A Republic Summoned, a Golden Toilet Answered
How a plow became a putter and a Republic ended up in the toilet
“When the people cry for virtue and crown a grifter, the toilet gleams, but the Republic rots.” — Pseudo-Tacitus the Younger
Prologue: Of Fields and Fool’s Gold
Once, the Republic called upon a farmer. His name was Cincinnatus. They found him behind a plow, his hands hard with soil, his body bent in work. He left his field, defeated the enemy, refused the crown, and returned to the earth. Sixteen days. Duty fulfilled. Honor intact.
We, too, summoned a savior. But we didn’t get a farmer. We didn’t get a citizen who gave everything and wanted nothing. We got a man gilded in his own vanity. A man who paints gold on everything he touches — towers, toilets, escalators, hair — as if by covering the world in his obsession, he might disguise the emptiness within.
Rome had Cincinnatus. We got a golden toilet with legs.
“Nothing is more pitiful than a man who is rich in riches but poor in himself.” — Seneca
The Summoning of the Grifter
The Romans begged their farmer to save them. He was reluctant.
We begged our mogul to save us. He was ecstatic. He descended not from the fields but from an escalator plated in brass and polished to look like gold. He didn’t say no. He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the spotlight with both hands and never let it go.
Cincinnatus brought the plow. Trump brought the brand. Cincinnatus tilled the earth. Trump sold the earth by the square foot, with his name bolted across it in garish letters.
The Republic cried out for virtue. What it got was a salesman hawking red hats.
“Everything today is for sale: honor, loyalty, justice, the very breath of the people.” — Juvenal
The Costume of Power
Cincinnatus wore his tunic into battle. His dress was plain, his dignity unadorned.
Trump arrived in polyester slacks and a red cap that never left his head. His crown is not laurel but merchandise. His glow is not sun-worn but bottled tan. His palaces are not marble but drywall, painted beige and decorated with chandeliers that drip fake gold like the ceiling of a discount casino.
Everywhere, gold. Gold on the walls, gold on the doors, gold on the toilet. Gold so desperate it shines like parody. Rome saw glory in humility. We see glory in tacky excess.
“You buy applause, but true honor cannot be bought.” — Martial
The Chorus Speaks
Not a farmer, but a flipper.
Not a statesman, but a salesman.
Not a citizen, but a brand.
The Battle of the Golf Cart
Cincinnatus crushed Rome’s enemies in sixteen days. His war was short, his victory clean, his service reluctant.
Trump wages endless war, but never on real foes. His battlefield is Twitter, his sword a subpoena, his shield a PAC fundraising email. His armies march on cable news. His enemies are judges, journalists, generals, women, windmills.
Cincinnatus raised legions. Trump raises golf carts. His chariot is electric, his charge a slow crawl down the fairway. His victories are tallied not in freedom won but in hats sold, steaks hawked, coins minted, and donations siphoned.
Rome got deliverance. We got dinner theater.
“They created a desert and called it peace.” — Tacitus
The Reluctance That Never Was
Cincinnatus never wanted power. He didn’t crave it. He gave it back.
Trump has built an empire on pretending reluctance while grasping harder than anyone alive. “I never wanted this job,” he says, and then spends every waking hour clawing his way back onto the stage. “I don’t need the money,” he insists, while draining every donor dry. “Only I can fix it,” he chants, as if civic life were one more broken faucet in one of his failing condos.
Reluctance is the mask he wears while he lunges for the throne.
“We trained for vice with greater energy than for virtue.” — Petronius
The Chorus Speaks Again
Gold on his towers.
Gold on his toilet.
Gold on his teeth if he could.
But never gold in his heart.
The Return That Never Comes
The heart of Cincinnatus’s story is that he went home. He left the stage. He returned to the soil.
Trump cannot go home, because he has no home beyond spectacle. His fields are resorts. His soil is sand shipped in to refill bunkers. His hearth is a chandelier-lit bathroom. Obscurity terrifies him. Silence starves him. So he stays, forever on stage, forever demanding to be seen.
Cincinnatus was remembered for stepping away. Trump will be remembered for never leaving.
“The more corrupt the state, the more numerous the laws.” — Tacitus
Interlude: Ode to the Willing Blind
You call it wisdom, this fog in your eyes,and shout of freedom while chaining your tongue.You kiss the hand that robs your purse,and cheer the thief who mocks your hunger.
O happy fools, with banners bright,who trade the plow for plastic crowns,who trade the truth for gilded lies,who kneel before a bankrupt god.
I’d laugh, if pity didn’t choke me.I’d rage, if mockery weren’t sweeter.You, the chorus of echoing halls,so proud of the chains you polish.
Blind are the eyes that choose their night, deaf are the ears that crave their lies, foolish the hearts that beat so loud—and never once know their own betrayal.
The Mock-Epic Climax
So here it is, the parody complete.
Once, the Republic was saved by a man who wanted nothing.
Now, the Republic is endangered by a man who wants everything.
He wants power without duty.
Wealth without labor.
Loyalty without merit.
Immortality without greatness.
And he wants it all plated in gold.
The plow has become the putter.
The soil the sand trap.
The Senate a stage set.
The Republic a showroom.
“Who will guard the guardians themselves?” — Juvenal
The Final Chorus
Not a savior, but a salesman.
Not a statesman, but a spectacle.
Not a citizen, but a golden toilet.
Epilogue: The Parable for Us
Cincinnatus is remembered because he gave power back. Trump will be remembered because he never did.
And that’s the lesson. This isn’t just about him — it’s about us. Rome called a farmer, and they got a statesman. We called a grifter, and we got a circus.
History doesn’t flatter us. It laughs. And it laughs loudest when it flushes.
Support the Work
I’ve opened this newsletter to all readers because these words aren’t meant for a paywall—they’re meant for the moment we’re living through. But writing takes time, energy, and tools. If you find value in this work and want to help me keep it alive, consider becoming a paid supporter.
Jesus wept.
This inspires me to learn more about Cincinnatus....