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could land no job other than an unpaid traineeship with a government agency facilitating millions of euros’ worth of false disability claims.28 “I have every possible certificate,” she told the New York Times, which, in its poignant profile of Italy’s young, never seemed to consider whether such expensively acquired “certification” is necessary for a government job—or most others. Young(ish) Francesca had a law degree from Italy, a master’s from Germany, and had interned in Luxembourg at the European Court of Justice. A century ago, this leisurely, indulgent saunter through a tri-national varsity would have been the province of bored aristocratic scions with no interest in politics or soldiery, but somehow Europe got the idea to universalize it. Miss Esposito’s father is a fireman, her mother a high school teacher. She is the first in her family to learn a foreign language and graduate from college.

And she may well be the last. There is absolutely no return on investment, either for her or the Italian taxpayers who funded it. How could there be? A world in which you’re expensively educated till thirty to join a government agency justifying its own expansion by manufacturing welfare fraud is almost too perfect an emblem of the European Union. Francesca will live a worse life than her parents. She will do unpaid traineeships and low-paid short-term contract work because in Europe’s catatonic labor market the young (if one calls twenty-nine “young”) are already paying the price for the lavish salaries and benefits awarded to the unsackable middle-aged. Hence, bamboccioni , Nesthockers, and KIPPERS. There used to be an English expression, “kippers and curtains.” In Europe today, it’s KIPPERS—and curtains. “Hope’n’ change”? To be young in the EU is to live in a land beyond hope.

Debt operates on certain assumptions: if you need $500 and you don’t have it, the bank will lend it to you because they think you’re likely to have 500 bucks in the near future. The older you get, the less likely the bank will assume that. If you’re seventeen and broke, it’s because you haven’t yet got your first foot on the ladder of success. But if you’re sixty-three or seventyeight and you’re broke, it’s because that’s who you are and you’re never not going to be broke. So why should the bank lend you 500 bucks? Where’s it going to come from?

That’s the question the developed world is facing: Where’s it going to come from? A new tax? There’s nothing left to tax. By 2009, Europe was reduced to considering a levy on bovine flatulence.29 You heard that right—not a flat tax but a flatulence tax. Ireland was pondering a tax of 13 euros per cow, while in Denmark it was as high as 80 euros per cow. Is a Danish Holstein six times as flatulent as an Irish Hereford? Beats me. But somewhere in Brussels there’s a Director of the European Flatulence Agency of Regulation and Taxation (EuroFart) who’s got all the graphs. Apparently it’s to offset looming penalties each nation faces from EU legislation to combat “global warming.” The Times of London reported: “EU member states are obliged to cut the emissions from non-ETS sectors by 10 percent overall by 2020. While Romania and Bulgaria will be allowed to increase emissions, Ireland and Denmark are each faced with cuts of 20 percent in farming sector emissions.”30

Even allowing for the regulatory yoke Europe’s cowed citizenry labor under, the bureaucratic logic here is hard to follow. Why is some Bulgar’s Holstein allowed to increase his flatulence while the poor Jutlander’s Polled Hereford has to put a stopper in it? Is there a dearth of flatulence in the Balkans but a Code Red alert over the North Sea? Couldn’t the EU introduce flatulence offsets and let the excessively flatulent Irish trade some of their flatulence to the Carpathians?

Go back to medieval times. The gnarled old peasant is in his hovel, and one day a fellow rides up in the full doublet and hose and says he’s come from the palace to collect His Majesty’s bovine flatulence tax. It’s just three groats per cow, a footling sum of no consequence.