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The internet did what it does best: panic first, think later.
The emotional whiplash was real. Hope for some. Fear for others. Shock for everyone.
And the entire global meltdown collapsed into the dumbest anticlimax imaginable.
No emergency broadcasts.
No funeral processions.
No national mourning.
No generals crying on television.
No historic announcements.
The full headline read:
That’s it.
That was the apocalypse.
The world didn’t almost end. A mustache did.
It was clickbait of legendary cruelty. The kind of headline engineered not to inform, but to hijack the nervous system. Designed to let the reader’s imagination do the worst possible work before revealing the most boring reality.
Collective panic → global confusion → mass disappointment → universal rage-laughter.
Because that mustache wasn’t just facial hair. It was branding. It was identity. It was political theater. It was part of the visual mythology built around power. Seeing him without it felt wrong in a way that was hard to explain—like seeing a cartoon character without their defining feature. Familiar, but unsettling.
He looked like a tired middle manager who missed a car payment.
The memes exploded instantly.
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