April 9, 2025
By Gonzo Poltergeist
The Simpsons didn’t predict Trump’s death. But does it matter?
The image now flooding the internet — Trump in a casket, orange face frozen in a final scowl, flanked by his inner circle staring at one another in stunned, opportunistic horror — has already entered the bloodstream of American myth. It first appeared in this viral video circulating on X, racking up millions of views in under 48 hours.
The show’s producers have denied it. Photoshop. AI. A hoax. Fine. Truth was never the point.
What matters is the question it asks.
What if Donald Trump — the gravity well around which our political, cultural, and algorithmic existence spins — actually dies this Saturday?
April 12, 2025. That’s the date stamped on the viral screengrab. It doesn’t have to be real. It just has to feel possible. America, after all, has become a place where reality follows rumor like a campaign bus chasing a lie.
And if it happens? The immediate aftermath would be chaos, not catharsis.
JD Vance — the book-smart Appalachian shape-shifter turned VP — would technically assume control. But in the void of Trump’s personality cult, “technically” means nothing. Power would leak in every direction.
Steve Bannon would re-emerge from his crypt, his three shirts unbuttoned, hair wild, declaring the moment sacred. “This isn’t the end, it’s the beginning,” he’d growl, waving a bloodstained Constitution like it’s fan fiction. Elise Stefanik would be crying on cable news before lunch. Mike Johnson would ask for divine instruction and hear only static. Marjorie Taylor Greene would demand the Capitol be renamed Trump House. Matt Gaetz would call dibs on the spotlight.
Ted Cruz would rush to fill the vacuum, eyes glittering, already drafting tweets and testing slogans. Lindsey Graham would fumble for a Bible and a microphone, calling Trump “a lion, a legend, a man who loved America more than life itself,” while quietly placing a call to Nikki Haley’s people.
And somewhere in a Georgetown wine cellar, John Boehner and Paul Ryan would clink glasses over a bottle of overpriced rosé. Boehner lights a cigarette with the last of his fucks to give. Ryan laughs harder than he has in years. “Told you it would end like this,” he mutters. Boehner wipes away tears of joy.
Ivanka would go quiet, then carefully re-emerge with a statement written in lowercase and grief. But in the back of her mind, you can almost see it — that viral screengrab from years ago, the Simpsons prediction of “Ivanka 2028.” Would she run? Would she be asked? Or would she quietly settle into the role of dynastic widow to a dead empire? Don Jr. would film a tearful shotgun eulogy and go live from a moose blind in Montana, eyes glassy, pupils ambitious. Eric wouldn’t understand what was happening, but he’d nod solemnly anyway. Barron — now taller than everyone and eerily composed — would say nothing, and in doing so, say everything.
Meanwhile, Democrats would try not to smirk. Try — and fail. Gavin Newsom would issue a carefully scripted call for unity while mentally remodeling the Oval Office, an assistant quietly tasked with finding out the window measurements for the drapes. Hakeem Jeffries would strike a solemn tone, but behind the scenes, every strategist in the party would be scrambling to answer: Do we run against Vance, or the ghost of Trump?
AOC would tweet a brief message of respect for the office, followed by a fundraising link and a subtle reminder that maybe now we can talk about healthcare again. Bernie Sanders would appear on CNN with visible restraint, then pivot hard into wealth inequality like he’d just been released from purgatory. Cory Booker would deliver a thoughtful, emotional tribute — then smile, ever so slightly, and whisper “It’s a new chapter.” Bill Maher, sipping something expensive on his HBO set Friday night, would smirk and open his monologue with, “I think I know why you’re happy.”
By then, the media circus would be in full stampede. CNN and MSNBC would go wall-to-wall with legacy montages, slow-motion escalator footage, and psychoanalysis from anyone who ever booked a green room. The Atlantic would publish a mournful thinkpiece titled “What Trump Took — And What He Left Us.” Fox News would fracture — some hosts already auditioning for Vance, others calling for three days of televised mourning. Over on Newsmax, a man in a blazer made of Constitution print would insist Trump’s death was part of a deep state coup. On Twitter, chaos. On Threads, confusion. On TikTok, parody. Everyone broadcasting. No one listening.
And then there’s the world.
Would the world cheer?
That’s the real question.
Donald Trump isn’t just divisive in the U.S. — he’s one of the most globally recognized, emotionally charged, and algorithmically amplified figures in human history.
But is he the most hated man on the planet?
That’s harder to answer.
There’s Vladimir Putin, busy shelling Ukraine into a graveyard. Benjamin Netanyahu, now synonymous with scorched earth in Gaza. Xi Jinping, architect of the modern surveillance state. Mohammed bin Salman, Jamal Khashoggi’s ghost still trailing behind him like incense.
These men are dangerous. Authoritarian. Calculating. But Trump? Trump is ubiquitous. He’s everywhere and nowhere. He’s not a threat in the traditional sense — he’s a contagion. A bloated, unkillable meme who turned political rage into merchandise and turned American democracy into a laugh track with nukes.
Ask someone in Buenos Aires, or Paris, or Seoul who they trust least with the fate of the free world. Trump’s name will come up. Not because of policy — but because of vibe. Because he represents everything the world fears about the end of American empire: loud, dumb, proud of it, and immune to shame.
He’s not the most evil. But he may be the most personally resented. The most televised, the most discussed, the most hated-by-volume.
And if he drops dead this Saturday?
Watch the stock markets. Watch the candlelight vigils. Watch the silence — or the lack of it. Because that will tell us more than a cartoon ever could.
Filed from a bar in Mar-a-Lago where a man in golf shoes just asked the bartender if Trump’s tombstone will have WiFi.
🐦 Social Pull Quote for X / Twitter:
“If Trump dies this Saturday, the real question won’t be who takes over — it’ll be who profits from the funeral. The GOP. The world. Maybe even Ivanka.”
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