As President Donald Trump took the podium to announce he’d bombed Iran—“precision strikes,” he assured us, as if he were talking about lipo—something even more revealing than the foreign policy shift unfolded behind him: the choreography of male ambition.
There stood Vice President JD Vance, bearded and beatific, in the classic heir-apparent spot: just to Trump’s right, chin slightly lifted, eyebrows set to “grave statesman.” But then you saw Pete Hegseth, the cable-tanned and restless secretary of Defense, inching sideways like a man trying to catch a better breeze—or a better shot. His mission: slide into frame. His mistake: failing to clock Secretary of State Marco Rubio.
Because here comes Little Marco, seasoned now, no longer the thirsty teen from 2016 who shimmies himself directly next to Trump with the ease of someone who’s learned how to duck and feint in the GOP’s royal court. He must have scrambled faster than a B-2 stealth bomber to get there, too—he even forgot his American flag tiepin in the rush, the only one in the quarters to do so. Hegseth, now blocked, drifts awkwardly to the end of the row, visibly stiff, jacked and overstuffed into his suit, with no one speaking to him. In Trumpworld, proximity is power, and he’s just been banished to the outer provinces.
And Trump? Oblivious. Or more precisely: supremely uninterested. He’s not watching them. They’re watching him. He knows the camera never blinks and never strays. He’s the sun; they’re just moonlighting. He brought them for spectacle, not substance, like the Pips offering silent backup to Trump’s “Midnight Train to Tehran.”
But freeze frame for a second—why were any of them there at all? This kind of announcement—war, peace, Osama bin Laden dead—has historically been made solo. Think of former President Barack Obama alone in that darkened East Room. Power move. Gravitas. But Trump is a TV producer, not a president. He brought them for spectacle, not substance.
Do we even know what the backup dancers believe? The platform X suggests that at least two of them opposed the strike, though that’s unconfirmed. Vance in particular looked positively miserable. He’s the genuine isolationist here—see Jeff Goldberg’s reporting on the Yemen Signal chain—and if you watch closely, you can see him staring not into the crowd but directly at the back of Trump’s head. Possibly studying the elusive pink bald spot, camouflaged by the world’s most famous comb-over.
Meanwhile, Rubio, also thought to be against strikes, looked tiny beside Trump as he and Hegseth both stared dead-on into the camera like contestants in some death cult edition of The Apprentice. (Also, for the record: Little Marco’s ears appear to have grown. Maybe it’s just the lighting, or maybe ambition is swelling more than just egos.) Can we seriously have Pete Hegseth, the American Doll of this Cabinet, complete with his Stars and Stripes pocket square and socks, really in charge of the Pentagon at such a fraught time?
This is how Republican politics works now: not with policy, not with principle or strategy, but with posture. In this White House cosplay, where war is declared like an unexpected plot twist and every man behind the man is auditioning for next season, even a bombing campaign becomes a photo op.
And the only question that seems to matter anymore: Who gets to stand closest to the chaos?
