Bob's vision of the perfect future doesn't have an icecube's chance in hell of happening until the day scientists invent Virtual Reality that is indistinguishable from regular reality. The day you can plug into a machine, turn yourself into an attractive avatar, buy a virtual reality Cribs Mansion with your government appointed neetbux, and stuff yourself on virtual food that tastes just like the real thing - that's the day Bob Chipman will stop complaining about the mayonnaise ghouls. He'll be too busy climbing a 100 foot tall statue of Princess Peach made of sentient, sensually writing cherry jello to care about Drumpf, or about injustices being committed against the downtrodden brown peoples of the Third World."a truly post-national globalist/"neoliberal" world places the intellectual/creative worker who can take their labor and skills anywhere and to whom borders are an anachronistic barrier in superior position to those whose work is terrestrially/physically bound..."
The good thing is that VR tech of that level is probably more than an entire Bob's lifetime away from being invented. And even if it is invented, Bob will probably burn out the pleasure centers of his brain in short order because his tastes are too base and unimaginative. There's only so many times you can eat a literal mountain of McNuggets or have gangbang sex with the dickgirl versions of Link and Anita Sarkeesian before you stare into the void and realize that things are never going to get any better for you, and that you've got an agonizingly long wait until your inevitable death.