Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald the Mango Moron. It’s a moniker that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and perfectly accurate, summing up a man who was likely a nightmare even in diapers. One can almost picture him as a toddler, chubby fists clenched, stamping his feet, demanding that his wet nurse be fired—yes, fired—for not wiping his bottom to his exacting standards. Because, of course, when your entire worldview is built on the belief that everyone else exists only to serve you, even early childhood hygiene becomes a matter of “you’re fired.”

And from there? Nothing. A void of achievement, a canyon of failure, a wasteland of bankrupt casinos and fleeced investors. The man’s life was a succession of daddy’s bailouts and bad decisions dressed up in gold plating. But then came Mark Burnett, reality TV impresario and the man who unintentionally broke America. By casting Donald as a titan of industry on The Apprentice, Burnett essentially gave him the only job he ever excelled at: playing pretend. The show created an illusion—a glossy fiction that Trump was a “brilliant dealmaker,” a Bruce Wayne–esque figure who wielded his billions for the good of Gotham. Millions of viewers swallowed it whole, not realizing they were just watching a con man being carefully edited to look competent.

And so the Mango Moron stumbled his way into the White House in 2016, not through genius, but through the toxic cocktail of television fame, grievance politics, and a frightening number of gullible voters who thought reality TV was, well, reality. Once in office, he tasted real power for the first time. It was intoxicating. Gone were the fake boardrooms and scripted catchphrases—now he could issue executive orders and demand loyalty oaths. To him, the presidency wasn’t a responsibility; it was the world’s largest stage for his ego.

When he lost in 2020, he did what any petulant toddler would do: he threw a tantrum. Only this time, the tantrum involved trying to overthrow the government, sending mobs to the Capitol, and insisting that democracy itself was rigged against him. And in the chaos of America’s fractured political landscape, he somehow clawed his way back into the Oval Office in 2024.

But here’s the catch—he no longer sees himself as Bruce Wayne, the benevolent billionaire. No, in his own mind, he’s evolved. Now, he’s Lex Luthor: the genius villain, the mastermind, the one who outsmarts everyone else. The problem? Lex Luthor was actually brilliant, a man with strategy, intellect, and vision. Trump is none of those things—he’s just a man who believes shouting “I’m the smartest” enough times makes it true.

The danger, of course, is that while Lex Luthor’s schemes stayed on comic book pages, Donald the Mango Moron’s delusions play out in real time, with real consequences. He genuinely believes he can bend institutions to his will, that he can fire prosecutors, judges, critics, journalists—even democracy itself. He has confused the Constitution with a contract from The Apprentice, imagining he can simply say, “You’re fired” to the very foundations of American governance.

And millions of followers cheer him on, not realizing they’ve mistaken a comic book villain for a statesman. America, once the shining city on a hill, is now trapped in the absurd reality show that never ends, run by a man who went from firing pretend interns to trying to fire the Republic.

Donald the Mango Moron: not Bruce Wayne, not Lex Luthor—just a spoiled brat who never learned the difference between fantasy and reality. And unless the nation wakes up, he just might get his wish and fire democracy itself.