⚠️ DISCLAIMER: Professional satire ahead. Contains foul language, foul play, and the faint aroma of spray-tan and desperation. If you think Donald Trump ever won a football game—financially, ethically, or spiritually—you might want to sit this one out. This rant includes unsportsmanlike conduct, excessive branding, and too many flags for bullshit.

You ever notice how Donald Trump can fail at literally anything and still find a way to slap his name on it like it’s a participation trophy?

Hotels, steaks, universities, casinos—hell, if gravity allowed it, we’d have “Trump Clouds™” raining gold-plated hail by now.

And now—because the universe has a sick sense of humor—he wants a football stadium named after him. The new Washington Commanders stadium. On the site of RFK. Because nothing says “great American legacy” like bulldozing a monument to civic pride so you can build a monument to your own ego.

Here’s the part that really gets me: this is a man whose last major football endeavor ended with one of the funniest losses in legal history.

Remember the USFL? Yeah, the United States Football League—Trump bought a team, demanded the whole league take on the NFL in a fall schedule, sued the NFL for monopoly practices… and won.

Technically.

The jury awarded the USFL one dollar. Tripled for antitrust, that’s three bucks.

The league folded faster than a Trump casino audit.

And now, forty years later, he’s circling back for a rematch—still convinced that if he screams “OWNERS, GET IT DONE!!!” loud enough, the world will rewrite the scoreboard.

This isn’t about football. It never was. It’s about the cult of branding. Trump doesn’t want a stadium; he wants a shrine. 

He’s never been in the business of winning—only naming the thing that did. Hotels, towers, golf courses, Bible sales, hell, even those “Trump Presidential Steak Knives”—it’s all the same playbook: slap the name on the thing, let someone else pay for it, declare victory, bail before the bankruptcy hits the news cycle.

The Commanders’ ownership said no comment, the city said no comment, and America said—at least internally—“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

This is a man who tried to hold the entire stadium deal hostage until the team changed its name back to a racial slur. He doesn’t love football. He loves the crowd noise. The cameras. The branding opportunities.

He’s the only man alive who could look at the Lombardi Trophy and think, “Can we make it spell TRUMP if we stack two of them?”

And you know what? It fits.

Because the whole Trump saga has been one long grift dressed up as a championship parade. He buys into a league, drives it into the ground, sues the refs, and still demands the MVP award. He loses money, loses partners, loses credibility—and still manages to autograph the wreckage before walking away.

So if they do end up naming it after him, let’s be honest about it.

Don’t call it Trump Stadium. Call it what it is: The House That Grift Built.

Because when it comes to Donald Trump and football, there’s only ever been one consistent result: He punts the truth, fumbles the facts, and spikes the ball in his own end zone.

But hey, at least the halftime show will be on brand—pyrotechnics, self-praise, and a marching band made entirely of unpaid contractors.