WASHINGTON – Gather ‘round, you filthy little voyeurs, because the shitshow’s in full swing. Volodymyr Zelensky, Ukraine’s war-torn poster boy, just got bounced from the White House like a drunk at last call, and now he’s backpedalling so fast you can smell the burnt rubber. Days after a screaming match with Donald Trump and his VP lapdog JD Vance—caught live on camera like some reality TV meltdown—Zelensky’s out there on social media, kissing America’s ass and begging to sign a deal to hand over Ukraine’s mineral goodies. “Any time, any format,” he says, like a desperate street hustler waving a “Will Fight for Food” sign. Pathetic.
This was supposed to be Zelensky’s big Washington moment: ink a deal, shake hands, and sell Ukraine’s lithium, gas, and whatever else is buried under that bombed-out hellscape to Uncle Sam for a lifeline. Instead, it turned into a cage match. Trump, orange as a traffic cone and twice as loud, got in Zelensky’s face about aid money—screaming about $300 billion, $350 billion, whatever number he pulled out of his gilded ass that day. Zelensky, all scrappy and indignant, yelled back. Vance just stood there smirking like a guy who knows he’s next in line to lick the boots. The cameras ate it up, the deal got shelved, and Zelensky got told to hit the road.
Cue the fallout: Trump, still fuming, yanks all military aid to Ukraine—tanks, bullets, the works—leaving Zelensky dangling like a piñata over a Russian firing range. Hours later, there’s Zelensky, posting some long-winded X screed about “gratitude” for America’s “support,” practically groveling to get back in the game. Trump, strutting before Congress like a peacock on Adderall, says he “appreciates” the suck-up note, but the deal? Still floating in limbo, terms shifting like sand in a storm.
What’s in this deal? Depends who you ask, because it’s a goddamn mess. Ukrainian leaks say it’s an “investment fund” for rebuilding—Kyiv and DC splitting the pie “equally,” with Ukraine coughing up 50% of its future mineral cash. The US promises a “long-term financial commitment” to keep Ukraine from turning into a smoking crater, and they’ll own as much of the fund as their laws allow. Sounds nice, right? Except Trump started this dance demanding $500 billion in mineral wealth—half a trillion!—like he’s looting a corpse. Zelensky said no, and good for him, because that was a sovereignty gut-punch. Now it’s down to something saner—co-ownership, no clawbacks on past aid—but it’s still a fire sale on Ukraine’s future.
Trump’s out there claiming America’s shelled out $350 billion to Ukraine, bellowing he wants it “back” like some loan shark breaking kneecaps. Reality check: the Kiel Institute pegs it at $119 billion. Math’s never been his strong suit—too busy counting gold toilets. Meanwhile, Zelensky’s begging for a security guarantee, something solid to keep Putin’s tanks at bay. Trump’s response? Toss some US contractors over there like human shields and tell Europe to handle the rest. “Fight on,” he says, dangling minerals like a carrot on a stick. What a guy.
The rift? Oh, it’s a canyon now. Zelensky’s crew calls the original deal “exploitative”—Tymofiy Mylovanov, some ex-minister egghead, told the BBC it’d bankrupt Ukraine. Trump’s pissed because he sees Ukraine as a slot machine that won’t pay out. And Vance? He’s just along for the ride, nodding like a bobblehead while Trump rants about “ingrates.” This whole thing started with Zelensky pitching minerals last year as a bribe to keep the US interested—smart, desperate, whatever. Now it’s a slow-motion car crash, and everyone’s covered in blood.
So where’s this going? Fuck if I know. The deal’s a ghost—unsigned, unformed, a bargaining chip in a pissing contest between a warlord and a conman. Ukraine’s bleeding out, Russia’s laughing, and America’s playing hardball with a country that’s already on its knees. Zelensky’s ready to sign anything, Trump’s ready to squeeze anything, and the rest of us are just watching the vultures circle. It’s a beautiful, disgusting mess—capitalism and war in a blender, served raw.
Spider Thompson, out—because someone’s got to call this shit what it is.
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