SIT DOWN, DIAPER DON.

THE REVOLUTION DOESN’T NEED YOUR PERMISSION.

It’s April 19th, 2025 — 250 years since a farmer in Lexington stared down an empire, cocked his musket, and lit the spark that became a revolution. The British crown called it treason. We called it freedom.

And today, Donald J. Trump — a flailing, fraudulent, fascist sack of wet laundry — dares to call us illegal?

Fuck that. And fuck you, Don.

You do not speak for this country.
You speak for fear. For cowards. For bootlickers who traded their spines for red hats and a kiss on the forehead from a man who can’t spell “honor” without autocorrect.

You want to talk about illegality?
You, a man indicted more times than some people vote?

You, who tried to extort Ukraine like a mob boss running out of teeth?
You, who incited an insurrection, promised pardons for traitors, and then hid in your gilded panic room while the Capitol bled?

You call peaceful protest “illegal” while your fingerprints are still fresh on the Constitution you tried to shred.

This isn’t just hypocrisy. This is projection — the last desperate shriek of a bloated man-child drowning in his own irrelevance. You are not a leader. You are not a president. You are not even a man in the fullest sense of the word. You are a soggy diaper stapled to the seat of American history, stinking up every institution you touch and crying when someone tries to clean it up.

Your threats — to expel students, defund colleges, deport protestors — mean nothing. You are a relic of rot, a monument to the worst of us. You wanted a cult. We gave you resistance. You wanted obedience. We gave you hell.

You can’t jail a revolution. You can’t deport dissent. You can’t silence a country that still remembers what freedom smells like.

While you were busy fingerpainting on Truth Social with your ketchup-covered rage, real Americans were building movements.

Organizing.

Marching.

Voting.

Defying.

We are millions deep. We are in every state. We are on every street. We are professors and nurses, cashiers and coders, veterans and teenagers. We are queer and straight, Black and white, Muslim, Jewish, atheist, immigrant, indigenous. We are what you fear most: united in rage and ready for war — not with guns, but with truth and memory and moral fire.

And no, we’re not backing down. We’re not playing by the rules of a game rigged by oligarchs and fascists. We are done pretending your proclamations hold power. You’re not an emperor. You’re a child playing dress-up in daddy’s suit, hoping nobody notices the Velcro on your shoes and the pudding in your lap.

You want to talk about masks? You wore a mask your whole life — the mask of strength, of success, of manhood. But we see the sweat underneath. We see the fear. We see the petulant little boy who was never loved enough, stomping his feet in front of the mirror, screaming at the world for not giving him what he thinks he’s owed.

You aren’t strong, Don.

You’re weak.

You’re breakable.

You’re glass painted gold.

And now the cracks are showing.

So take your fascist cosplay and your trembling ego, and go sit on JD Vance’s fainting couch. Wipe the sweat from your jowls, adjust your diaper, and try not to cry when history leaves you behind — again. You’ll be sitting there alone with your blimp-sized insecurities while the rest of us flood the streets, fists in the air, fire in our lungs, chanting not just “Hands Off!” but “Never Again.”

And if you look up, Don — if you dare — you just might see the Baby Trump balloon rising once more, bloated and pathetic, a perfect parody of your legacy.

A rubber monument to your impotence.

Because that’s what you are now: a joke. A punchline. A bloated symbol of everything we’re rising against.

You tried to scare us.

You failed.

You tried to rule us.

You failed.

You tried to silence us.

And now we’re louder than ever.

So fuck your proclamations.

Fuck your petty tyranny.

Fuck your diapers, your blimps, your bans, your bigotry, and your bankrupt soul.

The shot has already been fired, Don.
And it was not heard from Mar-a-Lago.

It came from the streets.

From the people.

From us.

We are the revolution now.

And you?

You’re just the thing we had to overthrow to find ourselves again.

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