Oh, the sheer comedy of it all—millions of protesters gearing up to flood the streets this Saturday in the grand No Kings extravaganza, chanting against President Trump’s supposed monarchical delusions as if they’re storming the Bastille 2.0. Organizers, with their straight-faced press releases and color-coded bandanas, paint Trump as some powdered-wig tyrant lording over the masses, conveniently ignoring that these “No Kings” rallies have already ballooned into one of the largest protest fests since his return to the Oval. Picture the scene: yellow ribbons fluttering in Times Square, Bernie Sanders thundering from a DC stage, and AOC tweeting fire emojis, all while small-town America from Bozeman to Baton Rouge joins the fray with homemade signs decrying “authoritarian excesses” like deportations and budget cuts. It’s like a nationwide flash mob scripted by a rejected Hollywood pitch—hilarious in its earnest overkill, as if sheer volume alone could dethrone a man who’s weathered impeachments, indictments, and now this ironic dress rehearsal for the Revolution.

But here’s where the laughs really escalate: Trump, as POTUS, isn’t just any elected suit—he’s the Chief Executive with the nuclear football at his hip, Commander-in-Chief of a military that could glass half the planet, and Chief Magistrate wielding vetoes and pardons like a scepter. By constitutional fiat and the cold logic of thermonuclear toys, he’s infinitely more potent than any feather-crowned king from history’s dusty playbook, capable of reshaping the world with a tweet or a button. The protesters’ beef? He’s acting too regal. Yet they’re out there, megaphones blazing, demanding fealty to the very democratic rituals that elevated him—electoral college and all. It’s peak farce: a movement born to clip his wings, oblivious to how the office’s godlike sprawl makes Louis XIV look like a mall cop with a parking ticket.

And the kicker, the gut-busting punchline that leaves you wheezing? This bloated imperial presidency—the very engine of unchecked power they’re raging against—isn’t Trump’s Frankenstein; it’s the Left’s lovechild, midwifed by their own progressive crusades and the milquetoast Right’s complicit nods through decades of war expansions, surveillance sprees, and executive orders run amok. From FDR’s court-packing flirtations to Obama’s drone diplomacy and Biden’s regulatory blitz, they’ve sculpted the throne, then handed Trump the crown with a side-eye. Now, these same architects of the “kingly office” are pounding pavements in hypocritical fury, protesting the monster they built. It’s like arsonists picketing the firehouse—deliciously absurd, a self-own so epic it deserves its own Netflix special. Who needs kings when irony rules the realm?