What’s it like, Mike—to be the mouthpiece for an infantile tyrant, to have to stand in front of the press and lie your ass off and feign outrage and put lipstick on a pig, day after day?

What’s it like to have to spew the party line on a regular basis, even if deep inside you might be wondering if what you’re doing is pleasing your God, or pissing Him off? It must be stressful for you, must get confusing every now and then.

Here’s what many of us want to know: Why do you keep doing it? Do you ever feel like you’re being played, or that you were chosen because you could play the role of Yes Man so well?

Do you really love your God, Mike? Do you have a conscience? If you do, it must be taxed constantly by the weight of the ignominious position you’ve put yourself in. How do you think this ends, Mike?

Does it end well for anybody?

The No Kings rallies across the country were a sign of life, but I have to wonder if they even register on Trump’s radar. Nothing appears to rattle him, ultimately. He may get hot under the collar, say or do something infantile, find people to add to his enemies list, but the bigger picture still includes an intentionality and momentum that can’t be quashed by much of anything. He seems to be able to use any potential attack or criticism as some sort of fuel.

The rallies themselves looked to be jovial and upbeat, not quite parties in the streets, displays of conscience and creativity, anger and wit with regard to sign creation. I do believe there was and is an undercurrent of seriousness, and efforts that reflect an understanding that these gatherings move beyond just something to do on a Saturday afternoon.

I can’t help but think, though, that these demonstrations are one incident away from turning into something way more somber and costly, that the rubber may soon meet the road when it comes to confronting the menace that is Trump and the rest of the players around him.

The sad fact is that, in the worst way, Trump wants to stay where he is. He sees challenges coming to his power in the 2026 midterms, so steps are already being taken to minimize that damage. And who doesn’t think he won’t find some lame excuse or tenuous loophole to warrant a run for a third term in 2028?

The demonstrations can’t stop, and people need to realize that they aren’t always going to be just big, fun gatherings of sign wavers and cheap shots and people dressed in inflatable costumes.

Did you happen to see the quick interview on Air Force One the other day when Trump was asked about the No Kings rallies? He dismissed them, and said, in a snide sort of way, that he was no king—in a manner and tone of voice that could be taken less as assurance and more as a thinly-veiled threat: he views himself as someone much more sinister, and much less benevolent, than a king.

Maybe next year, Donald.

Your perennial efforts at securing a Nobel Peace Prize will have to wait until at least 2026. But don’t give up! If things keep going the way they’re going, maybe by this time next year you will have scratched enough backs, remembered enough previous favors, and dabbled in delusion and outright lying often enough to have stopped every major and minor conflict anywhere in the world. And someone will have compiled a list of these achievements so the folks on the committee have a quick reference tool and will be duly impressed by all the great work you’ve been doing. Single-handedly, no less. The Jeffrey Epstein files will be a faded memory.

Trouble is, there will be people who actually understand the difficulty of protracted, historically messy and ferocious differences of opinion, and who will express doubt about the ease with which you operate and claim victory. There will be questions concerning an actual framework for sustainable peace with long-term provisions. And of course, there will be consideration of the source—you. Your biggest detriment will always be you, and the mystifyingly loyal mouthpieces groveling at your feet. Because you’re a bombastic, sniveling crybaby who needs to be constantly stroked and fed and only sees dollar signs.

And maybe your secrets are catching up with you.

Peace? Real peace? You couldn’t care less about it. You have no idea what it is or how to achieve it. You just want to grab the headlines and the bling, and to wave it all in President Obama’s face.

All this while the country you’re supposed to be leading and inspiring rots in place. Because of you. On your watch, and that of the deceived and delusional brain trust propping you up.

We’ve joined the masses who have rented a dumpster and contributed some poundage to the local landfill. I’ll admit that it’s a somewhat guilt-ridden experience, but it’s also kind of freeing—no bagging everything up and waiting for trash day. You just throw it in the dumpster—pieces of the shed you’re tearing down, contents of the shed you’re tearing down, other junk you’ve kept that you didn’t know what to do with.

Everything goes. Well, except those little Coleman propane canisters you’ve had sitting around forever, rusting away. Apparently, they’re as toxic as uranium.