The Toddler King of New YorkBy

By Spyridon Andrews

It’s not often that a gift from the opposition party arrives wrapped in the form of a young, breathtakingly arrogant, and hopelessly superficial leader like Zorhan Mamdami. Raised in absurd wealth and privilege by two leftist parents, his family is the perfect model of the modern American liberal: over-educated, insulated, and proudly indoctrinated.

The western liberal’s chief characteristic is a shallow guilt unaccompanied by any desire to roll up their sleeves and do something useful. Instead, they broadcast their performative opinions as both substitute and absolution for inaction. It could come in the form of attending a protest, or a lawn sign, a bumper sticker. But, more often than not, it consists merely in watching the correct news channels, reading the correct newspapers, and shutting out any possibility of reading or hearing anything that threatens their self-proclaimed virtue.

New York is crawling with such people—as is London, Paris, and every major city that still has a working espresso machine. David Brooks once lampooned them as the bourgeois bohemians—before joining them for what appears to be a prolonged brunch. Tom Wolfe skewered them with surgical precision in The Bonfire of the Vanities. But it was Dostoyevsky, that eternal prophet of the soul’s collapse, who first saw what happens when a society’s pampered “liberals” raise a generation of nihilistic toddlers. In The Possessed, he showed how their vanity and godlessness bred monsters capable of any atrocity without a hint of conscience. Such people are not prosperous because they are liberal. They are liberal because they are prosperous—and their infantile ideology serves as a moral tax shelter.

Of course, it costs nothing to be liberal. No sacrifice, no self-discipline, no courage required. Just say the correct thing loudly enough and you’re in the club. But children raised on fantasies eventually try to live them. At the conclusion of The Possessed, Stepan Trofimovich, a lovable liberal pseudo-intellectual wanders, off into the Russian countryside delirious and muttering incoherently. His life’s ideals, once dressed up as humanism, have degenerated into violence and revolutionary terror. His son’s atheism and arrogance are merely the product of the father’s vanity, stripped of manners.

Che Guevara—the patron saint of self-righteous toddlers—was another spoiled child of Marxist delusion. As Castro’s executioner, he supervised hundreds of killings without trial. “Judicial proof is unnecessary,” he wrote, “to send men to the firing squad.” And indeed, when the ideology becomes the god, the corpse becomes the sacrament. But it sure sells a lot of tee-shirts.History repeats the pattern: behind every socialist revolution stands an intellectual with a toddler’s temperament.

From Lenin to Mao, from Berlin to Havana, the world’s greatest atrocities have been committed in the name of “a great cause.” Leftist intellectuals condemn the Fourth Crusade while excusing the hundreds of millions killed by socialist regimes. My university classroom was an incubator of such spoiled brats—nursed on the mother’s milk of Lukács, Foucault, and Marx, the new trinity of infallibility—prophets of humanity’s oldest lie: that we can become gods by destroying everyone who disagrees.

And so we have bred a generation of destructive, hysterical children—ignorant of history, drunk on self-righteousness, and ready to kill for “justice.” The battle within the Democratic Party is not a family squabble; it’s a reboot of the Russian Revolution. As Dostoyevsky foresaw, this brain-dead generation is the spawn of yesterday’s vain liberals—people who traded truth for fashion and decency for being “cool.”

Following Freud and Comte, they built entire sciences devoted to making sin sound therapeutic. Betrayal became “liberation.” Infanticide became “choice.” Evil was exiled and crime became the result of “inequality.” Right and wrong became “passe”, outmoded, antique concepts. Even excellence became oppressive, math became racist, grammar patriarchal, beauty something to apologize for.

And now comes Andrew Cuomo, the patron saint of smug New York liberalism, who is dismayed to find his political heirs want to abolish police, confiscate property, and globalize the intifada. Mamdami was not only predictable, he is the obvious product of cause and effect. Mamdami, the King Toddler of New York, is what comes from decades of experimenting with poison in the leftist laboratory. Drunk on his power, coddled with compliments by his fawning parents who complimented him on his “un-Americanism”, Mamdami is like a toddler who flips the board game over when he loses. He is not qualified to do literally anything other than destroy New York City with his petulant and tyrannical whims. When losing earns trophies, corruption is excused, murder is cheered, and adultery earns book deals, what kind of children do you think would be the result?

But all is not lost. The election of this insipid, annoying and dangerous brat in New York City might finally collapse a party that forgot who it was. Born as the party of the working man, it’s become a cult of elitist knuckleheads, billionaire moralists, and well-intentioned idiots. And in another positive sign, millions of young people are now rebelling, and rightly so, at the ruin left by their moral elders. The moral vacuum left by my generation of boomers, is at the root cause of the massive deficit, persistent financial crimes, rotting cities, destruction of small towns, desecration of our food supply, and collapsing families. Handed a world that had defeated fascism by a generation that sacrificed so much, we have left behind a heaping trash bin of a society that looks and smells like the feces left behind after the three-day abomination at Woodstock.

So, to hear Democrats like Cuomo or Van Jones now express “shock” at Mamdami’s racism is pure Dostoyevskian comedy. This is the denial phase—the moment before Stepan Trofimovich wanders into the snow, muttering that it was all for nothing.

Mamdami, even more dangerous than the average liberal, is like a diaper clad infant playing with matches and kerosene. Flanked by a dim former bartender playing communist and a burnt-out old commie who long ago sold his soul for his third vacation home, he is the perfect product of modern liberalism: rich, dumb, and certain.

If there is mercy in heaven, hardened leftists will soon splinter into their own cult of crackpots, while the rest of the party may rediscover the working class—and maybe even remember where they left their Bibles.

And if not, a weary generation of younger Americans—tired of being lectured by self-loving fools—will likely do what sensible people eventually do with the older generation. They’ll put the old ideologues gently where they belong: in the Memory Care wing of History.