Once upon a time, a fact was a fact. A lie was a lie. And calling someone out for corruption, fraud, or authoritarian lunacy was at least the beginning of a conversation.
But now? Now we live in the age of the magic incantation—a spell cast with two words that instantly erase accountability, deflect truth, and keep the flock hypnotized while their shepherd walks them straight into the fire:
“Fake news.”
That’s it. That’s the spell. No need to explain. No need to refute. No need to engage. Just say “fake news,” and presto—the truth disappears, reality is suspended, and the naked emperor gets to parade through the streets while his followers ooh and ahh at the jiggle of his power.
This is not just delusion. It’s not just ignorance. It’s a willful, weaponized rejection of reality—and it’s working.
The Death of Truth by Catchphrase
“Fake news” used to mean something. It referred to actual disinformation, the kind crafted in troll farms and designed to manipulate. But Trump—like any good snake oil peddler—took the phrase, slapped it on anything he didn’t like, and handed it to his followers like a get-out-of-thinking-free card.
Caught lying?
Fake news.
Caught abusing power?
Fake news.
Caught inciting violence, cheating taxes, hoarding classified documents, or trying to overturn an election?
You already know the answer.
He doesn’t have to disprove anything. He just has to say it’s false.
And his supporters—bless their Kool-Aid-soaked hearts—nod along, as if that two-word chant has divine authority. As if it’s not the most transparent cop-out in modern political history.
This is what happens when we treat facts and opinions as interchangeable.
When reality becomes a buffet and everyone gets to choose their own version.
And when someone comes along who understands how to exploit that weakness with confidence, volume, and repetition—you get Trump. And worse, you get what follows him.
The Emperor Has No Fucking Clothes—And They’re Applauding His Fat Ass
Let’s be perfectly clear: Donald Trump is naked.
Not just morally. Not just legally.
Philosophically. Ethically. Intellectually. Spiritually. Naked.
Every time he opens his mouth, he strips away more integrity from the office he once held. Every lie, every tantrum, every grotesque lie-soaked rally is another glimpse of a man so devoid of shame that he might as well be mooning democracy itself.
And his followers?
They love it.
They don’t care that he’s bare-assed and bloated with ego.
They don’t care that he’s spitting on the Constitution while wrapping himself in a flag.
They don’t care that every accusation is a confession, and every defense is a dodge.
Because he gives them the only thing they really want: permission to be just like him.
Loud. Entitled. Wrong—and proud of it.
And when confronted, when asked to explain, when forced to look at the wreckage left in their wake, they simply sneer:
“Fake news.”
The Real Danger: It’s Not Just Trump—It’s the Spell
Trump is a symptom. The disease is epistemic rot—the collapse of a shared reality. And “fake news” is the virus’s most elegant delivery mechanism.
We now live in a country where:
• Objective truth is up for negotiation.
• Experts are dismissed as elitist.
• Journalism is treated as propaganda, and propaganda as truth.
• And the loudest voice in the room gets to rewrite reality, as long as it ends with the phrase “fake news.”
It’s not just Trump’s followers who are caught in this spell—it’s the nation.
Break the Spell or Be Ruled by Delusion
There is no reasoning with someone who treats facts like feelings and truth like an inconvenience. There is no debate when one side believes they can shout “fake news” and reality folds to their will. That’s not democracy. That’s not discourse.
That’s a cult.
And unless we drag this country back to a place where words mean something, where facts matter, and where a naked emperor is called what he is—a delusional fraud with a bloated ego and an adoring, brainwashed mob—then we will lose not just the truth, but the ability to ever find it again.
The next time someone waves off corruption, crime, or cruelty with “fake news,” remember:
It’s not a rebuttal. It’s a confession.
And Trump’s flock of sycophants stare at the lies, eyes wide and vacant, cooing like cultists as he waddles through the wreckage, their applause echoing off the emperor’s fat, sagging ass like a jackboot cadence call for the brainwashed.