The Fall and Fall of Ukraine: A Romp Through the Lies We Tell Ourselves

Sure, Putin’s Russia is a thug state with all the finesse of a sledgehammer, but the world’s full of bad guys. Everyone’s someone’s villain—hell, my ex-wife probably still thinks I’m the Antichrist in corduroy. Point is, I’m not here to play morality cop or wave a flag. I’m here to poke around the wreckage of this Siberia West and the fairy tales we’ve spun about it, because the truth doesn’t care about your feelings—or mine.

Kyiv Calling: The Dream That Wasn’t

Let’s rewind to 2019, when Volodymyr Zelensky strutted onto the stage like a sitcom star who’d accidentally wandered into a war movie. A comedian turned president, he was Ukraine’s answer to Ronald Reagan with better hair and worse writers. The West swooned. Here was our guy—a fresh-faced reformer ready to drain the swamp of corruption and stick it to Putin’s goons. Never mind that Ukraine’s been a kleptocrat’s playground since the Soviet Union keeled over, or that Zelensky’s own backstory included cozying up to oligarchs like Ihor Kolomoisky, a guy who makes Gordon Gekko look like a philanthropist. We saw what we wanted: a David to Putin’s Goliath, a shiny symbol of democracy in a muddy corner of Eastern Europe.

Fast forward to 2025, and the shine’s worn off like cheap chrome on a bumper. Zelensky’s still got the charisma—those pleading green eyes could guilt-trip a statue into donating—but the reformer gig? It’s a punchline. Corruption’s not just a problem in Ukraine; it’s the national pastime. Defense ministers get sacked for skimming contracts, aides get caught with their hands in the till, and the army’s buying overpriced eggs while soldiers dodge bullets in Donetsk. Meanwhile, the West keeps clapping like trained seals, tossing billions in aid and pretending it’s all going to “freedom” instead of some apparatchik’s offshore account in Cyprus.

I’d laugh, but I’ve seen this movie before—different accents, same plot. Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq: we love picking a “good guy” to prop up, then act shocked when the scaffolding collapses. Ukraine’s not a plucky little democracy fighting the good fight; it’s a fractured, graft-ridden mess that’s been limping along for decades. And Zelensky? He’s less a savior than a guy trying to herd cats while the barn’s on fire—and half the cats are stealing the gasoline.

Press Gangs and Cannon Fodder: The Real Ukrainian Hustle

Now, let’s talk about the videos. You’ve seen ‘em—grainy clips bouncing around X like a bad rash, showing Ukrainian press gangs snatching guys off the streets like they’re auditioning for a dystopian remake of The Godfather. One minute you’re sipping borscht at a café, the next you’re in a van headed for the front lines, handed a rifle older than your grandpa, and told to aim east. It’s not conscription; it’s a kidnapping with extra steps. And the West? Crickets. We’re too busy polishing Zelensky’s halo to notice the cannon fodder assembly line.

I’d call it tragic if it weren’t so absurd. Picture this: a skinny kid in Lviv, maybe 19, dodging recruiters like he’s in a Ukrainian Frogger. He’s not a coward—he just doesn’t want to die in a trench because some bureaucrat lost the war budget on a yacht.

Meanwhile, Zelensky’s on TV, all furrowed brows and noble platitudes, begging NATO for more toys while his goons play whack-a-mole with the male population. The press gangs are real, folks—I’ve scrolled enough X posts to know they’re not CGI. And they’re a symptom of a war machine that’s running on fumes, desperation, and duct tape.

But don’t tell that to the CNN crowd or the EU suits in Brussels. They’ve got their narrative locked and loaded: Ukraine’s the little engine that could, chugging toward victory if we just believe hard enough. Never mind the body count, the emptied villages, or the fact that Ukraine’s bleeding men faster than a hemophiliac in a knife fight. We’ve convinced ourselves this is a noble crusade, not a meat grinder with a flag on it. And those videos? Just Russian propaganda, right? Except they’re not—they’re the ugly truth we’d rather scroll past.

A Romp Through the Rubble

So here I am, imaginary boots on the ground, kicking through the rubble of Ukraine’s grand experiment. I see a country that’s half war zone, half hustle, where the line between hero and hustler’s blurrier than a drunk’s vision at last call. Zelensky’s still got the mic, crooning about victory, but the audience is thinning—both at home and abroad. The West’s still clapping, but it’s a slow clap now, the kind you give a kid who tried real hard and still struck out.

And those press gangs? They’re the punchline to a joke nobody wants to hear. Ukraine’s not just fighting Russia—it’s fighting itself, its past, its habits. The videos show a war effort that’s less “band of brothers” and more “Lord of the Flies,” with conscripts as the pig on the spit. It’s grim, it’s ugly, and it’s real. I’d toast to their resilience, but my glass is empty—probably stolen by some deputy minister’s cousin.

In the end, Ukraine’s fall isn’t just about Putin’s tanks or Zelensky’s fumbles. It’s about us—our need to see the world in black and white, to pick a side and ignore the gray. Russia’s a bad guy, sure, but so’s half the planet. I’m not here to judge—I’m here to laugh, wince, and write it down. Ukraine’s a mess, and so are we for pretending otherwise. Pass the vodka, comrades. We’re gonna need it.

P.J. O’Rourke is a war correspondent for the morally exhausted, a libertarian with a passport and liver damage, and the only man to cover geopolitics using bar tabs and body counts as metrics. His forthcoming book, Kleptocrats, Kalashnikovs, and the Ketchup Packet Economy: Dispatches from the Collapse, includes a field guide to surviving proxy wars with only a sense of humour and an expired visa.

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