Monuments Are for Winners
This loser president has nothing to celebrate
President Donald Trump painted the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool blue, like a Florida creep’s swimming pool. Mr. Trump must intend to redecorate Washington DC to look like his ex-best friend Jeffrey Epstein’s Miami estate. Perhaps he’s nostalgic! The president was not wrong to imagine the Reflecting Pool was dirty—it often is; for some parts of the year, it is a stagnant tub in the middle of a lawn. Between cleanings, it fills with ducks, duck shit, and mosquitoes. But that signals it should be cleaned more often, not made to look like damn cartoon water at the cost of $15 million to the American taxpayer.
Obviously corrupt—the contract was a no-bid award to Atlantic Industrial Coatings of Virginia, which also provide services to the Trump National Golf Club in Sterling, Virginia. Washington DC is home to more than one pool remodeler. They all deserve the chance to bid. It cannot be allowed that companies favored by the president get government work without question. This is why there is a federal contracting process. Steering public money to a politician’s friends is the definition of corruption. If somebody could do the same job cheaper or better, the public’s interest is that they be given the opportunity to pitch. And since it deserves a reminder, it is in our interest, not the president’s, that taxpayer money should be spent.
Mr. Trump followed up by tweeting, at 11 PM on a Friday (when one would expect him to be spending time with his wife!) an AI-generated image of himself, Vice President Jim Dave Vance, Secretary of State “Li’l” Marco Rubio, Interior Secretary Doug Burgum, and a “bodacious” bikini-clad woman lounging in the Reflecting Pool. Well, I guess this “lib” was “owned,” and “triggered,” because that shit pissed me off.
White House Communications Director Steven Cheung, the funniest man in Washington, posted a photo of the presidential motorcade driving across the monument, and I finally understood how my mother felt when I dragged muddy boots across her clean carpet. Mr. Cheung thought this was bad-ass—I agree only that it was bad and it was ass. Their disrespect is unsubtle.
What possible meaning could these images have, except to show the regime’s biggest jackasses are having a good time right now, and on our damn dime, regardless of how the average American’s life is going? Seems so—Mr. Trump recently told reporters he does not care about the average American’s finances.
Mr. Trump might be ready to squeeze his fatter-than-that ass into an inner-tube and “float on” with his “boys” (nearly all who have compared him to Hitler) but as a result of this bullshit Iran war, gas is $4.43 a gallon. Neither Mr. Trump nor anyone in his cabinet ought to have spare moments for a soak. They ought to be ending the Iran War, opening the Strait of Hormuz and getting gas prices back to where my man former President Joe Biden had them—$3.10 a gallon for regular on January 19, 2025.
Meta, Amazon, and Microsoft did layoffs. Spirit Airlines ceased operating. How many businesses have shut their doors? Shed employees? How many Americans have canceled their summer vacations? How ignorant can a politician be to showcase such indulgence?
According to a CNN/SSRS poll released this month, 77 percent of Americans say Mr. Trump’s policies fucked up their cost of living. A YouGov tracker has 61 percent saying the economy is getting worse, and Mr. Trump’s approval sits at 35 percent in the CNN “Poll of Polls”—the lowest of his political career.
Mr. Trump tore down half of the White House to build the “grand ballroom” he lustily fantasizes about, paved over the Rose Garden, renamed the Gulf of Mexico the “Gulf of America”, attached his name to the Kennedy Center, gilded the Oval Office, demolished the East Wing for the bunker-bitch ballroom, draped federal buildings around DC with banners of his face, plastered his face on the national park pass, tried to rechristen Penn Station and Dulles Airport after himself, put a golden statue of himself at Trump National Doral (“not a golden calf,” Pastor Mark Burns insisted), arranged for more golden statues at his presidential library, ordered his signature onto every new piece of paper currency, stamped himself on coinage, put a photo of him glaring onto American passports, planned an “Arc de Trump” on the Mall, announced a UFC match on the White House lawn for his birthday (precious), and repainted Air Force One in red, white, blue, and gold.
That 22-foot Don Colossus was paid for by $PATRIOT memecoin investors, blessed by televangelists, and the ribbon on the statue was cut by Brock Pierce, an associate of Epstein who once fled the country to avoid sex trafficking charges and later thanked Epstein for a “great time with the girls”. This cursed idol should be melted.
When the East Wing of the White House was initially torn down on the Monday after the NO KINGS II rally, I was shocked to see the photos. I went to the city to glare at it with my own eyes. If America is left in ruins, I insist on taking the civic cuck chair and watching.
From Lafayette Park, fences had been erected so that nobody could peep through to the demolition site. The available photos leaked from staff inside the Treasury Department, whose headquarters shares a fence line with the East Wing; the department later told employees to stop sharing the pictures, citing “security.”
If a man feels the need to shield his project from the public eye, I suspect he has a certain guilt about having it be seen naked.
I could not secure a better vantage point. Some lounges, such as VUE, allow a rooftop view of the White House, but they forbid photography. I decided it was a good idea to stop Googling rooftops near the White House.
In my directory of epithets, the ballroom is annotated as “some Marie Antoinette shit.”
On the subject of Versailles, The Atlantic reports that the president has stopped comparing himself to Washington and Lincoln and graduated to Hegel’s three world-historical figures: Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, and Napoleon Bonaparte. A Trump confidant told the magazine that he “wants to be remembered as the one who did things that other people couldn’t do.” History will be less flattering.
I decided against repeating last year’s adventure at the WHCD and loitering in a tuxedo outside the Hilton to talk shit with the other cigarette smokers this year. The checkpoint for entering was at the roadway, and hundreds of black bow-tied and ball-gowned reporters and guests were stuck queued up beside Gaza protesters banging drums and yelling at them with megaphones. It was not the sort of event anybody can get near. It was raining, which made loitering around the city in a tuxedo unattractive. I suppose this was providence, because I was not endangered by the shooting.
When I watched Mr. Trump’s press conference after the event, I noticed many comments, even from MAGA-coded usernames, were unsupportive. “Can’t get fooled again!” “Not buying it!” “Sounds like someone’s polling badly!” Tough crowd. I do not think it was a “false flag,” but this administration has been so greedy and untrustworthy that I understand how you would get that impression.
If this had been an “inside job,” FBI Director Kash Patel—or as I like to call him, “Kush” Patel, because that fool has got to be smoking something—probably would not have staged his long-distance girlfriend (“LDR GF”) Alexis Wilkins in a different room holding another man’s hand.
Meanwhile, brainworm-addled Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. would not have fled with the bodyguards while his wife, Cheryl Hines, struggled to catch up in heels. He might even have had his security transport her out first.
The shooting was real, or these MAGA main characters would have prepared brave, non-embarrassing exits. These men would have had more chivalrous faces if they had time to rehearse.
The shooter, 31-year-old Cole Tomas Allen of Torrance, California, wrote a manifesto, declaring he was “no longer willing to permit a pedophile, rapist, and traitor to coat [his] hands with his crimes.” Weirdly, the note also called attention to the event’s security issues.
“Ok, now that all the sappy stuff is done, what the hell is the Secret Service doing? … No damn security. Not in transport. Not in the hotel. Not in the event.”
If this were a “false flag,” the killer’s last letter would not have reminded America that Mr. Trump was in the Epstein files by calling him a “pedophile, rapist, and traitor.” And Mr. Trump certainly would have been prepared for the question, instead of freaking out on 60 Minutes. (“I’m not a pedophile. Excuse me. Excuse me. I’m not a pedophile. You read that crap from some sick person? I got associated with all— stuff that has nothing to do with me. I was totally exonerated.”) (Sus.)
Mr. Allen came from a well-educated, standard-issue, $25-to-Kamala Harris liberal faction. It worries me when even “normies” feel the gun is the only answer to their problems, and I prayed Mr. Allen’s foolishness would not be used to give Mr. Trump public support for his dystopian agenda. But in fact, nobody cared, and the regime’s “ask” in response, the fucking ballroom, reduced America’s sympathies. Right-wing media figures were “busted” coordinating their messaging in group chats/Slack/Discord—within hours of the shooting, there was an immediate push for the ballroom. It almost made the aftermath of the Charlie Kirk assassination seem less exploitative. No ordinary American gives a shit whether the White House has room for balls when gas is climbing to $5 a gallon, there is an unpopular war in Iran, and the cost-of-living crisis grinds on.
Senators Lindsey Graham, Katie Britt, and Eric Schmitt introduced legislation to authorize $400 million in taxpayer dollars for that fucking ballroom. This somehow rose to $1 billion in a reconciliation package that, thank God, the Senate parliamentarian kicked to the curb like a dog. As a reminder, Mr. Trump initially claimed it would be totally free to the taxpayer—gratis—and paid for entirely with bribes from companies that do business with Mr. Trump and his government, such as Lockheed Martin (which received $33.4 billion in federal contracts in 2025), Google (which diverted $22 million of a Trump settlement directly into the ballroom fund), Palantir (Peter Thiel is evil and Alex Karp is insane), and Amazon (who let democracy die in darkness). If this were a false flag, it would be less embarrassing if the endgame were instantiating a police state, not an event venue.
This is not an “eat the rich” thing. I do not think any people should be cannibalized. I believe tax rates for the wealthy Americans should be higher, and the rich ought to exercise more prudence and forgo excess salaries when their employees and the general public are suffering. I think inequality sucks and flaunting it is worse, but violence is no answer. An upper class who fears everybody else will, instead of improving my standard of living, separate themselves from the America they mistreat.
Which is exactly what Mr. Trump’s bunker does. It creates a world where future White House events are cordoned behind drone-proof windows, away from We the People. Funny—during the 2020 George Floyd protests in DC, Mr. Trump retreated to the East Wing bunker, and, after being snitched on, demanded that whoever leaked his retreat be charged with “treason.” A few years later, Bunker Bitch wants his bunker to be fancy and full of frippery.
Some commentators seemed surprisingly shocked at how blasé the public was about the WHCD shooting—24 hours later, the only people still engaging with the story (who were not in a position to attend media galas) were trying to debunk it. Even 13 percent of Mr. Trump’s supporters report being convinced he staged the shooting himself.
This should not be shocking. The Dinner is more lux shit—a tuxedoed affair where media and politicians enjoy roasts and toasts. The event’s attendees, media and politician alike, are not sympathetic characters. Had it gone well, Mr. Trump would have given a lie-crammed performance insulting and debasing reporters who could not roast him back. Same as every fucking press conference he does.
Nobody died. The only injury was to a single Secret Service agent. Even Mr. Allen lived. There was nothing for the average American to be stressed by. This would not have happened if we had a ballroom, every MAGA shill drummed, but nothing happened. There was nothing to grieve. The crisis was averted without a ballroom.
I want this country’s leadership to be less insulated. A president should occasionally be among the people. I long for the late President Richard Nixon wandering DC at night. Why can’t Mr. Trump, instead of sundowning and shitposting? Mr. Nixon saw the real world with his real eyes.
Mr. Trump does not receive information from our world. When gas was north of $3 a gallon (the good, old days!) he bragged it was $2. He genuinely believes that Americans show identification cards to purchase groceries. He claims to have reduced drug prices by 600 percent, because he has his own, bullshit way of doing percentages. The president asserts a fictional universe, and worse, would construct that cocoon around his successors.
Mr. Trump’s political success has been attributed to his rallies, where he made himself a presence among his base. He was not so distant as a “typical” politician—if his supporters wanted to see him live, they could generally find a way. He held more than 300 rallies during the 2016 campaign, more than 110 events during his first term, dozens of “Save America” rallies between 2021 and announcing again in 2023, and around 50 events during the 2024 campaign. Now he rambles at whoever he has held hostage. Comparatively, since Mr. Trump’s second inauguration, the president has held only 13 rallies. I suspect he does not get outside much because his feet hurt, a result of his chronic venous insufficiency.
While Mr. Trump gilds his own world and raises statues to his “victories,” America deteriorates. Monuments are for victories or memorials, but Mr. Trump has not earned the nation victories. America is spiritually, morally, and fiscally bankrupt. We are likely insolvent—our national debt exceeds GDP, and our long-range budgeting expected an interest rate lower than reality’s. Meanwhile, we give government contracts to Mr. Trump’s friends and children, allow his allies to scoop money from the Treasury through unopposed settlements for “restitution,” and let the FBI director piss away the nation’s treasure to impress his LDR GF.
To my shame, at the onset of the second Trump administration, I thought myself charitable and clever for writing a letter recommending that Mr. Trump devote himself to architecture and acts of creation—my thought was that regardless of my opinion of the man, we were stuck with him for four years, so I would prefer he spent his time decorating instead of bankrupting us. Los Angeles needed rebuilding after the wildfires. The Inflation Reduction Act had already secured plenty of money; Mr. Trump would have to do the execution. Instead, the president tried to withhold money for Maryland’s Key Bridge and The Hudson tunnels between New Jersey and New York. Mr. Trump the Builder was an archetype that could have made his presidency survivable.
No such luck. DOGE laid off hundreds of thousands of federal workers, and the Big Bitch Bill slashed Affordable Care Act supplemental premium assistance bare, causing millions of Americans to become uninsured. Penny-pinching aimed at Social Security disability recipients is being plotted.
For what has the health and wealth of this nation been sacrificed? Where is the golden age that these cuts were supposed to fund? America has thrown away Americans to run its “AI race,” which has not given every American a leg up; it has given us more bills. Electricity costs are rising uncontrollably across the country, thanks to data centers, and companies are crediting AI for layoffs while tech CEOs promise more economic disruption and job displacement. Motherfuckers, at least pretend you have a plan past sending us to the mines. A golden age whose victory conditions cost us our jobs, wellness, and raise our costs, too. And Mr. Trump thinks that for this, he deserves a statue and a ballroom and all his dream home bullshit?
If the president’s heart were not so set on it, I would have given up the fight over the ballroom. I think Bill Kristol is right. Given how badly the orange clown wants this, I think the National Trust for Historic Preservation should continue to fight in court just for spite, to send a message that you cannot tear down the White House, cannot bulldoze first and submit a design second. Civic infrastructure must not be held hostage by men who ask for forgiveness instead of permission. The East Wing is gone and it must be rebuilt—but it need not be rebuilt by this president, according to his designs. It is not his to redesign.
I hope the Trust wins and the building that replaces the East Wing is more reasonable than the one proposed. I would love it if the lawsuit delayed the project so that the next president can instead build their ideal mansion, and Mr. Trump never gets to enjoy it. Let the rubble be the only monument Mr. Trump earns here.
As even drivers of little compact cars are paying nearly $50 to fill their tanks, Mr. Trump claimed he does not even think about the personal finance of the average American. Meanwhile, he made millions of dollars trading stocks in February based on his own policies. We have no guarantee those policies were made in the best interest of the country if they personally profited the man. Speaker Mike Johnson, or MAGA Mike, as they call him in the club, recently praised insider trading as necessary compensation for Congress, and this has most decent Americans rightly pissed, but the president, too?
What troubles me most about this unobfuscated corruption is that nobody seems worried about being caught anymore. Do these villains presume they will never have to repay the country they defrauded?
“Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Ozymandias is not an obscure work of literature. If the so-called defenders of Western civilization and culture within the Trump administration were well-versed in the Western canon, they would not be so intent on recreating all of its historical hubrises.
Mr. Trump is proud that gold statues are sculpted in his honor—does he really not understand that they will not be viewed as great works? They will be the historical record of his vanity. How embarrassing for him. A man who celebrates himself will not be judged positively for the magnitude of his celebration—even genuine accomplishments will seem like failures beside his peacockery. Mr. Trump may rank among history’s greats, but as history’s greatest fool, and unless the effects of his reign are rectified this time, the American decline he presides over will be viewed as one of history’s great tragedies.
We have no reason to allow Mr. Trump’s vanity or greed for legacy, no reason to let him profit from America while leaving its people poor. We cannot embrace, endorse, or tolerate his taste for gold. There is nothing that this man can give us that would be worth this bullshit. My proposal is the same as it ever was: Impeach, convict, remove. In their hearts, a majority of Republicans wish they could. But until the thoroughly cucked and debased GOP acquires balls, instead of ballrooms, it is the job of Democrats to stymie Mr. Trump’s avarice at every opportunity, and then we should make our own monument, a tribute to America, righted.