Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Are you effing kidding me?

Donald Trump—yes, that Donald Trump, the man whose foreign-policy philosophy boils down to “What if we solved international disputes the way I handle family arguments: loudly, vengefully, and with absolutely no research?”—now wants his name slapped onto the Institute of Peace.

The Institute. Of. Peace.

This is like putting a raccoon in charge of food safety or naming a demolition crew “The Preservation Society.” But sure, let’s pretend the guy currently rattling sabers at Venezuela like a bargain-bin Teddy Roosevelt is the patron saint of tranquility.

And over what? Fentanyl.

Fentanyl… which doesn’t even come from Venezuela. But who cares about facts when there’s oil—the world’s most combustible mood stabilizer—to chase? It’s almost sweet, in a deranged way, watching the paperwork for a “justified conflict” roll out like a kindergarten craft project made of crayons, glue sticks, and total geopolitical ignorance.

Imagine walking through the Institute of Peace one day in the future—a nice quiet building dedicated to, you know, not bombing people—and BAM: there it is. A giant golden plaque reading “Donald J. Trump Institute of Peace.”

You’d have to check the walls for hidden cameras. You’d assume you wandered into a satire museum. You might wonder if the gift shop sells irony by the gallon.

Because nothing screams “global harmony” like a man who treats foreign nations the way he treats staff meetings: fall asleep halfway through, wake up angry, blame someone else, and then threaten to fire a missile.

But hey—if peace is just a branding exercise, why not go all in? Maybe rename the Pentagon the Trump Yoga Center while we’re at it. Rebrand the Joint Chiefs as the Committee for Serene Vibes. Paint the nukes pastel and call them Mindfulness Devices.

At this point, reality is already a parody of itself.

All we can do is laugh—sarcastically, loudly, and with full awareness that the joke isn’t funny so much as it is terrifyingly on brand.