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.
Numbers have become the new gospel. They no longer reveal truth but sanctify deception. Cooked data, cherry-picked consensus, and anonymous peer review now serve where priests once stood. We built an altar of spreadsheets and called it science. And still, beneath the glow of our charts, the truth quietly waits for its debt to be paid.
The IMF’s “fossil fuel subsidies” aren’t money—they’re morality dressed as math. By assigning imaginary prices to air, weather, and guilt, the Fund conjures five trillion dollars from thin air. It’s bureaucratic theater masquerading as economics, a sermon for the carbon-averse faithful. Meanwhile, civilization still runs—sinfully—on the fuel they condemn.