Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald J. Trump, the Mango Mussolini himself, once again found the perfect stage to showcase his world-class grievance collection: the United Nations. And this time, it wasn’t a speech, a summit, or some grand geopolitical maneuver that sent him into an apoplectic fit. No, dear reader, it was the escalator. Yes, the UN’s escalator. That humble moving staircase, designed to keep diplomats and staffers from breaking a sweat while ferrying themselves between floors, had the audacity—the gall!—to malfunction in the presence of Trump. Suddenly, the escalator became… stairs. Temporary stairs. And for Trump, this was nothing less than an international incident.

Now, for most people, an out-of-service escalator is a minor annoyance, perhaps even an opportunity to burn off the croissant from breakfast. But for Trump, whose entire mythology was literally born on a golden escalator ride down to the 2015 campaign announcement, this was a direct assault on his person, his ego, and his God-given right to be transported smoothly, effortlessly, downward. To have his big moment at the UN reduced to—oh, the horror—walking? Unthinkable. A calculated man with a very calculated ass, Trump couldn’t stomach such indignity. After all, how can you project supreme authority if your thighs are forced into the vulgar, proletarian act of climbing?

Naturally, his syncope-prone minions rallied to his defense, treating this as though the Secretary-General himself had ordered the mechanical sabotage. On MAGA airwaves, this was spun as an “extreme affront” to the man they insist is still the rightful Commander-in-Chief. One pundit gravely declared it “escalator-gate,” while another whispered about “deep state stair tactics.” The narrative is clear: an out-of-order escalator isn’t just maintenance—it’s a conspiracy.

The absurdity, of course, writes itself. Trump once whined about having to walk down a ramp at West Point, terrified the cameras would catch his delicate gait. That clip haunted him for weeks. Now, the UN escalator betrayal has reawakened his greatest insecurity: being seen as anything less than the golden god who descended effortlessly into America’s political nightmare a decade ago. The image of him trudging, red-faced, step by step, like a mortal—oh, it’s intolerable. His followers have practically canonized the escalator itself, and now it’s as though a sacred relic has been desecrated.

It’s telling, though, isn’t it? The man who claims to command armies, economies, and divine providence can be undone by the failure of a moving staircase. His cult, meanwhile, nods along, as though this minor inconvenience were proof of the world’s grand plot against their dear leader. And so, Trump rages, his entourage faints on cue, and the rest of us are left watching the spectacle of a man reduced, once again, to a parody of himself—all thanks to the cruel tyranny of gravity.