Let’s not mince words: MAGA is a cult. A cult so devout, so blindly devoted, so surgically detached from reality that if Donald Trump bottled his own urine, slapped a sticker on it, and called it “Victory Stream,” millions would chug it with tears in their eyes and ketchup on their breath.
We’re not being metaphorical. We’re not exaggerating. We’re simply following the trajectory of facts — and the scent trail.
Because this week, the sitting President of the United States — Donald J. Trump, convicted felon and twice-impeached banana republic cosplay dictator — officially launched a luxury fragrance line called Victory 45–47. That’s right. The leader of the free world is now moonlighting as a QVC perfume peddler, selling overpriced cologne and perfume for $249 a bottle, encased in a trophy-like gold statue of himself. It’s the kind of thing Saddam Hussein would’ve rejected as too tacky. Trump posted the promo video himself on Truth Social, smirking like a man who knows exactly what he can get away with — and just did.
This isn’t a parody. It’s a product.
The fragrance is marketed by a Trump-licensed LLC and comes in two varieties: “for men” and “for women,” as if this were 1957 and gender was a checkbox on a hamburger order form. The site boasts of luxury, power, and strength. It says nothing about top notes, scent profile, or olfactory elegance. Because this isn’t about perfume — it’s about worship.
This is $249 worth of authoritarian idolization, atomized and spritzed onto the necks of the gullible. And MAGA is eating it up.
The same crowd that mocked Michelle Obama for encouraging kids to eat vegetables is now proudly lathering themselves in Trump-scented fluids, eager to smell like what they imagine victory does: sweaty desperation with a hint of fast food and fascism.
And if you think that’s where the grift ends? Think again.
Because if Trump announced tomorrow that “Victory Stream” was launching — a drinkable version of his essence, lovingly filtered through Eric’s bladder, enriched with hydroxychloroquine and promises of rapture — it would sell out before dawn. Marjorie Taylor Greene would call it “patriotic electrolytes.” Newsmax would call it “bold.”
This is no longer a political movement. It’s a product line with delusions of grandeur. The White House is just the flagship store. The Constitution? A formality. The laws? Suggestions. The followers? Consumers, hypnotized by gold foil and grievance.
MAGA doesn’t care what it is. If Trump sells it, they’ll take it.
Whether it’s a Trump Bible, a Trump University degree, a fake electors scheme, a $99 NFT, or a literal bottle of piss labeled “Freedom Flow”, they will drink it, wear it, inject it, forward it, and defend it to the death. They would swallow sulfur if he told them it smelled like liberty.
This is how low the bar is. The bar is underground. Buried next to truth, decency, and the last remaining copy of the Presidential Records Act.
So here we are. July 2025.
The President is selling perfume, trying to sell loyalty in a bottle.
And somewhere in a warehouse outside Tampa, Eric Trump is probably peeing into a funnel, humming “God Bless America” like it’s a lullaby for late-stage democracy.
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