For a man obsessed with power, there is no greater tragedy than public laughter. Donald J. Trump, emperor of grievance and self-regard, is discovering that nothing punctures an authoritarian fantasy quite like an inflatable frog.
It began as performance art in Portland: protesters wrapped in vinyl and battery-powered fans, waddling down the street in bulbous animal suits while federal agents glared from behind visors. The contrast was too perfect—cartoon absurdity versus armored self-importance. The optics screamed, “Your fear campaign is now a parade float.”
Trump, of course, could have ignored it. But this is a man who sees mockery as mortal sin. So he began muttering about the Insurrection Act, a 200-year-old emergency law designed for rebellions, not inflatable hippos. You can almost hear the whine in his voice: “They’re disrespecting the troops… with frogs.”
A STRONGMAN’S WORST NIGHTMARE
Every autocrat dreams of control, but none can survive ridicule. The frogs have become his mirror. They reflect back the one truth his courtiers dare not whisper: that he looks ridiculous when he tries to look strong.
The more he demands “law and order,” the more the images betray him—federal agents facing off against inflatable unicorns, Marines guarding office parks from dancing dinosaurs. He wants to look like Grant at Appomattox; but he looks more like the world’s most inept zookeeper.
JD Vance, dutiful hype-man, calls it “crime out of control.” The courts call it nonsense—judges have already ruled that no credible rebellion exists in Illinois or Oregon. But to Trump, rebellion is any act that refuses to kneel. A rubber chicken is rebellion. A laugh is rebellion. A meme is treason.
LAW AND ORDER AS STAGECRAFT
He’s already test-driving the Insurrection Act by proxy: shipping National Guard units from friendly red states into blue cities under obscure legal subclauses, hoping no one notices the constitutional smell. It’s not governance; it’s stage direction.
In his mind, the cameras will show triumphant soldiers reclaiming the streets. In reality, the split screen will show a soldier on one side and a seven-foot cartoon toad on the other—and the soundtrack will be the collective wheeze of the toad’s battery fan.
This isn’t a war; it’s an ego drama, and the props department is running wild.
THE FRAGILITY BEHIND THE FURY
Trump’s problem has always been the same: he mistakes spectacle for strength. His base cheers the image of dominance, but dominance is fragile when it depends on keeping everyone afraid. The inflatable protesters are fearless precisely because they’ve made the situation absurd. You can’t terrify a man who’s laughing through a frog suit.
Authoritarianism thrives on dread; humor is its acid. From the Dadaists under Mussolini to the clowns who mocked Soviet censors, mockery has always been the resistance’s secret weapon. America’s version just happens to squeak when it walks.
THE BREAK-THE-GLASS OPTION
If Trump actually invokes the Insurrection Act, he’ll own every consequence. The courts will challenge it, generals may balk, and history will file it under “Presidents Who Panicked.” It’s one thing to threaten rebellion; it’s another to send the 82nd Airborne to arrest Kermit.
The moment soldiers are seen detaining people in inflatable costumes, the pretense of authority collapses. What began as a swaggering show of power would become the ultimate meme: the Commander-in-Chief, undone by polyester comedy.
A CLOWN KING CORNERED
And that’s the tragedy of this presidency—it keeps mistaking laughter for weakness. The protesters understand that ridicule can move mountains. They’ve turned the streets into living cartoons of dissent, and the more ridiculous they get, the more serious the panic becomes in Washington.
The President wanted to look like a general. Instead, he looks like a man losing an argument to a frog.
He can summon troops, invoke 19th-century laws, and wrap himself in flags—but he can’t silence a joke. The batteries in those costumes will die before the laughter does.
At Closer to the Edge, we’ve always said humor is the final firewall of democracy. If the President wants a fight, he’ll have to wrestle the inflatable resistance—and history’s already placing bets on the frog.
This post has been syndicated from Closer to the Edge, where it was published under this address.