I’ve always used humor to cope. It got me through heartbreak, illness, and all the usual crap life throws at you. But ever since Donald Trump hijacked reality and made chaos our new normal, nothing feels funny anymore. The joke’s over—and we’re the punchline.
I’ve used humor to survive just about everything life has thrown my way. When things got hard—and they often did—I cracked a joke. Sarcasm became my armor. Wit, my therapy. It helped me process pain, push through disappointment, and find light in the darkest corners. I’m not saying laughter solved everything, but it sure kept me from falling apart.
And for most of my life, it worked.
I’d stay up late watching Letterman, Colbert, Stewart—even the newer voices that kept the political absurdities in check with a sharp tongue and a knowing smirk. I’d laugh and think, At least someone gets it. At least someone’s still saying what we’re all thinking. That laughter meant we still had hope, that we still recognized the ridiculousness of it all.
But then came Donald Trump.
Trump didn’t just crash the party—he set the stage on fire, kicked over the mic stand, and demanded we all clap for it. And worst of all? Millions did.
The first time he ran, I honestly thought it was a joke. A bad one. An attention-grabbing stunt that would flame out like all his past disasters. But instead, we elected a man who speaks in insults, governs with spite, and lies like it’s his first language. A man whose ego is bigger than his empathy—and whose cruelty is somehow seen as strength.
And now? After being handed the chance to do it all again? He’s back in office, doubling down on division, corruption, and chaos—and people are still laughing like this is just another episode in some reality show. Only this isn’t “The Apprentice,” it’s our actual lives. Our democracy. Our future.
I used to believe humor could be a force for good. That satire could cut through the noise, shine a light on injustice, make people stop and think. But how do you satirize someone who already is a satire of himself? There’s no exaggerating Donald Trump—he is the exaggeration. He’s beyond parody, and that’s the problem.
He made the outrageous normal. The cruel acceptable. The unthinkable part of the daily news cycle. And now, what used to be shocking barely raises an eyebrow.
Late-night hosts still try. They write the jokes, deliver the lines, cue the laughs. But I’m not laughing. I can’t. Because the reality behind the comedy is just too grim. The country I love—the one I believed in, the one I fought to hold onto through hard times—is being chipped away by a man who doesn’t care who he hurts as long as he stays in power.
I miss laughing. I miss believing humor could make a difference. But this isn’t funny anymore. It’s terrifying. It’s devastating. And it’s personal.
I don’t laugh when I see kids locked in cages. I don’t laugh at women losing reproductive rights or LGBTQ families being stripped of protections. I don’t laugh at book bans, science denial, or when he mocks the disabled, attacks veterans, or calls journalists “the enemy.”
This isn’t about party politics. It’s about decency. It’s about how far we’ve fallen—and how fast. And if we keep treating this like just another bad season of a never-ending series, we’re going to find ourselves without a script, without a cast, and without a stage.
So no, I’m not laughing anymore. I’m grieving. I’m furious. And I’m done pretending this is normal.
Donald Trump killed the joke. And we let him.
