Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I am sorry that I keep venting about the Orange Menace but his BS has taken up residence in my rage meter.

Mango Mussolini fancies himself a dictator, but let’s be honest — if he’s a dictator, then Chuck E. Cheese is fine dining. This is not a man with the discipline of a Stalin or the cunning of a Putin; he’s more like a bloated mascot in a polyester suit, waddling around screaming “Respect my authority!” while his handlers frantically swap out cue cards. The only iron fist he has is the one he uses to clutch a Big Mac.

He signs executive orders with the flourish of a monarch, convinced his Sharpie is a royal scepter. Every signature becomes, in his mind, a commandment etched in gold: “Thou shalt not burn the flag. Thou shalt praise Dear Leader. Thou shalt watch Fox News or face eternal damnation.” Of course, the Supreme Court already settled the flag issue decades ago, but why let precedent stand in the way of Mango Mussolini’s royal decrees? He doesn’t read court rulings; he barely reads menus.

And yet, for all his cosplay as America’s Mussolini, one has to ask: who’s actually in charge here? The Heritage Foundation writes policy binders thicker than his skull, Putin whispers sweet kompromat from Moscow, and Stephen Miller slithers out of his crypt each night to draft fresh xenophobic talking points. Mango Mussolini thinks he’s the puppeteer, when in reality he’s the orange sock puppet flopping around on stage. Picture him dangling on strings: “Build the wall!” says Miller. “Sanctions? What sanctions?” says Putin. “Destroy the EPA!” says Heritage. And there he goes, signing whatever lands in front of him like a toddler scribbling with crayons.

His idea of leadership is firing off tweets that ruin lives, demanding people be sacked simply for disagreeing with him. Dictators jail dissidents; Mango Mussolini rage-tweets them into unemployment. He mistakes petty cruelty for strength, tantrums for policy, and applause at rallies for global legitimacy. He is, at best, a dictator LARPing in a poorly fitted suit. At worst, he’s a hollow marionette who thinks the strings yanking him around are actually his own muscles.

But here’s the problem: even a bad actor can burn the stage down. Every executive order he scribbles, every unconstitutional stunt he attempts, every hissy fit disguised as policy leaves dents in the foundation of democracy. He doesn’t need competence to cause chaos; chaos is his brand. Mango Mussolini is like a wrecking ball that thinks it’s Michelangelo.

So no, he’s not a dictator. He’s not even capable of being one. Real dictators are terrifying; Mango Mussolini is absurd. But absurdity with power is still dangerous. He’s the carnival barker who stumbled into the Oval Office, the marionette who thinks he’s Caesar, the orange-tinted Mussolini knockoff whose ego is bigger than his IQ. And yet, through sheer volume, vanity, and venom, he’s managed to drag the country into his sideshow act.

The tragedy? The world is forced to sit through it — a dictator cosplay gone horribly, stupidly, dangerously wrong.