There are headlines that make you sigh, others that make you wince, and then there’s: “Daddy, You’re My Daddy.”
No, that’s not the title of a long-lost porn parody of Succession. It’s what Donald Trump claimed NATO Secretary General Mark Rutte said to him—affectionately, mind you—during a NATO summit in the Netherlands, in reference to Trump’s imaginary ceasefire between Israel and Iran.
Let’s pause right there.
In what world is NATO—an international military alliance designed to prevent global annihilation—suddenly slipping into the role of coquettish stepchild in Trump’s delusional Disney+ reboot of foreign policy? Because apparently, the answer is this one.
The exchange started when a reporter had the audacity to ask if Trump considered NATO members to be like his children—referencing Rutte’s now-infamous “Daddy” remark. Trump, fresh off another round of pretending he alone resolved the Israel-Iran powder keg with a stern tweet and a bedtime story, took it in stride:
“He likes me. I think he likes me,” Trump purred, eyes gleaming like a man who just got mistaken for Tom Hardy in a dimly lit Golden Corral. “If he doesn’t, I’ll let you know—and I’ll hit him hard, OK?”
Ah yes. Nothing says diplomatic finesse quite like threatening physical violence if someone doesn’t call you daddy nicely enough.
Then came the real kicker. Trump, entirely unbothered by the planet turning into a geopolitical outhouse, leaned into the microphone and declared:
“He did it very affectionately. ‘Daddy, you’re my daddy.’”
I need you to understand something: this is the man conservatives still claim is the strongman of modern politics. A man so desperate for affection he’s started cosplaying as the patriarch of NATO, confusing strategic alliances for a Maury Povich segment.
But the real hero of this circus? Rutte himself, who doubled down later in the summit by literally pumping his fist and declaring:
“Daddy has to sometimes use strong language.”
What. The. Actual. Hell.
This is international diplomacy now? A sad mashup of Mad Max and Mommy Dearest? Are we supposed to believe that grown-ass world leaders—men with nuclear codes and national budgets—are now playing “Good Daddy, Bad Daddy” just to keep Trump from rage-posting another imaginary war treaty from a Denny’s?
Let’s be honest: NATO doesn’t want to be treated like partners. They want to be the favorite. They want to be Ivanka. And they’re willing to embarrass themselves publicly, on record, in front of God and Reuters, to try.
But they’re not Ivanka.
They’re Tiffany.
They show up to the diplomatic dinner, smile too hard, get everyone’s name wrong, and are politely ignored while Trump tweets about “real family.”
Trump doesn’t want allies. He wants accessories. He doesn’t need NATO to agree with him. He needs them to submit. Smile, nod, call him Daddy, and maybe—maybe—you get to stand near him in a photo op that smells faintly of Axe body spray and delusion.
This isn’t just weird. This is dangerous.
While actual diplomats try to make sense of rising tensions in the Middle East, Trump’s over here pretending he personally prevented World War III by scolding Netanyahu and the Iranian government like he’s breaking up a bar fight between two angry Uber drivers. And when the countries involved go, “We didn’t agree to anything,” he throws a tantrum, stomps his feet, and shouts profanity at them like a toddler who got the wrong chicken nuggets.
And Rutte? He giggles, pumps his fist, and goes along with it. Because when you’re in the room with a man who’s polling above 40% despite multiple felony indictments and war crime fanfiction, apparently the only strategy left is lean in.
So here we are: NATO thirst-trapping for validation like a backup prom date, while Trump imagines himself the leather-daddy savior of global order.
And just in case you forgot how this saga ends: Daddy always leaves eventually. The moment you stop clapping, stop grinning, stop calling him “my daddy,” you’re back in the doghouse, renamed “Loser,” and slapped with a trade war for not texting back fast enough.
But until that moment comes, buckle up.
Because if this week proved anything, it’s that NATO might have nukes, but Trump’s got the one thing that matters more in 2025: main character syndrome with a God complex.
So congratulations, NATO.
You wanted to be the favorite.
You wanted to be Ivanka.
But you’re still Tiffany.
And Daddy’s just not that into you.