The end of the petrodollar is therapeutic. Thank you Iran. And fuck the Gulf monarchies. Yes, I said it and I mean every filthy syllable. Here we are at last, watching the great bloated dollar empire that has sucked the world dry for decades finally getting a knife in its soft underbelly. Iran, that stubborn old revolutionary of a nation, has turned the Strait of Hormuz into its own private tollbooth. Pay up in Chinese yuan or some greasy crypto, hand over the secret passcode, and maybe the IRGC will escort your fat oil tanker through without turning it into a bonfire. Up to two million dollars a pop for the lucky ones from friendly ports. The rest can rot or reroute and choke on the detour. It is beautiful. It is raw. It is the universe finally clearing its throat after years of choking on American financial hegemony. The petrodollar, that sacred unholy covenant born in the desert deals of the seventies, the one that let the Saudis and their glittering neighbors sit on their golden thrones while the rest of us bowed to the greenback. Oil for dollars. Dollars for everything. Endless printing, endless wars, endless tribute from every corner of the planet. Therapeutic to see it crack. Therapeutic to watch the arteries of global energy start flowing in yuan instead of obedient green. And the Gulf monarchies? Those perfumed parasites in their marble palaces, those smiling eunuchs who sold their souls and their sand for American protection and petrodollar privileges. Fuck them sideways with a rusty scimitar. They built their skyscrapers and their ski slopes in the desert on the back of this dollar racket, licking boots in Washington while pretending to be holy warriors. Now Iran, half-smashed by sanctions and bombs, still finds a way to flip the script and charge rent on the world's most vital chokepoint. Twenty percent of global oil and gas, funneled through Iranian waters under Iranian rules. The monarchs must be shitting diamonds right now. Their whole cushy arrangement is slipping away while they clutch their Rolexes and pray for the old order to return. This is not some polite policy shift. This is life itself reasserting its chaotic, vulgar truth. Empires do not fall with dignified speeches. They fall when some tough son of soil in the desert says enough and starts collecting tolls in somebody else's currency. The dollar is not dead yet, but it is bleeding. And the sight of it hemorrhaging feels like a long, hot bath after years of spiritual constipation. Thank you, Iran. You magnificent, stubborn prick. Keep squeezing. The world has needed this enema for a long time.

The old man stood on the metalworkers’ steps in São Bernardo. The crowd pressed close. Red flags moved in the wind. He spoke without notes. “They want to stop us because we would not kneel. We spoke with the Chinese and the Africans and the Russians. We said the world was bigger than one power. We lifted the poor from hunger. That was our crime.” The people shouted his name. Lula. Lula. Lula. He looked at them a long time. “I will not run. I will not hide. If they come for me they come for all of you who still believe a worker can lead a nation.” Then he walked down the steps. The federal police waited beyond the gate. Black cars. Men in dark suits. The crowd surged and the police held the line. Lula raised one hand. The people parted. He walked through them. Hands touched his shoulders. Voices called out. He did not look back. At the car he stopped. A young officer opened the door. Lula turned once to the mass of faces and the flags and the late afternoon light on the rooftops. “Keep walking,” he said. They put him in the car. The door closed. The engine started. The convoy moved away through the streets of São Bernardo toward Curitiba. Behind them the crowd stayed in the square long after the sun went down. No one left. The wind took the flags and the flags kept moving.

Yes. I am sitting here with tears running down my face, and I do not even try to stop them. Tonight Brazil chose hope again. Tonight an 80-year-old man who has been counted out more times than anyone can remember stood up one more time and won. I feel the weight of every struggle, every doubt, every moment we thought it was over. And still, the people spoke. This is more than an election. This is the quiet, stubborn belief that tomorrow can still be better than today. My heart is full. My eyes are wet. And for the first time in a long while, I feel like breathing comes a little easier. Thank you, Brazil. Thank you, Lula. We are still here.

Like dawn over the Amazon, steady as the people’s pulse, bold as the future’s call. Lula must win.

میں اسوقت صرف سکرولنگ برازیل کے Lula کی جیت کے لئے کر رہی ہوں ۔۔ میرا سکرین ٹائم کب کا کا expire ہوچکا اور میرا فون مجھے بار بار یاد دلا رہا کہ سکرولنگ مت کرو ۔۔

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Lula Secures a Resounding Victory Among Brazilians in Germany In the decisive second round of Brazil’s 2026 presidential election, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva claimed a commanding 79.09 percent of the valid votes cast by Brazilian citizens living in Germany. Out of 20,923 ballots counted across Berlin, Hamburg, Cologne, Frankfurt and Munich, Lula received 16,548 votes while Flávio Bolsonaro secured 4,375. Turnout climbed to just over 50 percent, higher than in the first round. Berlin delivered Lula’s strongest result, with nearly 89 percent support, continuing a long-standing progressive pattern among the city’s Brazilian community. Even in Frankfurt, where opposition was relatively firmer, Lula still finished well ahead. This outcome expands the margin Lula held in the first round (71.9 percent) and reaffirms Germany as one of his most solid bases among Brazilians abroad. A clear signal from the diaspora: when Brazilians in Germany vote, the left remains firmly in the lead. #Lula2026 #BrazilElections #BrazilianDiaspora #GermanyVotes