September began with a bang—and 11 bodies floating in the southern Caribbean. President Donald Trump, in a tone that straddled triumph and reality TV cliffhanger, announced that the U.S. military had “destroyed” a Venezuelan vessel, killing alleged members of Tren de Aragua. Alleged being the operative word. Alleged as in “we’ll circle back with details once the smoke clears, if ever.”
This wasn’t some quiet counter-narcotics op buried on page 12. This was broadcast like a season finale: America’s Got Missiles. The world’s most powerful military flexed its Article II “self-defense” clause against a gang headquartered in Venezuela, a group the U.S. had labeled a terrorist organization just months earlier. Then came the statutory paperwork—the War Powers Resolution report, a document that usually reads like homework no one finishes. This one framed the entire episode as self-defense. Because when you’ve got an executive branch itching to prove relevance, the Constitution’s separation of powers is just a mood board.
Vice President JD Vance, never one to miss a chance at making bloodshed sound like a TED Talk, called it “the highest and best use of our military.” America may no longer dream of going to the moon or building bullet trains, but by God, we’ll find transcendent meaning in launching missiles at a boat.
Cue Senator Rand Paul, who described this as “despicable.” For once, the man famous for filibustering bathroom breaks found his words fast. His libertarian instincts flared up at the sight of military hardware being used like a mafia hitman’s baseball bat.
And there it was: a week of uproar, constitutional scholars crawling out of the woodwork to remind us that Congress—not a single man with a flair for drama—holds the war powers. Democrats lined up for hearings, demanding receipts. International law experts raised their hands politely to say, “This is not how any of this works.”
But the story was already moving too fast for nuance. The hot take pipeline had been laid, and the takes flowed freely.
Article II as Life Hack
Trump’s defense, channeled through his War Powers memo, was simple: Article II authority. Self-defense. Translation: “I don’t need permission, I have instincts.” It’s the constitutional equivalent of checking out at a self-service kiosk—fast, convenient, and immune to oversight.
Here’s the thing: self-defense makes sense when you’re dodging a knife in a dark alley, not when you’re launching precision-guided munitions across national borders. That’s not defense, that’s offense with good PR. It’s not survival, it’s a demonstration of capacity.
But once you’ve dressed it in “self-defense,” suddenly it sounds like a posture of innocence. Who could object? It’s not war, it’s just a reflex. And once reflexes are normalized, every president gets to carry their own metaphorical concealed carry. Today it’s a Venezuelan boat; tomorrow it’s a suspicious fishing vessel from a country whose name you can’t spell without Googling.
The precedent, as experts quickly noted, is a Pandora’s box. Because once you say “we can kill cartel members anywhere, anytime, no due process required,” you’ve essentially written an open invitation for every other government to say the same. Reciprocal law is a cruel mistress. If America can do it, so can Turkey, Russia, China—hell, maybe even Luxembourg if they get bored.
JD Vance’s Eulogy for Restraint
When the Vice President calls extrajudicial killings “the highest and best use of our military,” what he’s really saying is: forget defending the homeland, forget humanitarian aid, forget disaster relief, forget stabilizing allies. The military is now an assassination service. Our drones are the Uber Eats of vengeance.
The language is chilling, but also absurd. “Highest and best use” makes it sound like military lawyers just finished a cost-benefit analysis comparing boat strikes to, say, keeping bridges from collapsing. Infrastructure repair scored poorly. Dropping bombs on suspected gang members scored like a valedictorian.
But if the military’s “highest and best use” is to execute gangsters abroad, what’s left for domestic policy? Are we outsourcing capital punishment overseas while simultaneously gutting due process at home? This isn’t just foreign policy—it’s an audition for dystopia.
Rand Paul, Reluctant Prophet
Rand Paul’s condemnation—“despicable”—is remarkable not because it’s morally pure, but because it’s politically rare. Republicans usually sprint to applaud force projection. But Paul, consistent in his cranky libertarian way, sniffed authoritarianism and recoiled.
Of course, his outrage doesn’t erase decades of Republican cheerleading for interventions everywhere else. But it does highlight the schizophrenia: one wing screams “America First,” another whispers “Don’t Tread on Me,” and both somehow find themselves tethered to missiles in the Caribbean.
Rand Paul may be a broken clock, but when even the broken clocks start yelling, you know time is out of joint.
Death Without Due Process: The American Way
The scandal here isn’t just the strike; it’s what it represents. The U.S. government just killed 11 people outside a recognized war zone. No trial, no extradition request, no evidence presented. Just a label—terrorist—and a missile.
This is the quiet normalization of extrajudicial killing. We’ve been here before: targeted drone strikes in Yemen, Somalia, Pakistan. Sometimes justified, sometimes “oops.” But now it’s moving into new terrain: gangs. Once the terrorist label sticks, you can treat a drug syndicate like al-Qaeda. And if a gang equals al-Qaeda, then any neighborhood dispute can be elevated to a matter of national survival.
Due process becomes optional. Oversight becomes a nuisance. Congress becomes a bystander. The American people become an audience applauding explosions on Twitter.
Democrats, Lawyers, and the Ghost of International Law
Democrats responded by pressing for proof. Was this attack lawful? Did the gang pose an imminent threat? Did Venezuela consent? The answer to all three, whispered in hallways, is probably no.
International law experts pointed out that this isn’t just bending rules, it’s lighting them on fire. Killing people outside a declared conflict erodes the very fabric of sovereignty. It tells other countries, “your borders are optional.” It tells allies, “your approval isn’t required.” It tells enemies, “your people are targets if we decide they are.”
And in that environment, the United States risks reciprocity. If the U.S. can kill Venezuelan gang members in international waters, why can’t Iran kill Iranian dissidents in New York? Why can’t Russia drone Chechen exiles in Paris? Why can’t China strike Taiwanese activists in San Francisco? Once you erase due process abroad, you weaken it everywhere.
The Moral Inversion
There’s something grotesque about the speed with which death is recast as progress. Eleven bodies are lined up in the Caribbean, and the Vice President says this is the best use of our military. Imagine if another country said the same about Americans. Imagine the uproar if Venezuelan jets bombed a Florida speedboat and said, “highest and best use.”
But hypocrisy is a renewable resource. America doesn’t see itself in the mirror. It sees itself in the reflection of its own righteousness. Death by American missile is order. Death by foreign missile is atrocity.
The inversion is complete: violence is justice if it’s ours, terrorism if it’s theirs.
What the Constitution Was Supposed to Mean
Congress is supposed to declare war. The president is supposed to act when immediate threats emerge, not when political opportunities do. The War Powers Resolution exists to limit unilateralism, not enshrine it. But we’ve hollowed out the scaffolding.
Now the president can cite “self-defense” and the debate collapses. Congress sputters, lawyers write op-eds, international observers frown—and nothing changes. Because the machine prefers momentum to morality. The missiles fly faster than memos.
Killing as Branding
This was never just about security. It was about image. Trump announcing the strike was theater: America is strong, decisive, lethal. JD Vance praising it was branding: this is the future of Republican foreign policy. Rand Paul condemning it was counter-branding: libertarian skepticism alive and well.
It’s all branding layered on bodies. The 11 dead men are stage props in a play about American resolve. Their guilt or innocence is irrelevant. Their humanity is irrelevant. What matters is the optics: decisive action, muscular government, the glamour of force.
The Pandora’s Box
Experts warned: this opens a Pandora’s box. They’re right. Because once you normalize killing outside armed conflict, the box can never be closed.
You cannot declare a group terrorist and then claim global hunting rights without setting precedent. You cannot casually use military force abroad without inviting others to do the same. You cannot keep pretending the Constitution allows unilateral war decisions without teaching future presidents that it does.
This is how norms die: not with silence, but with applause.
Summary: The “Highest and Best Use” of Hypocrisy
- The U.S. military destroyed a Venezuelan vessel, killing 11 alleged gang members of Tren de Aragua. By September 5, Trump called it Article II “self-defense.” By September 6, JD Vance called it “the highest and best use of our military.” By September 7–8, Rand Paul called it “despicable.” The week spiraled into legal and diplomatic uproar.
- The normalization of extrajudicial killings outside a recognized conflict sets a dangerous precedent. It invites reciprocity from other nations, erodes due process, and undermines both international law and U.S. constitutional norms.
- America has long claimed a monopoly on righteous violence, but the rhetoric now treats assassination as peak military strategy. Death is framed as virtue when it’s ours, crime when it’s theirs.
- If this is the “highest and best use” of our military, then the lowest and worst use is the truth we no longer tell: that life and law are negotiable, and the price is paid in bodies we don’t bother to name.