Gather ‘round, folks, because we’re about to dissect a modern medical marvel so bizarre it makes the bubonic plague look like a mild case of the sniffles. It’s called Trump Derangement Syndrome—TDS for short—and no, it’s not something you catch from drinking unfiltered Mar-a-Lago tap water. This is a self-inflicted psychological condition that turns otherwise functional humans into frothing, keyboard-smashing lunatics at the mere mention of a certain golden-haired, braggadocious billionaire.
If you’ve got common sense (congratulations, you’re already ahead of the curve), prepare to chuckle at the absurdity of it all.
What Is TDS, Exactly?
Trump Derangement Syndrome isn’t listed in the DSM-5, but maybe it should be.
Picture this: a perfectly normal person—let’s call her Karen—is sipping her soy latte, scrolling X, when suddenly she stumbles across a post. It’s a photo of Donald J. Trump, mid-sentence, with that signature squint-and-point combo that says, “I’m about to say something tremendous, believe me.”
Within nanoseconds, Karen’s brain short-circuits. Her fingers tremble, her pupils dilate, and she unleashes a 280-character tirade about fascism, orange skin, and something incoherent involving covfefe. That, my friends, is TDS in action.
It’s not just a dislike of the man—oh no, that would be too rational. TDS is an all-consuming obsession, a mental glitch where Trump becomes the gravitational center of your universe.
Whether he’s tweeting about “Sleepy Joe,” hawking gold sneakers, or eating KFC with a fork (a true American patriot), those afflicted with TDS see him as the root of all evil.
Climate change? Trump did it. Stubbed your toe? Trump’s fault. Ran out of oat milk? You bet your kale smoothie he’s behind it.
The Symptoms: A Comedy of Errors
Let’s break down the symptoms, because if you can’t laugh at this, you might be part of the problem.
First, there’s the vocal fry meltdown. You know the type: “He’s literally Hitler!” screeches a blue-haired barista who wouldn’t know the Third Reich from a Third Eye Blind concert.
Common sense whispers, “Hitler didn’t build casinos or star in reality TV,” but TDS sufferers don’t hear it over the sound of their own righteous indignation.
Then there’s the selective amnesia. TDS patients conveniently forget that politicians have been slinging mud since George Washington’s wooden teeth were a punchline.
Trump’s bombast isn’t new; it’s just louder and tanner. Yet, to the afflicted, every Tweet is a fresh apocalypse.
Remember “grab ‘em by the pussy”? Common-sense folks shrugged—crude, sure, but locker room talk isn’t exactly a war crime. TDSers, though? They clutched pearls so hard they turned them into diamonds.
And don’t get me started on the conspiracy spiral.
One minute, they’re claiming Trump’s a Russian puppet (because nothing says “KGB” like a Queens accent); the next, he’s a mastermind rigging elections with a Sharpie and a Diet Coke. Pick a lane, people! Either he’s a bumbling oaf or Lex Luthor with better hair—both can’t be true.
Common sense says he’s just a guy who likes winning and hates losing, but TDS turns him into a Bond villain stroking a cat made of spray tan.
The Origins: How Did We Get Here?
To understand TDS, we must journey back to 2016, when a real estate mogul with a comb-over crashed the political party like a drunk uncle at a wedding.
The establishment gasped, the media sneered, and the electorate said, “Eh, why not?” Cue the collective meltdown.
For some, Trump’s win wasn’t just a loss—it was a personal affront to their worldview. Suddenly, every “deplorable” in a MAGA hat became a symbol of existential doom.
The media didn’t help. They turned Trump into a 24/7 circus, and TDS sufferers bought every ticket.
CNN ran chyrons like “TRUMP SAYS SKY IS BLUE: IS HE GASLIGHTING AMERICA?” while pundits screamed over each other like seagulls fighting for a fry.
Common sense would’ve tuned out the noise, but TDSers? They mainlined it, convinced each soundbite was a sign of the end times.
The Cure: Ain’t No Pill for This
Here’s the kicker: there’s no cure for TDS because the afflicted don’t want one. It’s a lifestyle choice, like veganism or CrossFit, but with more sanctimony and fewer gains.
Therapy might help, but good luck finding a shrink who doesn’t also have TDS—Trump’s face is probably on their dartboard too.
Meditation? Nope, they’d just visualize strangling him with a mindfulness scarf. Medication? Maybe, but Big Pharma’s too busy counting profits from the last pandemic.
Common-sense folks, meanwhile, sit back with popcorn. They see Trump for what he is: a loudmouth who stumbled into power, pissed off the right people, and somehow keeps winning.
Love him or hate him, he’s not the Antichrist or the Second Coming—he’s just a guy who’d rather be golfing than governing.
But tell that to a TDS sufferer, and they’ll accuse you of being “complicit.” Complicit in what? Reality? Guilty as charged.
The Cultural Fallout: A Satire in Itself
TDS has birthed some hilarious side effects. Late-night comics turned into broken records—every monologue a Trump jab, every laugh forced.
Hollywood churned out dystopian fan fiction where Trump’s America is all barbed wire and tax cuts. And don’t forget the protest signs: “IMPEACH THE CHEETO!”—as if a snack food could hold office.
Common sense chuckles at the hyperbole, but TDSers wave those signs like they’re storming the Bastille.
Then there’s the X factor—literally. X became a TDS battleground, where blue checks and bots duke it out over Trump’s latest quip.
“He’s destroying democracy!” cries one. “No, you’re just mad he’s still breathing!” fires back another.
Scroll long enough, and you’ll see TDS in its purest form: grown adults typing in all caps about a man they’ve never met. Common sense scrolls past; TDS double-taps and rages.
The Final Word: Laugh or Cry?
At its core, Trump Derangement Syndrome is a self-own of epic proportions. It’s people choosing misery over perspective, outrage over reason.
Trump’s a lightning rod, sure—he thrives on it—but TDSers are the ones plugging themselves into the socket.
Common sense says, “He’s one guy, not the universe,” but TDS screams, “HE’S EVERYTHING AND I HATE IT!”
So, if you’re reading this and nodding along, congratulations—you’re probably TDS-free. You see the absurdity, the over-the-top drama, and you laugh because what else can you do?
Trump’s a character in a cosmic sitcom, and TDSers are the laugh track gone rogue. For the rest of us, it’s a reminder: life’s too short to lose your mind over a guy who’d rather be eating a Big Mac than running your world.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some covfefe to brew.
