On September 11, 2001, Rudy Giuliani stood in the smoke and ruin of lower Manhattan, a man cloaked in ash and authority, walking the streets as cameras captured his calm commands. He was everywhere — at Ground Zero, at press briefings, at funerals. The nation looked to him and saw resilience carved into human form. The mayor of New York became, overnight, “America’s Mayor,” a figure of tragedy and toughness, the man who held a grieving country together when its president hid in bunkers and airbases. For that brief window of history, he was the symbol of resolve, and his name carried the weight of steel.
And then came everything after.
Fast-forward to October 2020, before the ballots were even tallied. On the 23rd of that month, Borat Subsequent Moviefilm premiered, and with it, Giuliani’s grotesque cameo. In a Manhattan hotel room, sprawled on a bed with a decoy “reporter,” his hand buried deep in his pants, Giuliani delivered the first act of his farce. He insisted later he was “tucking in his shirt,” but nobody tucks like that. It wasn’t just pathetic — it was prophecy, a grotesque preview of the clown show to come.
Two weeks later, on November 7, America got the second act. As every major network declared Joe Biden the winner, Giuliani promised a press conference at the Four Seasons. What the country got was Four Seasons Total Landscaping, a gravel lot on the industrial fringe of Philadelphia, wedged between a crematorium and a porn shop. The mayor who once led a city through terror was now ranting next to lawnmowers and bagged mulch while a dildo shop’s neon glowed in the distance. Democracy wasn’t on the line — it was already six feet under.
By November 19, the farce turned grotesque. At the Republican National Committee headquarters in Washington, Giuliani ranted about dead dictators hacking machines while the heat of the lights betrayed him. Black rivulets began to pour down his face — dye, mascara, spray-on vanity, whatever chemical soup he’d smeared on his skull. It didn’t matter what it was. What mattered was the image: credibility melting in real time, dripping down his cheeks as the cameras rolled. America’s Mayor had become a wax dummy left too close to the sun.
And then, December 2 in Michigan, came the final exhale of dignity. Seated before the state legislature, blustering about “suitcases” of phantom ballots, Giuliani punctuated his own testimony with two unmistakable bursts of flatulence. The microphones caught it. The stenographers clenched their jaws. The lawmakers stared at the table, pretending the country’s former mayor hadn’t just farted his way into history. It was the only honest sound to leave his body that day, and it became his epitaph.
Through it all, Giuliani went deeper into delusion. He stood before crowds and promised “trial by combat.” He howled about “suitcases” of ballots, about ghosts and servers and foreign plots that never existed. His job title was lawyer, but his role was hype man for an insurrection. On January 6, 2021, his words helped light the fuse. The lawman of the 1980s had become the arsonist of American democracy.
The collapse wasn’t private. It was televised. The Borat sting became his grotesque prelude. The landscaping lot became his mausoleum. The dye became his scarlet letter. The fart became his epitaph. Each humiliation was replayed, meme’d, and carved into memory. His career didn’t decline; it decomposed, a time-lapse of rot broadcast live.
The courts came next. Giuliani defamed two Georgia election workers, painting them as criminals and unleashing mobs on their lives. They fought back, and the verdict was annihilation: $148 million. The figure wasn’t a judgment; it was a guillotine. Giuliani didn’t have it, never could, so he crawled into bankruptcy court, listing his Mercedes convertible, his jewelry, his condo — each item pried away like organs in a living autopsy. The mob-buster of the 1980s was reduced to a yard sale of shame.
And then the law itself cast him out. In 2024, New York disbarred him. Washington, D.C. disbarred him. The robes of justice he had once wrapped himself in were torn away. He was no longer a lawyer, not even a clown pretending to be one. He was a fraud, stamped permanently by the very system he once wielded. His name no longer carried authority. It carried stench.
Indictments piled on. Georgia charged him. Arizona charged him. He shuffled into courthouses that once bowed to him, now lit by fluorescents that exposed every bead of sweat. He muttered “not guilty” as if denial could erase years of televised rot. A trial awaits in 2026, but the verdict has already been written in public consciousness. Guilty — of lies, of ruin, of farting his way out of history.
When he wasn’t in court, he was begging. He stiffed his own lawyers until they sued him. He tried suing Hunter Biden and got laughed out the door. He filed nonsense suits against Joe Biden and was tossed out on his ass. He turned his voice into a tin cup, rattling for donations on podcasts, selling birthday greetings on Cameo like a washed-up Vegas lounge act no one wanted to book. America’s Mayor had become America’s panhandler.
Then, as if fate wanted symmetry, his body collapsed too. In 2025, he wrecked his car in New Hampshire. Bones splintered, vertebra cracked, he was left physically broken to match the ruins of his reputation. For a moment, pity flickered. Trump smothered it. The President announced that Rudy Giuliani — bankrupt, disbarred, disgraced, farting his way into history — would receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom. The highest civilian honor, once pinned on Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr., now dangled like a participation trophy for a man remembered only for dye streaks and disgrace. It wasn’t honor. It was mockery lacquered in gold. It was Trump pinning a medallion on a carcass and calling it patriotism.
So this is what remains of Rudy Giuliani. Not marble. Not bronze. Not speeches, not leadership, not myth. What remains is a puddle of hair dye on a podium, a fart echoing in a Michigan chamber, a press conference between porn and ashes, a grotesque Borat cameo, a bankruptcy docket, a disbarment order, and a Medal of Freedom dangled like a toilet seat around his neck. He began as America’s Mayor. He ends as America’s cautionary odor.
And when history exhales, it will not speak his name in reverence. It will wrinkle its nose, wave its hand, and remember only the stink.
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I was there when 9/11 happened. He came out on the 3rd day after the hit. Bush, Cheney, him … all hiding. The only person that was out there giving orders and controlling things were the then senator Hillary Clinton.
Yet another brilliant example-everything Trump touched turns to crap-in Guiliani’s case well it is well deserved. I also had a moment of pity hearing about his accident then, of course I read the statement his office put out versus the sheriff’s department and I thought even at this he’s still lying.