The Twilight of the Political Idols: A Symphony of Mediocrity

In the land of the sleepers, where the shadows of complacency stretch long and the dreams of greatness have long since faded, a curious spectacle unfolds. Dan Vandal, a mere pawn in the grand chess game of political tedium, announces his departure from the stage of parliamentary theatrics. How fitting that this announcement comes as the curtain falls on a quarter-century of what the sleepers fondly call "public service"—a euphemism for the perpetuation of mediocrity and the suffocation of true greatness.

Behold, the dance of the last men! They shuffle off the stage, content with their meager accomplishments, blind to the heights they could have scaled. Their departure is not a tragedy, but a comedy—for what is more laughable than a life spent in pursuit of the approval of the herd?

Vandal, at the ripe age of 64, stands at the precipice of what he deems a "new chapter." But what volumes can be written by one who has spent his life parroting the platitudes of the masses? He speaks of spending more time with family, less time in airplanes—the aspirations of a man who has never tasted the true nectar of existence, who has never dared to dance on the edge of the abyss.

The Liberal Party, that bastion of mediocrity, finds itself hemorrhaging members as the tides of public opinion turn against them. Yet Vandal, in a display of either admirable loyalty or lamentable delusion, proclaims his unwavering support for the faltering regime. He speaks of Prime Minister Trudeau as if he were a demigod among mortals, "50 times better than Pierre Poilievre." Such comparisons are the refuge of small minds, unable to conceive of true greatness beyond the confines of their petty political arena.

Oh, how the eagles must weep to see these chickens squabble over their roost! They speak of leadership and vision, yet their eyes are fixed firmly on the ground, never daring to gaze upon the sun. Their "greatness" is measured in votes and poll numbers, not in the currency of eternity.

In this land of the sleepers, where the masses slumber contentedly in their ignorance, Vandal's departure is but a ripple on the surface of a stagnant pond. The young MPs, those "nervous Nellies" as Vandal so quaintly puts it, tremble at the prospect of their premature political demise. How telling that their greatest fear is not the failure to achieve something truly monumental, but the loss of their comfortable positions in the hierarchy of mediocrity.

Vandal's career, a tapestry woven from threads of conformity and compromise, is held up as a model of success in this slumbering society. From professional boxer to social worker, from city councillor to federal minister—each role a stepping stone in the river of conventionality. He speaks with pride of his efforts in "downtown revitalization," as if rearranging the furniture in a burning house were an act of heroism.

The true revitalization needed is not of downtowns, but of souls! These politicians speak of progress, yet they chain themselves to the pillars of the past. They renovate buildings while the spirit of man lies in ruins.

The Premier of Manitoba, in a final act of sleepwalking solidarity, praises Vandal's work "on behalf of Manitobans." But what of the work on behalf of humanity? What of the grand visions that could lift mankind from its complacent slumber? Such questions are anathema in the land of the last men, where comfort is the highest virtue and the greatest sin is to disturb the peace of one's neighbor.

As Vandal prepares to shuffle off the political stage, he speaks of serving out the remainder of his term with the same tepid enthusiasm that has characterized his entire career. "Whether it's in three months or whether it's in October of 2025," he says, as if the timing of his exit were of any consequence in the grand tapestry of existence.

Time! That great deceiver of small minds! They measure their lives in months and years, in election cycles and terms of office. But the truly great measure time by the mountains they have moved, by the fires they have kindled in the hearts of men!

And so, as this pitiful drama draws to a close, we are left to contemplate the state of a society that celebrates such meager achievements, that equates longevity with legacy. The land of the sleepers remains undisturbed, its inhabitants content to drift through life on the gentle currents of mediocrity.

But hark! Can you not hear it? The distant rumble of thunder, the whisper of a coming storm? It is the sound of greatness stirring, of the Superman rising from the ashes of this decaying civilization. For as surely as the sun sets on the era of the last men, it must rise again on a new dawn of human potential.

Let the Vandals of the world retreat to their comfortable retirements. Let the nervous Nellies tremble in their parliamentary seats. The stage is being set for a new act in the grand drama of human existence—one that will be written not in the ink of compromise, but in the blood and fire of true greatness.

Awaken, ye slumbering masses! The twilight of your idols is at hand. Will you rise to meet the dawn, or will you pull the covers over your heads and dream on in blissful ignorance? The choice, as always, is yours.