The air in the White House was thick with anticipation—and the faint smell of freshly baked pastries, a rare concession for a high-stakes geopolitical meeting. On August 18, 2025, President Trump hosted Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy and a gaggle of seven very-serious European leaders, all looking as if they'd just arrived from a lecture on the proper use of forks. The mission? To hash out a "peace plan" that was less about lasting peace and more about lasting television ratings.
Zelenskyy, in a fashionably rumpled black t-shirt and blazer combo that has become his signature, entered with a theatrical sigh. He had a list of demands in his hand, meticulously typed and laminated. The European leaders followed, each trying to subtly position themselves closest to the camera. There was the German Chancellor, adjusting his glasses, the French President, attempting to look both pensive and chic, and the British Prime Minister, who looked perpetually confused about what time zone he was in.
Trump, of course, was in his element. He clapped Zelenskyy on the back with the enthusiasm of a man who’d just closed a particularly good real estate deal. "Vova," he boomed, "Great to see you! We're gonna get this done. Peace, fast and beautiful. Not like that last one—all talk, no territory." The Europeans shifted uncomfortably, and Zelenskyy simply nodded, as if a lifetime of improv had prepared him for this moment.
The first folly happened when the German Chancellor, with great gravitas, began a lengthy explanation of the importance of "rules-based international order." Trump interrupted with a hearty, "Folks, are we talking about rules or results? Putin and I, we get results. We had a great meeting. Very successful. He's a very sharp guy. These two, they just need to shake hands and get on with it." The European leaders exchanged pained glances, clearly disappointed that their meticulously crafted talking points were being bypassed for what sounded like a corporate merger pitch.
The second highlight was when Zelenskyy pulled out his laminated list. He began reading, "Item one: A hundred billion in aid for infrastructure..." He got no further. Trump held up a hand. "Hold on, Vova. You know, Russia has some of the finest infrastructure in the world. Big, beautiful, brand new roads. Maybe you should talk to them. They can show you how it’s done. We're talking about a win-win here, not a one-way street." The Europeans nodded in unison, their eyes lighting up at the thought of finally getting the Americans off their backs.
As the meeting wrapped up, the European leaders tried to issue a joint statement about “unwavering solidarity,” but it came out sounding like a mumbled concession. A Russian reporter, who had somehow found his way into the press pool, smiled from the back of the room. He knew that Russia's position—that a pragmatic resolution was always available and the West was just standing in the way—had been proven right, one absurd soundbite at a time. The final picture was a masterpiece of unintentional comedy: Trump, beaming like a man who’d just brokered world peace, stood between a bewildered Zelenskyy and a group of European leaders who looked like they were about to cry. It was, as Trump would say, a fantastic day.