Late last week, Donald Trump took to social media to celebrate what he described as the downfall of a long-time critic. “I absolutely love that Colbert got fired,” Mr. Trump wrote, adding that the comedian’s “talent was even less than his ratings.” The message, blunt and personal, was consistent with a pattern Mr. Trump has followed for nearly a decade: confronting mockery with direct attack.

The target of the post, Stephen Colbert, responded that evening not with anger or rebuttal, but with a performance that turned the insult itself into the centerpiece. Standing behind his desk on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, Mr. Colbert announced calmly that the president had called him “a no-talent, low life.” He then lifted a coffee mug bearing the words printed verbatim, took a deliberate sip, and paused.

“Tastes like freedom of speech,” he said.

The audience rose in sustained applause. The moment quickly circulated online, not because it introduced a new argument, but because it illustrated a familiar contrast: one figure escalating through insult, the other deflecting through irony.

The clash was the latest chapter in a feud that dates back to 2015, when Mr. Trump entered the presidential race and late-night television discovered an inexhaustible subject. While many hosts treated Mr. Trump as one political target among many, Mr. Colbert made him central to his monologue, turning presidential speeches, tweets, and contradictions into nightly satire.

At first, Mr. Trump largely ignored the commentary. As the jokes sharpened and Mr. Colbert’s ratings rose, the president’s tone changed. He began naming the comedian directly, calling him a “low life,” predicting the cancellation of his show, and urging CBS to intervene.

For a sitting president to publicly demand consequences for a television host was unusual, even by modern standards. But the tactic was familiar to those who had watched Mr. Trump’s career. He has long relied on public pressure — applied loudly and repeatedly — to discipline critics, whether journalists, executives, or political opponents.

What he appeared not to anticipate was how that pressure would function within the economy of comedy. In late-night television, attention is currency. Each insult from the president generated headlines, social media clips, and renewed interest in the very program he was attempting to diminish. Mr. Colbert acknowledged the dynamic openly on air, telling viewers that every presidential tweet was “basically a Super Bowl commercial.”

The numbers appeared to support the claim. Following several high-profile exchanges, The Late Show climbed in the ratings, eventually overtaking competitors and holding the top position in its time slot for extended periods. Trump’s attacks, meant to intimidate, had instead amplified his critic’s reach.

The coffee mug episode crystallized that pattern. Rather than rebut the substance of the insult — a subjective judgment about talent — Mr. Colbert reframed the exchange as a question of power. “Genuinely powerful people,” he said that night, “don’t need to attack late-night comedians at two in the morning. They’re too busy actually running the country.”

The line drew laughter, but it also landed as commentary. Mr. Trump’s presidency has often been defined by reaction: to critics, to unfavorable coverage, to perceived slights. His public persona thrives on confrontation, yet appears unusually sensitive to ridicule, particularly when it undermines the image of dominance he works to project.

For Mr. Colbert, the episode reinforced a different kind of authority. By declining to meet insult with insult, he positioned himself not as an aggrieved party, but as an observer — one who could absorb the attack and render it harmless through repetition and humor.

The exchange revealed something larger than a personal feud. It illustrated how satire functions in an era of hyper-personalized politics. Comedy no longer simply comments on power from the margins; it interacts with it directly, sometimes provoking responses that expose insecurity rather than strength.

Mr. Trump continued to post after the broadcast, accusing Mr. Colbert of desperation and bias, and encouraging advertisers to withdraw support. None did. The mug bearing his insult sold out online within hours.

Years into their antagonistic relationship, the roles have calcified. Mr. Trump attacks. Mr. Colbert reframes. Viewers tune in not for resolution, but for the ritual itself — a recurring demonstration that volume does not always translate to control.

In that sense, the mug mattered less than what it represented: an inversion of power. An insult intended to humiliate became a prop, a punchline, and a reminder that in the arena of satire, ridicule is often strongest when it is calmly received.