While President Donald J. Trump struts through the debris field of global diplomacy accomplishing, oh, just the trivial things — like brokering hostage releases, reasserting America’s strength on the world stage, deterring terror proxies from kicking off World War III, and re-aligning the geopolitical order away from authoritarian thugs — his opponents are still clutching their pearls over whether Melania gets a fashion cover.
It’s the contrast of a political colossus walking among shadows. Or, in this case, among cultural toddlers swinging plastic swords and declaring themselves brave.
As Trump’s decisive moves in the Middle East send shockwaves through both enemies and allies — revealing what true leverage looks like when it's not filtered through focus groups and State Department jargon — the opposition’s countermove is… to ensure Melania doesn’t grace Vogue. You almost have to admire the discipline with which they cling to irrelevance.
One might expect some introspection from the cultural gatekeepers. After all, their decade-long tantrum has yielded little more than collapsing viewership, declining circulation, and the complete evaporation of credibility. But no. Instead, they gather like high priests of a fading religion, muttering incantations of “resistance” while reality steamrolls them.
They had to do a jump cut in the middle of this five second video.
Incredible. https://t.co/9aSkoowjvX
— Bonchie (@bonchieredstate) October 19, 2025
Take American Vogue. Its editor — let’s just call her Chloe Irrelevant, since Arthur has done the honor of formalizing her identity — has once again taken a stand that only matters inside the echo chamber of midtown Manhattan hair salons. Her vow to keep Melania off the cover isn't a flex; it's a confession. A confession that they no longer influence the culture — they just talk to each other in the ladies’ room and mistake the mirror for applause.
Meanwhile, in the ashen ruins of late-night “comedy,” Jimmy Kimmel’s shrinking fanbase has apparently scheduled a watch party… if the edibles don’t kick in first. That’s what passes for satire now: everyone making the same joke with the same punchline in the same tired monologue. It’s less comedy and more Gregorian chant.
Over at The New York Times, or as we now refer to it — “that place where Wordle lives” — Blithering Prevarication III (a name too perfect to improve upon) assures his handful of readers that Trump's real threat isn’t the actual peace he’s securing but the imagined fascism he hasn’t committed. Not to worry, though. The Times has a sharp retort in the form of a 2,000-word Buttigieg profile sure to rattle international despots from Tehran to Pyongyang. Because nothing screams political momentum like a transportation secretary whose most historic achievement is redefining gridlock.
And through all this, the cries from academia ring out: “Why won’t he collapse already?” Harvard’s own Alan Flapdoodle — a tenured bard of theoretical indignation — stands on the digital street corner with his harmonica and a hat, still hoping one more Hitler comparison will do the trick. It's equal parts tragic and farce.
So yes, while President Trump continues to rack up tangible wins, his critics are stuck composing elegies for the cultural power they squandered — clinging to fashion pages, filtered rage, and increasingly desperate performances of resistance.