Imagine civilization run on applause instead of physics. We traded coal for candles, stability for sentiment, grids for flicker power. The activists cheered, the elites clapped, and the engineers warned in vain. What follows is not utopia but feudalism, not freedom but rationing. And when the lights finally go out, you’ll know why.
Shale is not a miracle—it’s a mindset. While rentier states gorge on legacy wealth, a new generation of oil farmers is emerging: dirty boots, data dashboards, and no patience for grand illusions. They don’t pray for oil—they milk it, year after year. This is the gospel of grit. The future bleeds, sweats, and iterates.
In 1973, OPEC discovered the oil lever — a weapon that could make the world tremble without firing a shot. For decades, it worked. But every empire rots from within. Addiction to easy money, the rise of shale, and the limits of fear have left the cartel fighting a final, unwinnable war.
Out of that revelation grew today’s climate gospel: a cult that forbids doubt, sells fear, and feeds empires. The Holy Church of Climatology thrives not on science, but on obedience—and its altar burns hotter than Venus itself.
Carbon has been recast as villain, the black sheep of our molecular family. Yet without it, no oceans would teem, no forests would rise, no breath would ever have filled your lungs. To wage war on carbon is not science but theology—a death cult that confuses the rooster for the sunrise.
Robin Williams once made us laugh about jungles hot enough to fry monks in their robes. Today, the same weather is repackaged as apocalypse. Temperature isn’t a divine decree—it’s a negotiation, massaged into “records” by those with careers to protect. If we’ve lost our ability to laugh at this theater, we’re already cooked.