We’re Feeling Cute, Might Incommode Later. IDK.

It’s just before noon in Washington, D.C., and somewhere inside the White House, Donald J. Trump is already on his third Diet Coke, barking orders at a television that no longer respects him. His aides are sweating. The press office is rewriting the word “graffiti” to sound like bio-terrorism. The Secret Service is Googling “can chalk be weaponized.”

They’ve heard what’s coming.

Because today is May Day — and the sidewalks are about to fight back.

Not with fire. Not with force. But with chalk.

Washable. Temporary. Damning.

The Incommodocalypse Is Upon Us

From coast to coast, a slow-rolling uprising is about to unfold — one insult at a time. Protesters are packing sidewalk chalk, not zip ties. Sketchpads, not tear gas. And yet the terror in Trump’s orbit is real.

They know what satire can do.

By sundown, the Supreme Court steps will likely bear the words:

“TRUMP IS THE REASON WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.”

On courthouse walls:

“I INCOMMODE, THEREFORE I AM.”

And outside Mar-a-Lago, if we’re lucky:

“FEELING CUTE. MIGHT DEPORT YOUR EGO.”

This isn’t vandalism. It’s cartoon justice.

Satire Is Violence — To His Ego

The Trump regime can tolerate cruelty, corruption, even coup attempts. But what it cannot tolerate — what it fears most — is mockery. Mockery breaks the illusion. It punctures the myth. It leaves stains no power washer can erase.

He’s not afraid of protesters. He’s afraid of being laughed at.

He’s afraid someone will draw him as a bloated toddler riding a nuclear warhead into a puddle labeled “Hurt Feelings.” He’s afraid of a chalk outline of the White House shaped like a clown car. He’s afraid of the truth when it rhymes — or worse, when it trends.

And he should be.

Because satire travels faster than spin. And chalk, for all its softness, doesn’t flinch.

This Isn’t Civil Disobedience. It’s Civil Pettiness. And It Works.

Let’s be absolutely clear: incommoding is no longer a misdemeanor. It’s a movement.

It means standing where you were told not to.

It means writing what they can’t stomach — and doing it in bubble letters.

It means disrupting a regime not with fire, but with comedy. With shade. With washable rage.

The fear isn’t about chalk.

It’s about the message.

And the message is this:

“We see you. We will continue to ridicule you. And we will gladly be the pebble in your fascist shoe until you trip, fall, and eat pavement on live TV.”

So today, the streets will speak — not in chants, but in captions. In curses. In glorious, temporary blasphemies.

And somewhere on a courthouse wall, someone will write the words that perfectly capture the mood of a collapsing empire:

“We’re feeling cute. Might incommode the entire authoritarian nightmare before dinner. IDK.”

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