OUTRAGED BY TRIVIALITIES, BLIND TO THE DISASTER

Romania no longer deserves to wear the democratic cloak. It’s probably worn out from being worn for so long, and now it hangs like a rag no one wants to hear about anymore. To put it less diplomatically, we’re on a long, slippery slide, and as we all know, slides don’t have brakes—unless they’re broken, but we don’t even have that luck. The next stop? A club that's anything but exclusive, where countries with the "garbage" label gather—those that investors regard with the same affection you'd reserve for a carton of expired yogurt: you wonder for a second if it’s still good, then toss it away in disgust. In this grand setting, foreign investments will become an endangered species, like dinosaurs or common sense in politics. We’ll end up telling our grandchildren, eyes misty with nostalgia, about the golden days when Romania still mattered on the map of financial interests.

Now? We’re left to feed on promises, memories, and that national resignation we wear with pride, like an old, baggy suit, telling each other with a bitter smile: "Well, it could be worse!" In these circumstances, we lament from our snake mouths that an absolutely insignificant figure, like JD Vance, a distinguished keychain of the supreme master, made two odd remarks about us. As if it mattered! As if we were the center of the universe, the cosmic epicenter of geopolitical relevance! We pretend to be outraged, raise our eyebrows, and roll our eyes, dramatically exclaiming that "we didn’t eat garlic, and our mouths don’t stink," even though everyone around us is discreetly avoiding our breath. But let’s be serious: while the country slides into irrelevance with the grace of a hippo on ice, we’ve decided to scandalize ourselves over the tiniest of things. Exactly! Essentially, Vance splashes us with lukewarm water from a squirt gun, gives us a superficial wetting, and we collapse theatrically, like great victims of imperialist aggression. We tear him apart with an indignation worthy of better causes, gritting our teeth and proclaiming, with our chests puffed with national pride, that "this is simply unacceptable!" Meanwhile, The Economist delivers a thorough beating from every possible angle, no holds barred, no diplomatic lubricant, and we, instead of protesting, bow elegantly and rush to kiss their ass with devotion and gratitude. Because, let’s face it, when it comes to international recognition, nothing excites us more than being pulverized by someone with prestige. Look at us, we've emancipated ourselves! With style, with grace, and, of course, with unparalleled ability to selectively revolt, exactly when it doesn't matter.