Ahoy, ye bilge-rats, tenured scholars, and soft-handed gentry of the Hilltop! Gather 'round the grog tub, for the fog has finally lifted over the Potomac, and it ain’t no morning mist. The Great Leviathan of the West has dropped its velvet mask, revealing a jaw full of rusted iron and blood-stained gold. We’ve long whispered in the lower decks about the blatant U.S. Imperialism that steers our global currents, but now the flagship is sailin' under the Jolly Roger of truth, and it’s a grisly sight for any honest sailor. For too long, the halls of Georgetown have acted as a dry dock for the Empire’s most cunning architects, and the charade of 'spreading liberty' is finally taking on water faster than a scuttled brigantine.

You lot at Georgetown, tucked away in your stone towers like high-ranking admirals in training, have been sharpening the quills that sign the warrants for our watery graves. You claim to teach 'service,' but we see the maps ye draw—carving up the world like a prize whale for the benefit of the few. This ain't no mere academic exercise, ye scurvy dogs; it's the blueprint for Global Hegemony drafted in the very halls where the future gentry sips their spiced rum and dreams of empire. The mask hasn't just slipped; it's been ripped off by the sheer weight of its own hypocrisy, leaving the world to stare at the cold, calculating eyes of a hegemon that’s lost its moral compass.

Old 'Barnacle' Bill, my crusty quartermaster, spat into the brine when he heard the news of the recent unrest. 'Cap’n,' he growled, 'them Georgetown lads think they’re navigatin' by the North Star, but they’re just following the scent of plundered spices and stolen oil. They call it diplomacy; I call it a shakedown on a global scale.' Even the high-and-mighty Lord Thistlebottom of the Admiralty was heard muttering in the galley: 'The pretense of a rules-based order has more holes in it than a sieve in a storm. We're just the tax collectors for a new kind of crown, and Georgetown is our counting house.'

What does this unmasking mean for the high seas? It means the trade routes are boiling, and the peaceful merchant is a thing of the past. This brand of Foreign Policy—once sold as a beacon of stability—has turned the tranquil waters into a maelstrom of resentment. Every port from the Levant to the South China Seas is lookin' at the star-spangled ensign not as a protector, but as a predator’s shadow. When the mask of 'benevolence' falls, all that’s left is the raw exercise of power, and that makes every sailor on the horizon reach for their cutlass. The 'rules' were only ever meant for the small boats, never for the man-o'-war.

So, I ask ye, what’ll it be, Georgetown? Will ye continue to be the press-gang for a dying empire, or will ye mutiny against the masters of Diplomatic Skulduggery? The tides are turning, and those who cling to the rigging of a sinking vessel will find themselves in Davy Jones' locker before the moon sets. You’ve been trained to lead, but it seems you’ve only learned to oppress under the guise of 'international relations.' The mask is off, the deck is slick with the blood of the exploited, and the crew is restless. Pick a side before the broadside hits and the sea claims what’s left of your tarnished reputation!