Is he really crowning himself – or will the parade remain just a fantasy?
Washington, June 14, 2025 - The economy is stumbling, milk still costs around four dollars a gallon, one job is no longer enough to make ends meet, and at airports, federal agents are waving unsuspecting migrants with Venezuelan passports onto charter flights bound for El Salvador. Amidst it all, Donald J. Trump turns to the most obvious solution: a military parade for his 79th birthday.
But of course, not just any parade. This one is said to include 6,600 soldiers, 150 vehicles, 50 helicopters, seven marching bands, a parachute jump—and possibly a golden throne on wheels. The king is having a birthday, and the country is invited—no, expected—to cheer. What are debt, hunger, or mass deportations when there’s pomp and tanks for dessert?
According to the planning documents—reportedly penned with a gold-plated fountain pen—the stated goal is to "honor 250 years of Army service." But everyone knows: this is about one man, his vanity, and his ego wrapped in olive-drab steel. A phrase like “I threw the biggest parade ever!” surely sounds better than “I dismantled democracy, but hey, check out those Strykers!”
The scene conjures not only Kim Jong Un, the eternal fire-starter in Pyongyang, but also other parade connoisseurs of global renown:
– Vladimir Putin, who parades more missiles than free journalists across Red Square.
– Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, who prefers to be celebrated in formation while shutting down newsrooms.
– Xi Jinping, who only smiles when 100,000 troops march in perfect sync through Beijing.
And now Trump, placing himself somewhere between Kim, Vladimir, and Xi—a parade president of the self-anointed commander-in-chief variety. While detention camps expand in Texas and the American economy wobbles like an unsecured Paladin cannon on 14th Street, Washington becomes the stage for a strange display of muscle and myth.
And if you’re wondering where the money is coming from: from shuttered libraries (too many “woke” books), from gutted social programs, from the firing of thousands of civilian employees. Fewer questions, more marching music—that’s the new American ethos.
Trump wears no helmet, only a tailored suit with golden trim. In his pocket: a miniature American flag. In his hand: the scepter of spectacle. On his face: that smile—half dictator, half game show host. Somewhere between Broadway and bunker, between studio lights and state of emergency, he crowns himself—not elected, but applauded, cheered, marched into history.
But nothing is signed yet. As of today, the parade is an unconfirmed fantasy with a staff-approved blueprint, a shimmering shadow on the capital’s asphalt. Maybe it stays an idea. Maybe only Humvees roll through the heart of power. Maybe just a string quartet passes by instead of a tank brigade.
Because when democracy stumbles, people flee, and prosperity fades, the king needs only one thing: a long line of steel, obedience, and ideology to prove he is loved.
Or at least feared. And in the end, only one question remains: If it’s just a fantasy - why does the planning document already name June 14, 2025?
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