The laughter in the studio felt different that night—nervous, sharp, like everyone knew the joke had gone too far but couldn’t look away. 
On one side: Jimmy Kimmel, armed with punchlines and receipts. On the other: Minnesota Governor Tim Walz, a former teacher who looked less like a politician and more like a man grading the most chaotic group project in American history.

Together, they did something live on television that the Trump orbit hates more than anything:
They slowed down the madness. They named it. They mocked it. And then they showed just how dangerous it really is.

“Lock him up” — but only if Trump says so

They started with James Comey.

Trump’s own former FBI director—turned enemy—has now been indicted at Trump’s direction over “classified leaks”… despite investigators saying there’s insufficient evidence he ever leaked classified material. And the prosecution’s star witness? He says Comey didn’t leak classified information either.

“Other than that, though,” Kimmel deadpanned, “lock him up.”
Walz didn’t laugh. He called it what it is: a president using the Justice Department as a personal revenge tool. If you’re on his bad side, you’re on the menu.

AI fake news, real consequences

Then came the misinformation.

Kimmel and Walz pointed out that Trump isn’t just spreading spin — he’s now pushing AI-generated fake news videos about healthcare, presenting them like legitimate reports. Manufactured anchors. Fake graphics. False stories dressed as real news.

Walz said European allies are literally asking, “Is this real? Is this actually happening?”
The answer: yes. And they’re terrified.

Power, performance, and the Nobel Prize obsession

Kimmel called Trump’s style what it really is: performance art with a teleprompter that doesn’t understand punctuation.

Walz compared it to grading a blank page from a student who insists it’s a masterpiece.

Trump brags about the economy, the border, world respect—and when the facts don’t match, he simply declares the facts wrong. He rebuilds timelines more than roads, rewrites history faster than legislation.

Then there’s the Nobel Peace Prize.

Trump won’t stop telling crowds he was nominated. Over and over:
“I got nominated for the Nobel Prize.”
“They don’t talk about it.”
“I’m not politicking for it.”

Meanwhile, the White House quietly slaps “Peace President” messaging onto official channels. Kimmel jokes that Norway is now scared he’ll punish them if they don’t hand over a trophy. Walz calls it what it is: a campaign for validation dressed up as destiny.

Loyalty above logic, rage above reality

No one makes enemies like Trump.
Even the QAnon shaman — the horned January 6th rioter — is now suing him, calling him “out of his ding-dong deadly mind.”

Kimmel and Walz walk through the pattern:
Every week, a new emergency.
Every problem, same answer: “Only I can fix it.”
Every criticism, a witch hunt.
Every ally, disposable the moment they stop clapping.

Rallies never end—they just change venues.
The script stays the same:
Declaration. Applause. Grievance. Applause.
Over and over, until outrage starts to feel like background noise.

Walz warns that when everything is a crisis, nothing is accountable.
If every day is DEFCON 1, no one can tell when something truly crosses the line.

Governing like a TV show

Kimmel describes Trump’s presidency as a reality show that got renewed way too many seasons.

Foreign policy feels like a dating show: dramatic breakups, sudden reconciliations, constant drama.
Domestic policy feels like improv: no script, no plan, everyone pretending this is normal.

Walz says it’s like coaching a Little League player who insists the scoreboard is fake whenever he’s losing.

And beneath the jokes? A chilling truth:
Agencies are scrambling to interpret tweets as policy.
Staffers analyze his facial expressions like ancient runes.
Science gets filtered through loyalty.
Protesters are talked about like enemies.

This isn’t just chaotic.
It’s dangerous.

Prosecutors like casting choices

Then Kimmel goes for the jaw.

He highlights Trump’s handpicked prosecutor in the Comey case—Lindsey Halligan, a former Miss Colorado contestant and insurance lawyer with no prosecution experience. “He picks lawyers,” Kimmel quips, “like he’s casting a reboot of Suits.”

The first Trump-appointed prosecutor reportedly refused the case due to lack of evidence and fear of losing his license if it looked vindictive. So they brought in someone new who, as Kimmel pointed out, seemed chosen less for courtroom history and more for screen presence.

Walz shakes his head: this isn’t justice. It’s casting.

A presidency that can’t admit the show is over

By the end, Kimmel and Walz aren’t yelling.
They’re tired.
We all are.

They describe a leader who still thinks he’s starring in a show that ended seasons ago—repeating taglines, selling the next episode, pointing to an audience that isn’t there anymore. The slogans echo. The scandals blur together. The outrage is exhausted.

Kimmel says history will remember a presidency that screamed “unbreakable” while everything else cracked.
Walz imagines future students reading about this era, studying the tweets like telegrams from a time when power confused attention with respect.

In the end, they don’t need a punchline.
The picture they paint is the punchline:

A man still rehearsing for an audience that’s already gone home.
A “show” cancelled by reality—while the star refuses to leave the stage.