I’ve done it.
After every failure by the political establishment, journalists, activists, concerned citizens, and media empires, I am pleased to announce that I have brought an end to the terror of President Trump by utilizing the greatest power of all: Comedy.
It wasn’t easy. But heroism rarely is, and destiny never calls at a time of our choosing. So, at 12:34 AM, after reading one of his tweets, I take up the pen of justice. I channel the spirit of Voltaire, Twain, and Swift. I hold the mirror to society.
I Photoshop Trump’s face onto Jabba The Hutt.
I tweet my “Jabba the Trump” meme for the world to see. The knife of satire twists deep. In a moment, I am flooded by dozens of retweets, ranging from friends who share my political opinions to strangers on the internet who also share my political opinions — the chorus of America itself. My tweet lights the spark, and the fires of rebellion burn bright.
The phone rings. It is my father, a lifelong Conservative who lost his career in the 2008 Recession and never truly recovered. Clearly, he has been crying.
“Jeff, I saw your meme. I understand now. Trump has preyed upon and exploited my economic anxieties to the benefit of only himself and the billionaire class. He degrades us for his own sick amusement — very much like Jabba the Hutt. Your meme spoke to me. Your meme saved me. Thank you, son. I love —”
I hang up on my father, for I am receiving another call — from the White House.
I am flown to Washington. I enter the Oval Office to find President Trump, broken and alone. Clearly, he has been crying.
“Well, ‘Mr. President’, you may have outsmarted everyone else, but there’s one thing you forgot about.”
“… The power of comedy. How could I have been so blind?”
“Maybe you were too focused on your… small hands?”
Trump weeps at the magnitude of my caustic wit, but his tears then give way to uncontrollable laughter. His mind shatters. Madness takes him. His empire falls. America is saved. But my victory is not yet complete.
I am ushered into Vladimir Putin’s secret bunker directly beneath the Oval Office. In the darkness lies a lone chessboard and Putin himself. Clearly, he has been crying.
We stare each other down as worthy foes, our shadow war now at its end. A lifetime of silence seems to pass between us. Putin knocks over his king.
Putin pours himself a drink. Putin spills his soul.
“All my years spent infiltrating and destabilizing Western democracies to consolidate my power… in the end, it was no match for the true power: that of comedy.”
He then looks at me, not as the one man who beat him, but as the one man to ever, truly, know him. Perhaps in another life, another world, we could have been friends. But the road of a blistering political satirist is a lonely one, and one that I must walk alone.
I exit the White House and head straight to the Smithsonian to see Jabba the Trump already framed next to Judy Garland’s Ruby Slippers. Suddenly, I am recognized. Doctors clap. Veterans remove their hats. I see a child’s eyes blaze with wonder. Every step, every struggle, every sacrifice in my journey has now been worth it.
The child whispers to his father, “Is that him?”
“Yes. That’s him. That’s the man who saved America.”