By now everyone knows that Piggy Trump posted a racist video to his stupid ass Truth Social. I know everyone knows because it punched straight through the background noise and landed in the one place that only ever lights up when something is seriously fucked — my girlfriends’ group chat. The sacred space normally reserved for Instagram reels, town gossip, drink plans, and the ongoing existential crisis of what the fuck am I making for dinner because for the love of all things holy I cannot make pasta again. When that chat suddenly turns political, something has gone so wrong it kicked the door in and made itself everyone’s problem.

And right now, that chat is stuck on two things. Trump being a racist pig. Again. Loudly. Publicly. With the subtlety of a brick through a window. And JD Vance absolutely fucking up the Winter Olympics by materializing on their screens every five minutes with that stupid, smug, youth-pastor-who-led-the-abstinence-retreat-and-then-got-caught-DM’ing-teens face while they’re just trying to watch figure skating and opening ceremonies without feeling like they’ve been hijacked by a campaign ad they didn’t consent to.

Because when a group of women who are trying to decompress, drink wine, and watch people spin across ice in sequins are suddenly rage-typing about racism and Republican creeps instead, it means the bullshit didn’t stay where it was supposed to. It forced itself into the room, wiped barbecue sauce on the do-not-ever-touch decorative bathroom towels, drank the milk straight out of the carton, knocked shit over, sprawled out on the couch, and sat there long enough for the smell to register before your brain caught up.

By morning, Karoline Leavitt released a statement telling everyone to relax, floating a Lion King reference like that was supposed to disinfect what everyone had already seen with their own eyes. Relax. Like the problem here is tone. Like the offense isn’t the point. The explanation didn’t stabilize; it shape-shifted — one flimsy line shedding into the next, each excuse thinner than the last, like they were tossing out whatever sounded least incriminating and hoping no one would slow down long enough to notice the seams.

That video sat there for twelve fucking hours while the story about it kept mutating because they couldn’t even keep their own lies straight — first it was a Lion King thing and everyone needed to relax, then it was an erroneous error by a staffer, then suddenly it was Trump himself saying he found the video but didn’t watch it all the way through and apparently neither did the mysterious unnamed staffer he told to post it in the middle of the night, which tells you everything you need to know about the urgency level here, which is to say there wasn’t any, because if this were a problem to be fixed it would’ve been gone instantly instead of being passed around like a shared dish they wanted to let sit, soaking up attention and outrage and oxygen. They let it fester. They let it marinate. They let it do exactly what it was built to do.

They didn’t care if anyone bought the excuses. They didn’t need coherence or credibility or cover. They needed detonation. They needed noise. They needed everyone chasing explanations while the video itself did the work — sucking up attention, drowning out his failures, the Epstein files, the mounting disgust — and at the same time pressing that familiar nerve, the one that still twitches on command. This whole thing was a nine-layer dip of reprehensible, and every layer was intentional.

A handful of Republicans clutched their pearls and performed their brief, breathless outrage, which is cute, I guess, except these are the same people who rewarded him with power for doing exactly this, who nodded through the birther lies, laughed off the racism, swallowed the cruelty, and called it strategy. Forgive me if I don’t hand out gold stars now. They didn’t miss the point back then. They embraced it.

This isn’t new and it isn’t accidental. It’s a straight line — a family habit, a learned reflex, a way of moving through the world that never got corrected because it never had to be. From a father whose name shows up in police records tied to a Ku Klux Klan rally in Queens to a son who inherited not just money but permission, Trump grew up fluent in exclusion, comfortable deciding who belongs and who doesn’t, certain that hate isn’t a liability but a lever. When the Trump real-estate empire was sued by the federal government in the 1970s for systematically refusing to rent to Black families — for coded marks on applications, for steering people away like contamination — they didn’t recoil or reconsider. They fought back, sued the government, settled without admitting wrongdoing, and walked away having learned the only lesson that ever mattered: you can discriminate openly, deny reflexively, grind the system down, and still win.

That lesson metastasized — into birtherism, into the full-page ad calling for the execution of the innocent Central Park Five, into “my African American,” into “Black jobs,” into shithole countries, into a system that prefers spectacle over restraint, that boasts about cages and raids and ripped-apart families, that treats human suffering like a press release and punishment like a perk, grinding people down through public menace, official vindictiveness, and ritualized harm. This is language he chooses. It’s how he rose. It’s how he keeps them close when everything else slips.

This is one of the very few places where he is unmistakably, aggressively real. Not a costume he slips on for applause, not a mask he forgets to remove when the cameras go dark, but the core — the racism, the sexism, the bigotry — not crowd work or rhetorical garnish, but the thing that keeps beating even as everything else collapses into incompetence and rot. He is genuinely a racist. He is genuinely a sexist. He is genuinely cruel. He is genuinely small in the way small men cling to hierarchy like oxygen, and that’s why it works so well, why it holds even when everything else falls apart, because it doesn’t have to be good to be real — it just has to sound like him.

He can be a failed businessman, a felon, a con man, a charlatan, a man credibly accused of rape, a man endlessly entangled in allegations of child sexual abuse. He can hollow out their lives one bill, one price hike, one lie at a time. He can make everything harder and smaller and meaner. And they will excuse every last bit of it as long as this one thing stays solid, as long as he keeps hating the right people out loud, as long as he keeps proving that on this — on the ugliest, most corrosive part — he’s sincere. That’s the deal. That’s the loyalty. That’s the moral grave they’re all perfectly willing to crawl into together.

And whenever the reality of how little he gives a shit about their lives starts to surface — whenever the bills pile up, the prices spike, the promises evaporate, whenever tens of thousands of appearances of his name alongside Epstein refuse to stay buried, whenever “Donald Trump” and “child rape” keep showing up in the same sentences no matter how hard they look away — he reminds them.

He hates who they hate.

He hates the Obamas.

He hates people of color.

He hates immigrants.

He hates liberals.

He hates trans people and gay people and brown people.

He says it out loud.

He lets them say it out loud.

And that’s all they think they need.

And with that, todays song;

I love you guys!

Stay strong, stay safe, and stay connected to each other.

💙 Jo

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