“Oy Vey, My Ego!” – The Gospel According to Rabbi Donny

“Oy Vey, My Ego!” – The Gospel According to Rabbi Donny By Leigh Silverton (filing from the spiritual wasteland between Mar-a-Lago and Sinai) Well butter my latkes and call me kosher, y’all—Donald J.

By Leigh Silverton (filing from the spiritual wasteland between Mar-a-Lago and Sinai)

Well butter my latkes and call me kosher, y’all—Donald J. Trump has now appointed himself America’s most *humble* rabbi. You heard me. The man who once spray-tanned his face with more shellac than a Florida deck chair and had a golden toilet you could see from low orbit now wants us to believe he’s the chosen *Chosen*.

There he is on the cover of TIME, wrapped in a tallit like it’s a Trump-branded golf towel, side-eyeing the Almighty as if to say, “Step aside, Big Guy. I’ve got the best Torah. People are saying.”

He’s got the shtreimel cocked like it’s ready for a hostile takeover of Hanukkah. And that expression? Like he just got told Moses was *too weak* for the Exodus and Donny could’ve done it with an escalator and a press release.

Now I don’t know who greenlit this photoshoot from Hell’s waiting room, but somewhere in Boca, five bubbes just fainted and six rabbis filed cease-and-desist letters with their respective deities.

It takes a special kind of chutzpah to look straight down the camera lens of history and say, “I’m the most humble man on earth”—especially when you’ve spent your adult life naming buildings after yourself like a deranged Pharaoh on Adderall.

This is a man who mistakes self-reflection for mirror lighting and once told an evangelical crowd he was the “King of Israel,” which is about as subtle as asking for a pork chop at Passover.

But this new messianic cosplay? Honey, it ain’t just tone-deaf—it’s shofar-blasting, scroll-shredding, ten-plagues-in-a-MAGA-hat *blasphemy on Botox.*

And look, I get it. Trump’s never met a costume he didn’t like—remember when he held that Bible upside down in front of a church like he was waiting for it to turn into a cheeseburger?

But Rabbi Trump? That’s a sermon even Satan wouldn’t sit through.

Still, there’s something almost tender about it, like a little boy playing dress-up in his grandfather’s wisdom, hoping the robes might make him holy. But Donny, darling, no matter how many sacred texts you cradle like a Big Mac, humility can’t be spray-tanned on.

So here’s my sermon: if Trump’s a rabbi, I’m the Dalai Lama’s backup dancer.

But bless his heart—he’s out here rewriting scripture, one ego-trip at a time.