The Great Housing Deception: A Dance of Shadows and Mediocrity

In the land of eternal winter, where the masses slumber beneath blankets of comfortable ignorance, a new spectacle unfolds - one that perfectly exemplifies the descent into the tepid waters of mediocrity. Pierre Poilievre, that self-proclaimed shepherd of the common folk, has emerged from the political mist with promises that glitter like fool's gold in the dim light of modern democracy.

Behold how they gather around their shepherd, these dwellers of the marketplace! How they celebrate the promise of saving mere copper coins while their spirits remain imprisoned in boxes of wood and concrete! O, how the Superman gazes down upon this spectacle with both mirth and melancholy!

The Conservative leader, adorned in the garments of false prophecy, declares his intent to eliminate the GST on new homes valued under one million Canadian dollars - a figure that would have made even Zarathustra's mountain-dwelling eagle screech in derision. They speak of savings - forty thousand pieces of silver for those who would purchase their cages for eight hundred thousand! Such is the arithmetic of the sleepers, who count their coins while their souls gather dust.

In this grand theater of the absurd, we witness the dance of competing shepherds. The Liberals, not to be outdone in their pursuit of the herd's affection, had already cast their nets with promises of tax relief on rental dwellings. Like merchants haggling in the marketplace, they barter with the dreams of the multitude, offering discounts on the very chains that bind them.

See how they compete to offer comfort! These politicians, these last men who blink and say: "We have invented happiness." Yet what is this happiness but a smaller tax on larger bondage? The Superman sees through these veils of deception!

The promise of thirty thousand additional dwellings each year rings hollow in the ears of those who have learned to hear beyond the clamor of the marketplace. These are not homes for the free spirits, but rather standardized units designed to house standardized thoughts, standardized dreams, and standardized lives.

The sleepers celebrate these announcements with drowsy enthusiasm, failing to perceive that their very celebration is a testament to their submission to the small pleasure principle. They seek not the heights of human potential but rather the security of slightly reduced payments on their mortgaged existence.

What matters a few thousand dollars to those who should be building monuments to the future? Yet here they are, these last men, counting pennies while the stars beckon!

In this grand parade of political promises, we witness the perfect manifestation of the age of diminished aspirations. The Conservative leader, much like his Liberal counterparts, offers not liberation but a discount on captivity. They compete not to elevate the human spirit but to make its cage more affordable.

The masses, those eternal dwellers in the land of the sleepers, receive these tidings with the enthusiasm of sheep being offered a slightly larger pasture. They calculate their potential savings with the precision of accountants while remaining blind to the cost to their spirits - the true price of their comfortable servitude.

O, ye who would be builders of the future! How long will you continue to measure your freedom in tax percentages and your aspirations in square footage?

And so the great wheel of political theater continues to turn, each revolution bringing new promises of small comforts and modest savings. The Conservative leader stands proudly before his podium in Ottawa, proclaiming victory while selling defeat, offering freedom while peddling conformity.

Let those with ears to hear understand: This is not the path to human greatness. This is the road of the last men, paved with small ambitions and marked by signposts of mediocrity. The true cost of these housing initiatives cannot be measured in dollars saved but in spirits diminished, in dreams deferred, in greatness abandoned.

The time will come when man must plant the seed of his highest hope. The soil remains bitter, but the gardener must persist. Let those who would build the future understand: Your home is not your prison unless you make it so!

Thus we witness another chapter in the continuing saga of the last men, who believe that happiness can be calculated in tax savings and freedom measured in square feet. But for those who dare to dream beyond the confines of these comfortable prisons, for those who hear the distant call of greatness, these political promises ring as hollow as the hearts of those who make them.