog days, when the cicadas are screaming and you’re trying to figure out which cheap, flimsy inflatable to cram into the trunk of the station wagon. That’s when the 12-Day War started. You see, the folks in charge, the ones with all the medals and the permanent frowns, they’re just like you and me. They’re thinking, “Right, let’s get this over with before the big summer rush. No sense in ruining the whole bloody holiday season.”

It began on June 13, a day that felt like any other. A day for planning barbecues and arguing about which brand of charcoal burns the cleanest. But while you were fumbling with a folding chair, a surprise attack was launched. A decapitation strike, they called it. A fancy, surgical word that really just means “we’re gonna chop off the head and hope the body flops around and dies.” They aimed for the Iranian leadership, and boy, did they get some of them. Dozens of high-ranking guys in fancy suits—poof, gone.

The plan was simple, a classic B-movie plot from the 1980s: cut the head off the snake, and the whole thing falls apart. The American and Israeli powers-that-be sat back with their collective thumbs hooked in their suspenders, sure as sunrise that this would be the final act. They’d topple the government, get a good night’s sleep, and be back in time for the Fourth of July fireworks. A perfectly reasonable expectation, if you’re living inside a bad screenplay.

But here’s the thing about reality—it’s always got a twist. The Iranian government didn’t collapse. It staggered, it bled, but it didn’t fall. Instead, it straightened up, wiped the gore from its chin, and let out a bellow of pure, unadulterated fury. Then came the counterattack. Missiles—ballistic, hypersonic, the works—fell like a storm of metal rain, shrugging off every defense the Israelis could throw at them. The scale of the response was so absurdly, comically huge that the mighty US and Israel suddenly looked like two little kids who’d just poked a beehive with a stick. They stumbled back, yelping for a ceasefire.

Iran, naturally, told them to pound sand.

I mean, would you have? When you’ve got your boot on the other guy’s throat, you don’t just offer to shake hands and walk away. Not unless you get something good. And that’s where the humor, the beautiful, pathetic hypocrisy of the whole thing came into play. The only way to stop the bleeding was for President Trump, with a scowl that could curdle milk, to give them what they wanted.

And what they wanted, of all things, was to sell more oil to China.

After years of sanctions, of trying to squeeze Iran until it squealed, the great geopolitical mastermind of the free world was forced to give them a golden ticket. Trump’s subsequent tweet—a masterpiece of bluster and spin—baffled everyone. It was a perfectly polished monument to the idea that you can tear down years of policy with a single, self-aggrandizing line. The world watched, slack-jawed, as the ultimate hypocritical concession was made: Here, you can sell oil to our biggest competitor, just please stop firing missiles at our friends.

What happened next was even more delicious. Rather than weakening the Iranian government, the attack had the exact opposite effect. It triggered a surge of nationalist pride, a kind of furious, unified defiance. It was a master class in what not to do when you’re trying to overthrow a government. You don’t make them martyrs. You don’t give them a reason to stand together. But that’s exactly what happened. Round 1 of this grand game didn’t just fail; it backfired spectacularly, like a rusty shotgun.

The war is far from over. This was only the opening skirmish, a mere twelve-day appetizer. The nuclear question remains, a festering, unhealed wound. The official story is that the program was “obliterated,” but that’s a lie you tell to yourself in the mirror after you’ve had a few too many. The truth is, Iran still has the know-how, the capacity, the grim determination to rebuild whatever was lost. All we did was kick a hornet’s nest.

So now, the only path forward for the US and Israel is a full-scale, ground-pounding war. The kind that chews up men and metal and spits out dust. The kind that makes you think, “Gosh, maybe this is it. The big one.” Because the nuclear issue was never the real issue. It was just the spooky mask the real monster was wearing. The real monster is regime change. The real monster is the fear of losing control, of watching the old order crumble like a sandcastle in the tide.

So we’re left with a binary choice, a simple coin flip between two equally terrible outcomes:

Outcome #1: The US and Israel succeed in toppling Iran, a domino effect that destabilises Russia and China, and kicks off a global showdown of biblical proportions.

Outcome #2: Iran survives, solidifying its place in a new, multipolar world, and the US suffers a quiet, painful decline, like an old boxer who just can’t get back on his feet.

The outcome of this war isn’t just about who wins a battle; it’s about the future of the world. It’s about whether America can cling to the top of the heap or whether it will become a faded memory, like the British Empire after the World Wars—a cautionary tale told by historians with a sigh and a shake of the head.

We’re in the thick of it now, my friends. We are living in a moment when history is not just being written, but being violently rewritten. The noise is deafening, the propaganda is thick as syrup, and the true geopolitical landscape is a dark, tangled mess. The 12-Day War was just a prelude, a whisper before the scream. It was a holiday squabble that turned into a grim prediction. And while you’re out there, buying your sunscreen and arguing about which road to take, remember: the ripple effects won’t just stop at borders. They’re coming for your bank account, your savings, and your future.

Enjoy the rest of your summer.