The Sexual Matador - Breakfast with the Enemy

He is, then, the "sexual matador," tearing open the curtains in the morning as if the world were moments away from a bullfight rather than the morning commute. She smiles, her voice sultry, as if she had just been cast in the role of honorary matadora: admiration, erotic lemon juice, and the whole misery of political pose served on platinum. Imagine the morning ritual: no coffee, no cereal, but a speech - a few poisonous phrases, a barrage of chauvinistic rhetoric, carefully polished like the knife blades in a slaughterhouse. "Good morning, darling - I will defeat the Left." Not: I will clean up, I will lead reforms, I will solve problems. No, "defeat" - as if politics were a boxing match, a wrestling event where arguments are superfluous and the audience applauds while counting the wounded.

Watters: You are married to Stephen Miller. You are the envy of all women

Miller: The sexual matador, right? … He is an incredibly inspiring man who gets me going in the morning with his speeches being like let's start the day, I'm going to defeat the Left.

The image is absurd and at the same time revealing: the political husband as stage set, the wife as opening-night critic who blesses the drama with a stern mien. Here love is a choreography of triumph gestures and enemy images; intimacy a press conference with a blown kiss. The private sphere becomes the political PR department, the marital union a continuous infomercial for rage and backwardness.

And while she smirks and awards him the role of "sexual matador," you can hear in the background the clatter of the propaganda machines: accounts, memes, circles of like-minded people who applaud when a man divides the world into enemies. The matador does not only stab bulls, he stabs into the shared linguistic field, into normality, into the way people speak to each other. His speeches are not persuasion, they are wake-up calls for those who love the blow of simplification. Satire has the freedom to play with excess - and here the excess is homegrown. The staging works because it disguises itself as authenticity: pathos sells itself as sincerity, embitterment as principle. The threat tableau, the enemy image - all of it becomes the erotic component of a political brand. You do not buy politics, you buy identity, you buy the promise that someone else will "defeat" the world so you can open the curtains undisturbed in the morning.

In the end the question remains: who cries quietly behind the curtains when the curtain falls? Who counts the shards behind the pose? Satire may laugh, but it should also present the bill: those who mount the stage morning after morning do it not only for themselves. They play with the fire of society - and in the end those who stand closest get burned.