Who needs a nightcap? Donald Trump ended his Tuesday with a wildly defensive, overly bombastic late-night Truth Social diatribe bragging about all the “work” he’s supposedly done on his health. “Medical Exams, Cognitive Exams, and everything else,” he promised.
Then he went further—of course, he went further—denouncing media reports that question his health, especially one from The New York Times, as “seditious, perhaps even treasonous.”
What’s striking is his fixation on that Times story. It ran more than two weeks ago. Trump can dismiss ballroom architects in a heartbeat, but he can’t let this Times piece go. The fact that he’s still raging about it is telling.
Reports about his health episodes, his cognitive decline, increasingly washed-out appearance, halting movements, stroke-like facial expressions, and the unexplained bandage now often photographed on his right hand are, according to Trump, not just false but attacks on the state itself.
This level of theatrical overreaction isn’t new. It’s the latest, purest expression of lessons Trump absorbed decades ago from Roy Cohn, the ruthless political hitman he once called a second father.
Cohn, the hard-edged attorney who rose to prominence as Senator Joseph McCarthy’s chief counsel during the Red Scare of the 1950s, and later as a New York power broker, built his career on intimidation, political manipulation, and a scorched-earth approach to the law. His life stands as a stark example of how ruthlessness can win influence in the short term while corroding institutions—and ultimately consuming its practitioners.
Everyone knows the obvious parts of the Cohn playbook: attack first, sue always, apologize never. But one of Cohn’s deepest teachings wasn’t about politics. It was about the body. It was about hiding vulnerability at any cost.
Cohn had AIDS—and eventually died from the disease. But as both Nicholas von Hoffman’s chilling biography and the HBO adaptation of Angels in America describe, Cohn vehemently refused to admit his illness. (Cohn, a gay man, also never spoke publicly about his sexuality.) He threatened to sue his doctor if the word “AIDS” was spoken.
Even as Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions spread across his skin, Cohn caked makeup over his sores and gray pallor. He went on 60 Minutes insisting he had “liver cancer,” a desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of control.
This strategy wasn’t privacy; it was all about power. In his worldview, illness meant weakness, and weakness meant forfeiting control. You didn’t admit it. You didn’t hint at it. And you certainly didn’t let journalists see it.
As we’re witnessing now, Trump, ever the dutiful protégé, learned that lesson well. Trump doesn’t just claim he’s fine, he announces that his health is “perfect.” The point isn’t medical accuracy. The point is that only a traitor would question the invincibility of King Donald Trump, a 79-year-old elderly man whose “perfect” days are long behind him.
Trump’s bravado, lies, assaults, and obfuscation are Cohn speaking through him: Always be on the offensive, never admit fault, make yourself the victim, bury adversaries in litigation and accusations, and project total invulnerability.
This is why obsessing over what is actually happening to Trump physically can miss the larger point. The real story is how thoroughly Trump relies on Cohn’s rules to manage reality. He cannot allow transparency. He cannot tolerate scrutiny. He cannot permit the idea that his body, like every body, is vulnerable to time. Especially one that smells like a three-day-old Big Mac.
This doctrine of permanent invincibility shapes his politics, too. It’s why he lashes out at any acknowledgment of mistakes. It’s why unfavorable polls are “fake,” court losses and elections “rigged,” investigative reporting “treason.” Vulnerability doesn’t exist in the Cohn-Trump universe; everything is dominance or attack.
Roy Cohn died insisting on a version of himself that was already collapsing. Even as his illness consumed him, he demanded to be seen as powerful and untouchable. Trump watched that performance up close. He learned that truth is optional, but the illusion must be airtight.
And when Trump doesn’t want you to see something, he overkills, overcompensates, and overreacts. That’s when you know something is very, very wrong.
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