Matt Stone and Trey Parker spent the better part of two decades building South Park into something rare in American comedy: a show that actually offended everyone equally. They went after smug liberals, conservative culture warriors, celebrities, religions, and anyone else who took themselves too seriously. Now they’ve turned their attention to Donald Trump’s second presidency, and the results suggest something more significant than just another comedy show taking shots at the MAGA figurehead.

The second episode of South Park‘s 27th season, which aired earlier this week, features Vice President JD Vance offering to apply baby oil to Satan’s posterior so Trump can have sex with him. Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem shoots puppies by the dozen, while ICE agents raid a Dora the Explorer set and arrest Latino angels in heaven. Trump’s micropenis gets animated screentime at Mar-a-Lago, which the show depicts as a gaudy Fantasy Island populated by nursing-home residents in bikinis.

This matters because South Park occupies different cultural real estate than Saturday Night Live or Stephen Colbert’s Late Show. Those programs speak to steadfastly liberal audiences who already despise Trump. South Park built its reputation savaging those same liberals for their sanctimony about diversity casting, Covid vaccines, and political correctness.

The first episode of the new season went after Paramount for bending the knee to Trump over a poorly-edited Kamala Harris interview, suggesting corporate America’s swift genuflection to the new administration was more about money — in this case, receiving government approval for a merger — than principles. This wasn’t the predictable “Trump is a fascist” messaging you get from late-night hosts reading off writers’ room manifestos. It was sharper, more cynical, and focused on the system that enables Trump rather than just the President himself.

Comedy’s relationship with Trump has always been complicated. During his first term, liberal comedians treated him like a gift: endless material, easy laughs, righteous indignation. But their constant hammering produced diminishing returns. Alec Baldwin’s Trump impression on SNL was never especially innovative, while Colbert’s nightly takedowns became background noise. The #resistance comedy-industrial complex spat out content that preached to the converted, changing nobody’s mind about anything.

Meanwhile, a different comedy ecosystem emerged. Shane Gillis, kicked off SNL for using slurs about Asians and gay people in podcast clips, built a massive following with stand-up routines appealing across political lines. In the run-up to last year’s election, Theo Von hosted Trump on his podcast to chat about cocaine. These comics don’t necessarily support Trump, but they’re not reflexively opposed to him either. They represent comedy’s libertarian streak — suspicious of authority, allergic to preaching, and committed to getting laughs.

South Park sits at the intersection of these worlds. The show that once satirized social justice warriors now depicts Trump literally making deals with the Devil. But unlike SNL‘s approach, which assumes the President’s evil is self-evident, South Park shows him as pathetic, surrounded by sycophants and running a tacky Florida compound for geriatrics.

The response from Trump’s orbit has been telling. After the season premiere, the White House gave a statement condemning South Park’s “uninspired ideas” and “desperate attempt for attention”. The president who once obsessed over SNL sketches now governs with less concern for mainstream media mockery. But South Park, despite its popularity, is different from the crowd. It’s the show that shaped the sensibilities of millions of men who came of age in the late Nineties and 2000s — many of whom voted for Trump in 2024. When Parker and Stone mock something, that audience pays attention in ways they never would to someone like John Oliver.

The same irreverent energy that carried Trump to the White House now threatens to turn on him if he becomes too much like the establishment he claimed to oppose. Every political movement eventually faces this problem. The rebels become the rulers. The insurgents become incumbents. The cutting edge becomes cringe. With corporate America falling in line and tech billionaires kissing the ring, he risks losing the quality that made him different.

Now, by treating Trump as mockable rather than terrifying, South Park is doing something more subversive than any earnest liberal comedian with his silly “Vax Scene” performance could manage. It’s making him uncool.

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Oliver Bateman is a historian and journalist based in Pittsburgh. He blogs, vlogs, and podcasts at his Substack, Oliver Bateman Does the Work

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