The Never-Ending Season: Colin Jost, Michael Che, and the Politics of the Punchline

When satire begins to sound like a documentary, you know the country’s in trouble.
And when the nightly news feels indistinguishable from a Saturday Night Live cold open, you can bet Colin Jost and Michael Che are already writing the script.

In their latest late-night teardown of the Trump-Vance campaign — a political circus masquerading as leadership — the Weekend Update duo didn’t just poke fun. They conducted a full-scale comedic autopsy on America’s democracy, scalpel in one hand, microphone in the other.

What emerged wasn’t merely a roast of Donald Trump or his loyal lieutenant JD Vance. It was a satirical portrait of a nation so accustomed to absurdity that it’s forgotten how to be shocked.

Opening Act: Standing Ovations and Sitting Presidents

“President Trump said that at the debates, he wants both candidates to stand instead of sit,” Jost begins, his grin slicing through the laughter like a scalpel.

It’s a simple image, but a devastating one — a campaign reduced to a posture contest. The crowd roars, but the subtext is sharp: America’s political discourse has been replaced by a physical fitness challenge. “Standing,” Jost continues, “is now a feat of strength.”

Somewhere between a reality show and a retirement home, Trump has turned the act of standing upright into political symbolism. Jost’s follow-up lands perfectly: “We could learn a lot more watching them both try to get out of a bean bag chair.”

That’s how the segment begins — not with outrage, but with absurdity. Because in 2025, absurdity is the outrage.

JD Vance: The Hillbilly Who Moved to the Hill

Jost doesn’t waste time introducing JD Vance, the vice president who went from memoirist to mascot in record time.

“JD Vance,” he says, “went from writing about the struggles of his hometown to becoming the mascot for a billionaire president who couldn’t spell Appalachia if it came with flashcards.”

The joke is surgical. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy was supposed to be an elegy for forgotten Americans — instead, it became a eulogy for his own credibility.

Michael Che, with his trademark deadpan delivery, leans in: “One man pretends to be tough. The other pretends to be loyal.”

It’s the political buddy comedy no one asked for. And yet, somehow, it’s now running the country.

The chemistry between Trump and Vance is pure chaos — one plays emperor, the other apprentice; both trapped in a feedback loop of ego and obedience. Vance nods so hard, Che jokes, “he looks like he’s trying to win an invisible bobblehead contest.”

Trump: The Emperor of Entertainment

Jost’s next punchline lands like prophecy: “America elected Donald Trump to run the country like a business, but it turns out he’s running it like one of his businesses.”

The laughter that follows is uneasy — because the joke has the ring of truth.

Trump has always been less a politician than a producer, less a president than a brand. Every speech is a reboot, every scandal a spinoff. “He treats every political event like an episode of his old TV show,” Jost explains. “The difference is, back then, people got paid to act impressed.”

That’s the dark genius of Trumpism: it turns governance into entertainment and outrage into engagement. Every failure is just a season finale with better ratings.

The Loyal Intern

No one illustrates this better than JD Vance — Trump’s newest sidekick and perhaps his most eager one yet.

Che calls him “America’s most ambitious background character” — a man so desperate to agree he probably practices nodding in mirrors.

The crowd laughs, but there’s empathy under the ridicule. Vance’s tragedy is that of the modern politician: a man who once spoke truth to power now worships it. His career arc, Jost says, “resembles a boomerang launched by principles, caught by politics, and permanently stuck in Trump’s orbit.”

It’s loyalty as self-erasure. A devotion so intense it borders on parody.

Che adds, “If loyalty points were transferable, JD could buy a conscience by now.”

Rallies, Reruns, and the Politics of Performance

Trump’s rallies, the comedians agree, have become something between a therapy session and a reality show. Jost calls them “open mic nights for conspiracy theories.”

“They’re the only places on earth,” he says, “where facts show up just to get booed.”

Che adds, “Trump’s speeches start with confidence and end with confusion — like watching a GPS reroute itself mid-sentence.”

The rhythm between them is seamless: Jost the straight man with a raised eyebrow, Che the philosopher of disbelief. Their chemistry mirrors the duality of American political consciousness — half outrage, half exhaustion.

Trump, they suggest, doesn’t govern. He performs. His leadership style is spectacle without substance, applause without achievement.

“Everything he does,” Jost says, “is designed for camera angles, not consequences.”

The World Stage as a Set Piece

From Iran to China to the Vatican, Trump’s foreign policy has become a traveling sideshow.

“When Trump said Iran had ‘sort of agreed’ to a nuclear deal,” Jost notes, “that’s in the same way he’s sort of agreed to uphold the Constitution.”

It’s a line that would sound exaggerated if it weren’t painfully accurate.

When he mentions JD Vance visiting the Vatican for the Pope’s inaugural mass, Jost deadpans, “I’m not a huge fan of his outfit.” The crowd roars, but beneath the laughter lies a truth: Vance’s devotion to optics has outpaced his grasp of substance.

Their satire works because it doesn’t need to invent anything. Reality provides the punchlines.

The Gymnastics of Truth

By the time Che compares Trump’s truth-stretching abilities to Olympic gymnastics — “Every claim flips, twists, and lands nowhere near reality, but still earns applause” — the audience is howling.

It’s the kind of line that distills years of political farce into one perfect image: a presidency performing cartwheels over credibility, greeted by cheers instead of judges.

Vance, of course, is there in the wings, “the commentator giving every move a perfect score.”

Che adds that fact-checkers must have loyalty cards by now — the frequent-flyer miles of disbelief.

Draining the Swamp, Selling the Condos

Jost then delivers one of the night’s defining lines: “Trump keeps talking about draining the swamp while building luxury condos in it.”

The audience erupts. It’s satire stripped to its bones — clean, sharp, and devastating.

In that one metaphor, Jost captures the heart of Trump’s empire: a business model built on corruption disguised as populism.

“JD’s the enthusiastic realtor,” Jost adds, “convincing everyone the water’s fine.”

It’s gallows humor for the modern voter — the realization that the swamp isn’t being drained; it’s being rebranded.

America’s Never-Ending Show

“Trump strides in like a man auditioning for a role he already lost,” Jost says. “Still reciting the same lines with the confidence of someone who never checks reviews.”

The audience laughs because the image is perfect: the actor who refuses to leave the stage.

Che calls it “performance art for people allergic to accountability.”

Trump’s campaign stops, he adds, “feel like motivational seminars for people who forgot what they were motivated about.”

And JD? Ever the loyal hype man, he’s “clapping on cue like a malfunctioning studio audience.”

Their rhythm together becomes jazz — each joke riffing on the last, every punchline an echo of national fatigue.

The Economy of Illusion

Jost pivots to Trump’s favorite topic: money. “It’s the only economy,” he says, “where slogans outperform statistics.”

Che jumps in: “Trump’s economic plans sound like motivational posters read aloud.”

The laughter is bitter. Because they’re right — for years, Trump’s economic vision has been less fiscal policy and more self-help mantra.

Between the two, Jost says, “you’d think success was measured in merch sales and applause duration.”

Meanwhile, the deficit keeps doing stand-up, and no one’s laughing.

Saint JD and the Church of Trump

As the routine deepens, the comedy turns theological.

“When Trump told reporters, ‘I don’t think there’s anything that’s going to get me into heaven,’” Jost recalls, “he paused for ten full minutes waiting for someone to say, ‘That’s not true.’”

Che delivers the kicker: “Because Trump can’t go to heaven — he’s far too busy down here.”

The laughter rolls, but the meaning lands hard. Trump’s faith isn’t in God; it’s in applause.

And JD Vance? He’s the disciple who keeps the candles lit.

Their partnership, Jost says, “feels less like mentorship and more like a hostage situation with good lighting.”

The Politics of Denial

If there’s a thesis to their satire, it’s this: Trump doesn’t destroy norms; he recycles them for profit.

Che describes his presidency as “the only workplace where chaos counts as experience.” Cabinet meetings, he says, must feel like “family dinners at a reality TV reunion — everyone smiling, but no one knowing what’s actually happening.”

It’s gallows humor, yes, but it’s also political anthropology. Jost and Che aren’t mocking for the sake of mockery; they’re documenting a cultural shift.

We’ve stopped being shocked. Now we just refresh the feed.

Loyalty as Currency

“Trump treats loyalty like currency,” Jost says. “He spends it faster than campaign donations disappear in legal fees.”

The image is brutal — the idea that faith in Trump is a depleting commodity, one scandal at a time.

Vance, meanwhile, stays grinning in the background, like a man trying to convince himself the music hasn’t stopped.

Che’s metaphor seals it: “Loyalty to Trump is like playing musical chairs in a hurricane. Eventually, someone’s out in the storm explaining what went wrong.”

The audience roars because it’s funny — and tragic — and undeniably true.

Legacy as a Yelp Review

When Jost observes that Trump “treats history like a Yelp review, constantly refreshing to see how many stars he’s earned,” the laughter turns to applause.

It’s not just a punchline; it’s diagnosis. Trump’s obsession with reputation has eclipsed his interest in results.

Che adds, “Someday Trump will build a library filled entirely with photos of himself — and JD will volunteer to dust them hourly.”

The image is perfect: a museum of ego, staffed by sycophants.

The Art of Surviving the Circus

Toward the end, Jost offers a rare moment of reflection. “JD Vance’s story began as a warning about misplaced faith,” he says, “and ended as proof of it.”

It’s the kind of line that freezes laughter midair — because satire, at its best, hurts.

Che closes with a smirk: “Every time Trump claims victory, it feels less like politics and more like performance art funded by disbelief.”

Together, they’ve turned America’s chaos into choreography — a nightly pas de deux between cynicism and hope.

The Republic of Ridicule

That’s the real brilliance of Colin Jost and Michael Che: they’ve transformed survival into satire.

In their hands, politics isn’t just news — it’s material. And laughter isn’t just entertainment — it’s self-defense.

Because in the America they describe, the punchline never ends. The show keeps running. The outrage keeps looping. The emperor keeps standing. The intern keeps nodding.

The rest of us? We keep watching — half amused, half horrified, entirely captive.

Jost’s final line says it all:
“As long as Trump’s show runs, the jokes write themselves.”

It’s funny. It’s true.
And it’s the most terrifying sentence in American comedy.