The Leopard Was Always Going to Eat Your Face
Trump Didn’t “Change”. The Idiots Who Defended Him Just Finally Ended Up on the Menu.
You know what I’m fucking sick of?
Waking up every goddamn morning, opening my phone, and finding another one of the boot-licking, knob-polishing, self-respect-auctioning little fame vampires who spent ten years elbowing each other bloody for the coveted position of Assistant Regional Manager of Donald Trump’s ass suddenly sitting in front of a microphone acting like they’ve uncovered shocking new evidence that water is wet, gravity exists, and the leopard they’ve been hand-feeding porterhouse steaks for the last decade might have a bit of a biting problem.
Every day it’s somebody new.
Megyn Kelly.
Tucker Carlson.
Alex Jones.
Marjorie Taylor Greene.
Shawn Ryan.
Another podcast. Another interview. Another public performance of How Could This Have Happened To Me?
Or, more specifically:
I Didn’t Think the Leopard Would Eat MY Face!
A mystery for the ages.
Last week Marjorie Taylor Greene announced that Donald Trump had changed.
“We never changed,” she wrote. “Trump did.”
Megyn Kelly showed up on Shawn Ryan’s podcast and started lamenting how disappointed she was. Tucker Carlson told the Wall Street Journal he felt betrayed. Alex Jones is now talking about interventions and the Twenty-Fifth Amendment.
Everybody’s shocked.
Oh, fuck off.
No.
Absolutely not.
Donald Trump didn’t change.
Donald Trump didn’t “fool” you.
Donald Trump didn’t suddenly wake up one morning and become a vindictive, transactional, self-obsessed con man after spending the previous seventy-nine years as some beloved, cardigan-wearing, civic-minded folk hero quietly and humbly wandering the countryside.
This wasn’t a man who rose with the sun, jogged a brisk 5K through dew-covered meadows to the local strawberry farm, gathered organic berries for his world-famous mixed-berry scones, baked them for the women at a homeless shelter, brushed Melania’s hair, played catch with Barron in a sun-dappled field, spent an hour reading Nietzsche and Tolstoy, rescued three-legged greyhounds, taught underprivileged children how to build birdhouses, and finished the evening quietly reflecting on the moral obligations of citizenship while hand-knitting scarves for wounded veterans.
For fuck’s sake.
This is Donald Trump we’re talking about.
The man has been Donald Trump since disco.
This is a man who turned greed into a personality trait and self-pity into a business model. A man who spent decades marinating in vanity, revenge fantasies, tabloid attention, fake gold, real fraud, and the kind of bottomless need for validation usually associated with toddlers and minor European monarchies.
The business fraud.
The convicted felon.
The adjudicated rapist.
The charity thief.
The fake university founder.
The disability mocker.
The pussy grabber.
The insurrection inciter.
The cemetery-insulting, self-mythologizing avatar of appetite and ego.
The gold-plated monument to insecurity.
The human embodiment of fake-it-till-you-make-it stretched beyond the structural limits of reality.
The man who looked at sacrifice, service, expertise, decency, and responsibility and somehow concluded those were everybody else’s jobs.
Nothing about this was hidden. Nothing about this required investigative journalism, cryptography, sonar equipment, or a séance with the ghost of Walter Cronkite.
The evidence wasn’t buried.
It was strutting around in broad daylight wearing a sandwich board and firing a confetti cannon.
The evidence was the entire fucking show.
And they didn’t care.
They didn’t care when he mocked a disabled reporter, bragged about grabbing women by the pussy, or transformed public indecency into a personality cult. They didn’t care when he attacked Gold Star families, demeaned a prisoner of war, or treated military sacrifice with all the reverence of a guy complaining about slow valet service.
They didn’t care when he skipped dignified transfers, insulted the war dead, stuffed classified documents into a bathroom, stole from a children’s cancer charity, ran a fake university, or treated contractors the way a tornado treats patio furniture.
They didn’t care when a pandemic ripped through the country. They didn’t care when he shrugged through mass death. They didn’t care when he incited a violent attack on the Capitol because his ego collapsed under the unbearable burden of not winning something.
They watched.
They cheered.
They defended it.
They explained it.
They monetized it.
Hell, some of them built entire careers on it.
Because he hated who they hated.
He mocked who they mocked.
He sneered where they sneered.
He pointed at the people they’d spent years blaming for their disappointments, their insecurities, their stagnation, their unhappiness and said, there.
And that was enough.
More than enough.
Megyn Kelly wasn’t fooled. This is the same man who publicly suggested she was bleeding out of her wherever on national television, and she spent the next decade hanging around the edges of the carnival anyway, like somebody getting hit in the face with the same rake every morning and concluding the rake was sending mixed signals.
Lady, the stove was on fire when you bought the fucking house.
Megyn Kelly talks about Donald Trump the way somebody talks about an ex who stole their car, emptied their checking account, slept with their cousin, set the drapes on fire, and left them standing barefoot in a Waffle House parking lot holding a bag of wet receipts.
“I thought he’d be different.”
Different from what?
Himself?
Tucker Carlson now says he feels betrayed, which is rich coming from a guy who spent a decade standing knee-deep in Trump’s verbal sewage with a butterfly net, carefully fishing out whatever partially decomposed thought happened to float past and presenting it to his audience like he’d discovered the Rosetta Stone.
Brother, you weren’t deceived.
You were the fucking publicist.
Marge spent years treating Donald Trump like he was a cross between Jesus Christ, Elvis Presley, and a winning scratch-off ticket somebody found in the pocket of a miracle. She wore the hats, sang the songs, sold the merchandise, and carried enough water for the man to irrigate Nebraska.
This woman didn’t just drink the Kool-Aid.
She was Jim fucking Jones.
Then she dared to demand accountability for the men who raped children alongside Jeffrey Epstein.
That was it.
Apparently accountability for child rapists is where Donald Trump draws the line.
The loyalty only goes one way.
Alex Jones now wants interventions. Alex Jones now wants the Twenty-Fifth Amendment. Alex Jones now speaks about Donald Trump with the bewildered indignation of a man who can’t believe the rabid animal he’s been deep-throating for ten years just ripped a chunk out of his fucking cheek.
Which is remarkable because this is Alex fucking Jones, a partially shaved scrotum masquerading as a neckless thumbprint with a bullhorn who spent years treating every Trump rant, posting binge, verbal pileup, and reality-detached brain eruption like it had descended from the heavens on stone tablets.
Brother, the thing has been foaming at the mouth for a decade. What the fuck did you think was going to happen?
None of these fucking idiots were fooled. Not Megyn, not Tucker, not Marge, not Alex, not Shawn Ryan clutching his little printed list like he found the Ark of the Covenant in a Staples folder. They saw exactly what the rest of us saw. They heard exactly what the rest of us heard. They just didn’t give a shit because none of it was aimed at them.
That’s it.
That’s the whole rotting little truth. The flea-bitten ferret in the fruit bowl everybody could see sitting there.
The mocking, the cruelty, the lies, the bullying, the corruption, the public humiliation, the daily sewer geyser of indecency, all of it was fine as long as it splashed somebody else. As long as immigrants were catching the shrapnel. As long as reporters were getting dragged. As long as election workers were getting death threats. As long as Democrats, trans kids, grieving families, military widows, disabled people, and anybody else they feared, hated, resented, misunderstood, or wanted shoved out of the frame were the ones taking the hit.
None of that shit mattered because they liked the target.
And I already know what’s coming.
Somebody is going to tell me to be gracious.
Somebody is going to tell me to open my arms.
Somebody is going to tell me this is how coalitions grow and movements build and people change.
To which I say: slow the fuck down.
I think it’s fucking great that Marjorie Taylor Greene demanded accountability for Jeffrey Epstein’s victims.
Seriously.
I applaud her for it.
Does that erase a decade spent enabling, defending, normalizing, glorifying, and carrying water for one of the most disgusting political figures in modern American history?
Fuck no.
Both things can be true.
I’m glad Megyn Kelly is furious about Trump’s bullshit with Iran.
Good.
She should be.
And I think it’s fantastic that Shawn Ryan is suddenly asking why everything always seems to benefit Donald Trump, Donald Trump’s children, Donald Trump’s businesses, Donald Trump’s friends, and whatever collection of ass-kissing orbiters happen to be circling the family compound that week.
Fantastic.
Wonderful.
Welcome to 2017.
Where the fuck were those questions when we learned he wasn’t paying taxes? Where the fuck were they when classified documents were stacked in a bathroom? Where the fuck were they when generals, cabinet officials, lawyers, aides, and former administration officials were practically setting themselves on fire trying to warn the country about exactly who this man was?
Some fucking epiphany.
Donald Trump is corrupt?
Donald Trump protects himself before anybody else?
Donald Trump might not actually be the faithful Christian family man they spent years fellating him into being?
Next they’ll discover the psychic at the strip mall isn’t actually talking to Napoleon, that the guy selling miracle boner pills from a folding table outside the flea market isn’t a board-certified physician, and that professional wrestling occasionally takes liberties with reality.
Give me a fucking break.
I’m glad Tucker Carlson feels betrayed. I’m glad Marge finally found a line. I can appreciate people finally waking up without pretending they deserve a medal for sleeping through the alarm. I can be glad they’re finally asking the right questions while being incandescently angry that they helped put us in a position where those questions have to be asked in the first place.
For years they watched him do it to everybody else.
Lawyers.
Advisers.
Generals.
Cabinet secretaries.
Business partners.
Donors.
Supporters.
His own vice president.
For Christ’s sake, the man whipped a mob into a frenzy and pointed it at his own vice president.
They watched him chew people up, spit people out, and leave careers, reputations, friendships, and entire lives scattered across the pavement.
And somehow they always convinced themselves they were special.
The one hand he would never bite.
Not their hand.
Not the hand that fed him.
Then they asked a question he didn’t like.
About Epstein.
About Iran.
About why every road in this story somehow keeps bending back toward Donald Trump and the things Donald Trump needs protected.
And suddenly they found themselves standing exactly where everybody else had been standing all along.
So no, these people are not getting a gold sticker for suddenly waking the fuck up.
They are not getting a participation trophy because Donald Trump eventually shanked them the way he shanks everybody.
They were not innocent bystanders watching this happen.
They were hand-feeding the leopard.
Raw fucking meat.
Immigrants.
People of color.
Trans kids.
Election workers.
School teachers who committed the unforgivable crime of reading a book with two mommies in it.
Reporters.
Judges.
Anybody the leopard seemed interested in chewing on that week.
They fed it.
They encouraged it.
They put bows on it.
They gave it a television show.
They handed it their political party.
They built it a cult.
They spent years assuring everybody that the snarling, pacing, carnivorous fucking leopard wasn’t dangerous at all.
The leopard was patriotism.
The leopard was strength.
The leopard was authenticity.
The leopard was common sense.
The leopard was “telling it like it is.”
And now they’re standing around in stunned disbelief because the leopard got tired of the menu and decided to eat their fucking faces instead.
These fucking idiots.
The leopard was always going to eat their faces.
That’s what leopards do.
Even the stupid, sagging, senile, self-pitying, psychotic sicko ones with gold-plated collars, a lifelong taste for applause, and a habit of mistaking every mirror for a standing ovation.
Especially, them.
And with that, today’s song:
I love you guys! Stay strong, stay safe, and stay the fuck away from that decompensating rabid, “leopard”. 😂
💙 Jo
AND LET’S GO KNICKS!!!!!!
BrooklynDad_Defiant! and I will be live at 2:30 ET today!!! Hope you’ll join us!!
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I use it for my own research because I want the full picture, not the billionaire-approved version of it. And as a woman, I genuinely appreciate that it’s women-founded, which matters in a media landscape still dominated by the same powerful voices.
If you want that too, you can get 40% off the Vantage plan I use right here: 👇
No one can beat you for your clarity describing the Trump debacle. So many saw him for who they thought they needed instead of the person he has always been. You always see through that bullshit. Another fabulous column, JoJo. Go Knicks!
I’m going to get this entire essay tattooed on my back