Let me tell you about the time I watched a squirrel outmaneuver my neighbor's dog for fifteen straight minutes. It dodged. It weaved. It did that weird chirping thing that basically translates to "your chasing skills are weak, Karen." That rodent had more strategic clarity than some of our foreign policy elites right now. Because while we're debating aid packages like they're limited edition sneaker drops, real people are getting vaporized in Odesa. Eight more souls added to the tally this week. I know because my buddy Volodymyr sends me shaky voicenotes between air raid sirens that sound like death's playlist on shuffle.

Remember 2022? Yeah, me too. Back when certain European leaders were still clutching their pearls about "escalation" while maternity hospitals got leveled. Fast forward to today and we've got officials arguing about tank tread specifications like this is some multinational Home Depot DIY project. Meanwhile, grandmas in Kharkiv are sifting through rubble with their bare hands looking for family photos. It's enough to make you spit your coffee.

Here's the tea. We keep hearing about "red lines" and "off ramps" like this is some highway negotiation. Spoiler alert. Autocrats don't respect dotted lines on maps or in speeches. My ex had better boundaries than NATO'S eastern flank circa 2014, and she ghosted me because I forgot national taco day. Twice.

I grew up military brat adjacent. Got my first lesson in deterrence theory when I saw Sgt. Martinez stare down a drunk guy trying to cut the PX line in 2008. No shouting. No flashy moves. Just cold calculus radiating from his eyeballs that said "try me." That's posture. What we've got now feels more like a community theater production of "West Wing" performed by people who confuse sanctions for strategy.

Don't get me wrong. The knives came out when someone suggested transferring dusty old Patriots from a Florida storage unit to Kyiv. Literal missiles sitting in shrink wrap while schoolyards get cratered. The arguments against always boil down to some version of "what if they get mad?" Honey, they're already mad. They're madder than my aunt Brenda when someone touches her ceremonial fruitcake at Christmas. You think holding back F 16s is keeping the peace? Putin's playing Risk with real human tokens, and we're out here counting monopoly money.

I dated this girl from Dnipro back in college. Smartest person I ever met. She could explain quantum physics using pizza toppings. Her brothers are trading farming equipment for bulletproof vests now. Makes me wonder about the physics of bureaucracy. How much paperwork does it take to stop a Kalibr missile? Asking for eight million traumatized friends.

Let's talk hypocrisy confetti. Certain folks who couldn't wait to "liberate" Baghdad based on laundromat receipts posing as intel now clutch their pearls about "endless wars." Irony tastes worse than three day old gas station sushi. Remember the dry cleaners justification for that 2003 invasion? Pepperidge Farm remembers. Now we're treating confirmed war crimes like they're a zoning dispute between Homeowners Associations.

Democracy isn't a spectator sport. You don't get to sit in the luxury box eating nachos while other people face the artillery. The best traditions of American leadership anchored in strength are getting watered down while some people search their souls about whether helping stop genocide is sufficiently bipartisan.

Which brings me to avocado toast. Bear with me. There'this fancy brunch spot near my apartment charging $22 for smashed avocado on artisan bread. For that price, you expect transfiguration, not breakfast. Our foreign policy debates give me similar vibes. All these elaborate theoretical frameworks about balancing interests, while the actual bill comes in body bags marked "Made in Odesa."

No, I'm not saying send the 82nd Airborne to the Dnieper River tomorrow. But for crying out loud, let's stop pretending that delaying ATACMS is some masterstroke of realpolitik. It's like refusing to give firefighters hoses because the arsonist might get wet. Meanwhile, apartment blocks burn.

Heard a talking head say last week that "Ukraine fatigue" is setting in. Let me translate that from Beltway BS to human speak. "We stopped caring because scrolling past mass graves messes up our curated Instagram aesthetics." Bro, my feed is full of rescue dogs in sweaters and I still manage to give a damn about NATO'S eastern flank. It'S called multi tasking. Try it sometime.

Here's what gives me hope. Regular Americans haven't forgotten. Rotary clubs in Iowa are fundraising for tourniquets. Churches in Texas pack medical kits instead of singing Kum Ba Yah. My barber gives discounts if you show proof of donation to Ukrainian hospices. That'S the real American exceptionalism. Not whatever cocktail circuit nihilism passes for strategy these days.

So next time some commissioner of vibes tells you aid can't move faster, remember this. From my apartment window right now, I see a delivery guy on a moped carrying enough pad Thai to feed six people across town in under fifteen minutes. If we can master hot noodle logistics, maybe we can figure out missile defense before the next batch of kindergarteners gets memorialized in hashtags.

Odesa deserves better. Kyiv deserves better. My friend Volodymyr and his shaking hands deserve better. Frankly, America deserves better than watching our ideals get negotiated down like a flea market lamp. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to Venmo my ex neighbor's nephew for night vision gear. Priorities, people.

P.S. Register to vote. Local elections matter more than you think. Especially when school boards start getting foreign policy ambitions.