Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Every summer, people flood Comic-Con, proudly cosplaying as the heroes they admire. They strap on foam muscles, put on capes, maybe even add LED lights to make their lightsabers glow. And here’s the crucial part: they know it’s pretend. They don’t leave San Diego believing they can now leap tall buildings in a single bound. They don’t write their landlord a check signed “Tony Stark” and expect it to clear. The beauty of cosplay is the honesty: they admire, they emulate, they enjoy—but they don’t confuse fantasy with reality.

Donald J. Trump, on the other hand, is living in a never-ending convention where he really thinks the badge he Sharpies onto his chest is genuine. He doesn’t cosplay the strongman—he believes he is the strongman. Forget the emperor with no clothes; this is the emperor who thinks his spray tan counts as Kevlar. While Comic-Con fans line up to pose as Superman, Trump is demanding a congressional Medal of Honor for his daring service in the Battle of Twitter.

Let’s go ahead and read his “citations”:

For gallantry in the face of mortal danger, Donald J. Trump heroically withstood the brutal crossfire of Jim Acosta’s questions without fainting more than twice.

For wounds sustained in combat, he deserves the Purple Heart, having bravely suffered paper cuts from legal subpoenas and the unspeakable trauma of seeing his crowd sizes fact-checked.

For extraordinary valor under fire, he stood tall (well, slouched) as Saturday Night Live unleashed the savage weaponry of Alec Baldwin impressions—an assault so devastating, future generations may never fully grasp the suffering.

Meanwhile, at Comic-Con, fans of Captain America know they’ll never get a real shield. Fans of Wonder Woman understand the Lasso of Truth is plastic. Fans of Deadpool accept they don’t regenerate. But Trump? He’s still out here insisting his golf score is real, his bone spurs were fatal, and his “genius IQ” could make Einstein blush.

Cosplayers remove their costumes at the end of the weekend. Trump? He’s permanently zipped into his bug suit from Men in Black, stomping around as if “King of the Cockroaches” were a legitimate title of nobility. He struts naked while insisting he’s wearing the finest golden robes—and then demands a Nobel Prize for “fashion excellence.”

At least the cosplayers understand the joke. Trump? He’s the joke—and somehow still demanding a standing ovation.