Many of us men, those of us still clinging to a cache of common sense, have experienced the same quiet tragedy: losing our wives to Donald Trump.
Not in the traditional sense, of course.
Not flowers, secret texts, or hotel rooms.
This is a mental affair.
An all-consuming fixation.
A constant checking-in.
A relentless emotional investment in a man, women swear they despise.
And many of us husbands wouldn’t participate in the consistent conspiracy practices so we were told they can’t be with us.
Even dating sites have in the forefront. “If you support Trump I’m not interested. Swipe away from me.”
Donald J. Trump has become the unseen third party in the marriage.
Every conversation eventually finds its way back to him.
Every tragedy, foreign or domestic, arrives pre-labeled, gift-wrapped, and proudly announced:
“This happened because of Trump.”
They don’t just watch him.
They track him.
They don’t just dislike him.
They need him.
And here’s the irony they’ll never admit: they are the real MAGA cult, always finding a way to insert Trump into the conversation,
keeping him relevant,
keeping him central,
keeping him alive in every room they enter.
Because without Trump, there’s an uncomfortable silence, and in that silence, they might have to confront something far worse than a former president: Their own thoughts.
Trump didn’t steal their husbands.
He didn’t steal democracy.
But he did manage to move into their heads rent-free, redecorate, and become the most discussed man at the dinner table who never once had to show up.
And that, gentlemen, is the strangest love affair of all.
And they are the true Cult of Trump.
c 2025 Chu The Cud
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Chu The Cud 