Big Fat Bull

Once upon a budget, there lived a big fat bull. Its horns were polished with democracy, its belly stuffed with dollars it didn’t have, and its tail wagged over aircraft carriers. Every morning, the bull woke up, flexed its military muscles, and borrowed a few more trillions to keep the treadmill running.

Thirty-seven trillion dollars later, the bull’s back is heavy. But it still chews on loans like cud. The farmers keep feeding it hay made of health insurance premiums, student loans, and higher taxes. The bull promises them strength, safety, and prosperity, then eats their savings to fuel another parade of tanks.

Meanwhile, far across the pasture, smaller animals whisper. The dragon smirks, the bear stretches, and the eagle looks tired. Once the bull charged across the world, telling others how to graze properly. Now it huffs, puffs, and prints money to pay for the grass it already ate.

The lenders, clever foxes from everywhere, pat its side kindly. “Take your time, Big Bull,” they say, counting interest behind their backs. And the bull nods proudly, not noticing that its rope gets tighter each year. Even allies now look at it like a tired circus act, still loud, still proud, but wobbling on one hoof.

Inside its barn, the bull’s family argues. “We need better healthcare,” one says. “No, more jets,” another replies. The bull sighs, licks the ink off another treasury bond, and goes back to grazing debt papers that taste of promises and inflation.

Outside, the world watches. Once they danced to its tune; now they trade quietly in other currencies. The bull still calls itself the leader of the herd, but leadership costs money, and the bill is past due.

And somewhere deep inside its big, proud heart, the bull knows: even giants fall when their hooves are made of credit.