Dwain Northey (Gen X)

So now we’ve seen it—the actual drawing in Epstein’s 50th birthday card. A grotesque little sketch that looks exactly like the kind of thing Donald J. Trump, self-appointed “artist” of reality, would scratch out with a Sharpie between cheeseburgers and creepy locker room talk. And, of course, the signature—his infamous tachycardic EKG scrawl that screams “unstable vital signs” more than “former President.” It’s all there: the pervy doodle, the jagged signature, the stink of narcissism. But what’s even more damning than the card itself? The shrieking denials coming from Trump and his designated parrots.

Trump could have taken the sane, if revolting, route and said: “Yeah, I drew it. I’m a gross motherfucker with the artistic talent of a deranged middle-schooler.” But no. Instead, he and his press secretaries put on their best “Who, me?” faces and start bellowing like televangelists swearing they don’t know what hush money is. And in their over-the-top performance, they practically scream guilt louder than any Sharpie stroke ever could.

This is a familiar playbook. Trump denies things nobody else would bother denying. He denied knowing Epstein “that well,” even though there are photos, quotes, and entire parties tying them together. He denied the Access Hollywood tape—until he admitted it—then denied it again, like a man suffering from selective amnesia caused by ego. He denied losing the 2020 election while America watched the loss in real time. And now he’s denying his own artwork, which might be the most laughable denial of all, since his handwriting is practically a biometric identifier at this point.

The drawing itself is gross, yes. But the desperate theater of denial is worse. Because here’s the truth: if you weren’t guilty, if you didn’t do it, you’d laugh. You’d shrug. You’d dismiss it. Instead, Trump reacts like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar, insisting the crumbs on his face are “fake crumbs” planted by the deep state. His press secretaries repeat the script like malfunctioning robots—“Not him, fake, not true, witch hunt”—as if reciting it often enough will rewire our brains.

And the irony is delicious. By denying so hysterically, they’ve turned a nasty little doodle into a confession written in all caps. It’s almost Shakespearean: the denial is the admission. The harder they scream “not guilty,” the guiltier they look. Trump’s entire career is built on this paradox—deny reality, and hope people believe the lie long enough to forget the truth. But when the evidence is a literal drawing in your own demented hand, the lie only makes the truth louder.

What this card really shows us is the core of Trumpism: exploitation, vulgarity, and the inability to ever, under any circumstances, own up to a damn thing. Honesty doesn’t exist in his universe—only bluster, denial, and projection. He’d rather look like a fool shrieking “fake!” than a man who admits to being a creep. And so, in trying to cover his ass, he exposes it fully, neon lights and all.

So yes, the drawing is revolting. But the denial? That’s the smoking gun. That’s Trump in his purest form: a guilty man screaming innocence so loudly that no one can hear anything else.