Policrook

Metal Doesn't Blush. Stone
Doesn't Snitch.

In the dismal underbelly of political maneuvering, the only true monument you’ll encounter is one of self-adulation — towering structures built not from the strength of civic virtue but from the brittle bones of lies.
Welcome to the nauseating world where statues serve a dual purpose: they are both a celebratory accolade for the political elite and a calculative distraction from their many transgressions.
Here, accountability is a ship that's launched to sea but never returns, leaving before the storm of public scrutiny engulfs the treasury.
Picture this: you, the prospective tyrant, have your blueprint ready for a colossal ego-laden monument.
The dim lights of accountability flicker behind you, but you stand grand and polished in a future constructed of cold, unfeeling granite.
It’s bafflingly simple — recruit a sculptor whose hands are as adept at manipulation as they are at chiseling stone.
“Make me majestic,” you instruct, “an immortal figure whose very presence screams benevolence while whispering, ‘do not inquire too deeply into my financials.’” The sharper the jawline, the more it pierces through the smoke of your misdeeds, while your stone-clad smile masks a cavern of corruption.
After all, nothing reframes public perception quite like the granite grin of a tyrant.
And once your statue is up, the art of political gaslighting begins.
Command your chosen public relations guru to stage photo ops that frame you as a modern-day savior.
"Look!" you'll proclaim, flanked by smiling children and fake construction props — hard hats glimmering like the phony promises piled underfoot.
These are not just snapshots; they’re your political insurance policy against accountability.
For who would dare challenge a “hero” captured in a searing moment of seemingly noble service?
Each photo is a promise of warmth that does little to mask the chill of betrayal waiting in the system’s dark shadows.
As you script your dedication, hire a speechwriter who can transform your hollow platitudes into lyrical, tear-jerking oratories.
Let the façade of care roll off your tongue with the elegance of a love letter.
“Tonight, we celebrate progress,” you declare, ensuring taxpayer money funds the very yogic exercise of patting yourself on the back.
When your legacy inevitably starts to crumble, the media won’t pry too hard; after all, you’ve built a shrine to your own supposed integrity that blocks out the relentless rays of scrutiny.
“He can’t be that terrible!” they’ll exclaim, digging once again into a well of self-generated good will.
Just like that, your hollow empire glimmers beneath the spotlight of history, while the facts corrode quietly in its shadow.
In this grotesque game, loyalty is shackled not to the electorate but to immovable stone.
Glorifying yourself with monstrous effigies is far safer than placing trust in voters whose memories fade quicker than a news cycle.
Statues, you see, stand tall and unblinking as the winds of change and accountability howl around them.
Idealism is allowed to fester behind those columns of arrogance while the victims of your betrayal stare up, mesmerized by the grandiosity of your self-deification.
The final scorecard is simple: every statue erected becomes a shield against the swirls of scandal.
Politicians become immortalized while the truths of their failures fade, locked away behind unyielding stone.
It's a classic bait-and-switch, an optical illusion where marble and bronze transform hollow claims into public trust, distracting the naïve citizenry from the treachery looming beneath the surface.
Voter, hear this loud and clear: the lesson for you is simple but grim.
By the time your chosen leader is safely ensconced in the halls of power, they'll be planting monuments to their own deceit faster than they can paint over their failures.
You must stay vigilant, realize that not all who wear the garb of service embody integrity, and remember: behind every statue, there are countless buried truths that refuse to rise again.
Open your eyes — recognize the dark humor in their grandeur and question every chiseled smile that seems too good to be true, lest you find yourself dancing in their shadow, obliviously applauding your own exploitation.