Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald John Trump. DJT. The Mango Menace. The Orange Moron currently staining the White House upholstery with bronzer and ego in equal measure. One might think that after years of public humiliation, failed coups, and an endless stream of word salads that make expired mayonnaise seem coherent, he’d have learned the fine art of shutting the ever-loving hell up. But alas, silence is for mortals. Trump, as he reminds us hourly, is something far greater: a walking, tweeting, shouting embarrassment factory running at full production.

It’s truly impressive—if you view it as performance art—that one man can manage to humiliate an entire nation before breakfast. He opens his mouth, and international diplomacy collectively facepalms. Every time a microphone approaches, allies brace, adversaries rejoice, and translators quietly resign. Somewhere in Europe, a NATO interpreter likely wakes up in a cold sweat mumbling, “What does ‘bigly’ mean?”

In the annals of history, Trump will stand as the first leader who treated international relations like a WWE promo—minus the charm and self-awareness. His global strategy seems to follow a strict rulebook: insult allies, praise dictators, mispronounce basic geography, and then demand applause. Remember when he looked lovingly into Kim Jong Un’s eyes and said they “fell in love”? The world cringed collectively so hard that the planet’s orbit probably shifted a few millimeters.

And yet, the Mango Menace trudges on—sniffing, shouting, and stapling his name onto every success that wasn’t his, from veterans’ healthcare to Middle East peace frameworks. The man has the political equivalent of Midas’ touch in reverse: everything he actually handles turns to flaming garbage, but he’ll slap a gold TRUMP on it and call it a masterpiece.

Internationally, he’s that relative who gets drunk at the wedding and insists on giving a toast no one asked for. Everyone tries to be polite, smiling through clenched teeth, while the Orange Moron launches into his speech about how he’s the best dancer in the room, the smartest man alive, and how the bride is only pretty because of him. Meanwhile, the rest of the planet stares into their champagne flutes, wondering when America will finally wrestle the mic away.

Even our closest allies can barely hide their exhaustion. When the British Parliament banned him from addressing them, that wasn’t diplomacy—it was self-preservation. When Trudeau smirked behind his back, it wasn’t petty—it was the sigh of a nation forced to coexist with a walking caps-lock tweet. And when Germany’s Merkel rolled her eyes, that wasn’t annoyance—it was history recording its disappointment.

At home, his fans treat him like a messiah with a golf handicap. But the rest of us? We’re just tired. Tired of waking up to see what fresh humiliation he’s exported overnight. Tired of watching the “leader of the free world” communicate exclusively in playground taunts. Tired of a man whose only policy position is “me good, everyone else bad.”

The truth is simple: we just want him to shut the fuck up. Not forever (though that would be a blessing), but maybe just long enough for the world to forget that America once handed its nuclear codes to a man who can’t spell “hamburger.”

So here’s to DJT, the Mango Menace, the loudest orange on the planet. May history remember him for what he truly is: an international embarrassment in a cheap suit, screaming into the void, forever convinced the echo is applause.