Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald John Trump has never been particularly subtle about the things authoritarian-curious leaders usually keep tucked away in the lockbox of “thoughts better left unsaid.” Most strongmen at least pretend not to want to strong-arm the media; they give a half-hearted chuckle, flash a rehearsed grin, and mutter something about “diverse opinions.” But Trump? He’s long since abandoned any pretense. Recently, on an open mic—because of course it was an open mic—he once again threatened national media outlets, speaking with the casual menace of a guy who thinks the Constitution is just a pesky HOA agreement he never agreed to.

It wasn’t even whispered or hinted. No coded language. No plausible deniability. He just said it. Out loud. On tape. As if he were giving the weather report instead of flirting with authoritarianism like it’s a long-lost high-school sweetheart he’s eager to rekindle things with.

In Trump’s fantasy world, leadership means domination, accountability is harassment, and the press—whose job is literally to ask him questions—is an enemy to be tamed, punished, or “fixed” until it produces the proper devotion. It’s a worldview shaped not by democratic norms but by the logic of a mob boss who wandered into the Oval Office and never bothered to read the manual. So when he growls that “things are going to change,” he’s not talking about policy, or media literacy, or even the typical empty political bluster. He’s issuing the verbal equivalent of tapping a baseball bat against his palm in a dimly lit room.

Trump’s relationship with the media has always been a mix of obsession, dependency, and persecution fantasy. He needs attention like oxygen, and yet the very cameras he courts become evidence—when they dare show anything less than worship—that he’s the victim of a massive plot. And in his imagined kingdom, “fixing” that problem doesn’t mean improved transparency or more honest dialogue; it means putting journalists “in their place,” as if this were the kind of country where the press exists to please the king and not to question him.

What’s most striking is his total comfort saying the quiet part with an indoor voice, as though the guardrails of democracy are mere suggestions and the First Amendment is negotiable when his feelings are hurt. He speaks like someone who believes his personal anger is grounds for national policy, that criticism is a crime, and that the president—i.e., him—should have enforcement power that would make even Nixon cough politely and say, “Okay, let’s take it down a notch.”

And yet, this theatrical chest-puffing tells us something important about his state of mind: Trump doesn’t imagine himself as a participant in American democracy. He imagines himself as its owner. A CEO of the country. The singular voice. The wronged messiah. The man who alone can fix… well, everything that offends him personally. The media is just one more institution he believes should bend, not question; praise, not report.

His open-mic authoritarianism isn’t a slip; it’s the unmasked version of what he’s been telegraphing all along. He’s not threatening the press because he accidentally forgot the mic was on—he’s threatening them because he wants everyone to know the mic is always on, and he’s perfectly proud of the message he’s sending.

In that sense, this latest outburst isn’t a blunder. It’s a preview. A reminder that in Trump’s inner kingdom—his daydream America—accountability is treason, criticism is persecution, and the free press is an enemy to be subdued.

And the scariest part? He’s not whispering it. He’s saying it loudly, confidently, like a man who believes the future is already his.