This brilliant piece was under the name of [View all]

[PCIntern]

John O’Malley on Facebook:

Donald Trump is going to the Super Bowl. Not because he cares about football, or even understands it beyond “big men smash into each other,” but because he simply cannot bear to be left out of something important. This is a man who would crash a child’s birthday party just to cut the cake himself and then complain that the kid didn’t thank him enough.

And this Super Bowl? Oh, it’s extra personal.

The Kansas City Chiefs are playing against the Philadelphia Eagles—a team Trump has loathed ever since they collectively shrugged at his White House invitation after their 2018 Super Bowl win. To make matters worse, Taylor Swift will be there too, shining like the goddamn North Star in a stadium full of people who actually like her. Which is more than can be said for Trump, whose biggest fans show up either under court order or because they got lost looking for the Monster Truck rally.

Trump hates Taylor Swift. Not just because she endorsed Kamala Harris, but because she is everything he wants to be: beloved, wildly successful, and actually good at what she does. She has the power to sway elections just by existing—whereas Trump has to scream into a golden toilet at 3 a.m. to even get Fox News to notice him anymore.

And now, he has to sit there, rotting in his own bitterness, while the cameras pan to Taylor every time Travis Kelce does something cool on the field. He’ll be trapped in his luxury suite like a bloated orange Dracula, forced to watch as America showers attention on someone who didn’t have to pay hush money to get there.

Let’s talk about the Eagles.

Philadelphia is the one city in America that hates Trump more than New York. They booed Santa Claus. They threw batteries at a guy dressed as the Easter Bunny. If Trump so much as steps within city limits, the Liberty Bell itself will crack even further out of sheer disgust. He disinvited the Eagles from the White House in 2018, pretending it was his choice, but the reality was clear: they were never going to show up to begin with. That level of rejection still haunts him. And now, if the Eagles win, he’ll have to sit through another moment of their triumph, looking like a guy who just got his golf course repossessed.

But if the Chiefs win? Oh, buddy. That means Swift—his sworn mortal enemy, the woman who has everything he desperately wants—will be front and center in the biggest celebration of the year. And Trump will be left watching, powerless, as she hugs Kelce, laughs, and reminds America why she’s an actual icon while he’s just some old man yelling at clouds.

There is no outcome where Trump walks away from this night happy. If the Eagles win, he’ll melt down about how the NFL is rigged against him, as if Roger Goodell personally kneecapped Patrick Mahomes. If the Chiefs win, he’ll have to pretend Taylor Swift doesn’t exist, while America collectively watches her dance in the skybox like the deity she is. Either way, he will spend the night drowning in his own irrelevance.

By the time he’s back on Truth Social, the meltdown will be historic. He’ll claim the refs were in on it. He’ll accuse Swift of being a deep-state plant. He’ll insist the cheers were actually for him, and that the “fake news” just edited the footage.

But none of it will matter.

Because when the confetti falls, the cameras will be on Taylor. On the Eagles. On Mahomes. On literally anyone but him.

And that, more than anything else, is Trump’s worst nightmare: a world that moves on without him.