You know, the Trickster. Every culture has one, that wily, chaotic force who sidles into the sacred circle and lets loose a fart right at the crescendo of the choir’s Hallelujah. Think Loki with his shapeshifting pranks, or Coyote, whose sly antics shape the world even as he stumbles over his own feet. The Trickster thrives on disruption, on upending the predictable, on making fools of the proud. And in America, we’ve got our very own Trickster writ large: Donald J. Trump, the gilded grifter with a portfolio of chaos and a knack for farting in every room he enters.

Oh, sure, he’s funny if it’s someone else’s party he’s ruining. Remember the smirks, the “Can you believe this guy?” chuckles as he bulldozed through debates, norms, and institutions like a bull in a china shop, but with less charm. That’s the thing about the Trickster: it’s all a riot until the joke’s on you, until the sacred chalice you thought you were sipping from turns out to be filled with Kool-Aid—and not the good flavor.

And yet, Tricksters don’t just make us laugh; they bring change, hard and ugly. They don’t ask for permission, and they sure don’t clean up after themselves. Loki didn’t mop up the mess after the gods banished him, and Coyote doesn’t send a fruit basket when his meddling causes a famine. Trump? He’s no different. He smashed the tea set of American politics and danced in the shards. His devotees called it genius. His critics called it mayhem. The Trickster called it Tuesday.