Donald Trump Proudly “Cancels” Jimmy Kimmel But Gets Roasted: “You Are the Unstoppable Ultron, I Am the Everlasting Punchline” – Who Really Gets Bitten Back by Cancel Culture?

Jimmy Kimmel turned the news of his “show being axed” into a heavy weapon, mercilessly shooting Trump: from bulldozing the Rose Garden, building a golden ballroom, cutting Kamala Harris’s security to UFC at the White House – all in 2 months. Trump, who once cursed cancel culture, now turns himself into a “woke king” when he tries to shut Kimmel down, but only makes the comedian laugh out loud: “You want me to shut up, but I’m still a living meme – and you are the everlasting Ultron!”

In the glittering yet treacherous world of late-night television, where punchlines can topple empires and egos clash like titans, Jimmy Kimmel’s saga reads like a Hollywood script gone rogue. It’s September 2025, and the airwaves are crackling with tension. President Donald Trump, fresh off a second-term victory lap, has turned his Twitter-like Truth Social tirades into a weapon of mass disruption. For years, Kimmel’s monologues have been a thorn in Trump’s side—sharp, unrelenting jabs at the former reality TV star turned commander-in-chief. But when Kimmel dared to critique the MAGA response to the tragic assassination of conservative activist Charlie Kirk on September 10, the backlash was swift and seismic. ABC, under parent company Disney’s watchful eye, suspended “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” indefinitely on September 17, citing “offensive and insensitive” remarks. Trump, never one to miss a victory lap, crowed on Truth Social: “Great News for America: The ratings challenged Jimmy Kimmel Show is CANCELLED. Kimmel has ZERO talent, and worse ratings than even Colbert, if that’s possible.” It was a declaration of war, wrapped in smug satisfaction. Affiliates like Sinclair and Nexstar piled on, preempting the show in over 60 markets, allegedly to curry favor with the FCC under Trump’s ally, Chairman Brendan Carr. Protests erupted outside Disney studios, with signs reading “Don’t Bend a Knee to Trump” and “Cancel Disney+.” Hollywood heavyweights—from SAG-AFTRA to Barack Obama—condemned the move as a chilling assault on free speech, with Obama warning it elevated cancel culture to “a new and dangerous level.”

Yet, in a twist worthy of a Marvel blockbuster, what was meant to silence Kimmel only amplified his voice. Disney buckled under the outcry, reinstating the show on September 23 amid a ratings bonanza—Kimmel’s return episode shattered 23-year records, pulling 21 million YouTube views alone. Sinclair and Nexstar followed suit days later, resuming broadcasts on September 26. But the real fireworks ignited in Kimmel’s monologues, where he reloaded with venomous wit, transforming victimhood into a superpower. “He tried his best to cancel me,” Kimmel quipped on his comeback night, eyes gleaming under the studio lights. “Instead, he forced millions of people to watch the show. That backfired bigly.” Drawing parallels to Trump’s chaotic tenure, Kimmel unleashed a barrage of barbs that echoed the original script’s feverish energy. He mocked Trump’s alleged two-month spree of absurdities: paving over the Rose Garden for a gaudy golden ballroom, plotting a UFC cage match in the White House East Room, slashing Secret Service protection for Kamala Harris amid whispers of vendettas, and even jetting to Alaska for a bizarre Putin summit that Kimmel dubbed “bending over for the bear.” “He’s like Ultron,” Kimmel roared, invoking the Avengers’ indestructible villain. “You can’t turn him off. He won’t power down. He just keeps going, crazier than the next.” The crowd erupted; online, clips went viral, racking up shares from Brooklyn to Beijing.

The irony, of course, cuts deeper than any late-night zinger. Trump, the self-proclaimed slayer of cancel culture—who once ranted against “woke mobs” silencing dissent—now wielded the very tool he decried. By pressuring broadcasters through FCC threats and public shaming, he morphed into the “woke king” Kimmel gleefully crowned him. “I thought you were against cancel culture,” Kimmel taunted in a follow-up segment, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “When did you become so woke? You delicate chubby little teacup—did we hurt your feelings?” It was poetic payback: Trump’s fragile ego, perpetually bruised by crowd-size obsessions and bot-amplified praise, exposed as the real casualty. Kimmel didn’t stop there. He dissected Trump’s branding empire—towers emblazoned with gold letters now synonymous with bankrupt casinos and scam universities—recasting the president as a “patriot for profit,” outsourcing MAGA hats to overseas factories while wrapping himself in the flag. “Trump loves America the way a landlord loves a tenant’s rent check: transactional, shallow, and always late,” Kimmel sneered, landing blows that resonated beyond the studio.

This feud isn’t just celebrity catnip; it’s a microcosm of America’s polarized soul. Late-night TV, once a neutral playground for satire, has become ground zero in the culture wars. Stephen Colbert’s “The Late Show” met a similar fate in July 2025, axed after relentless Trump mockery, prompting Kimmel and Colbert to stage a rare crossover in early October. Guesting on each other’s Brooklyn-week specials, they coined “The Eternal Grievance Engine” for Trump, vowing to “drive the president nuts.” Seth Meyers joined the fray, parodying Trump’s FCC saber-rattling as a “War on Punchlines.” Even as Kimmel’s show thrives—outpacing Trump’s rally viewership despite no stage— the broader implications loom. Disney+ and Hulu hemorrhaged millions of subscribers in September, a boycott-fueled exodus that doubled typical churn rates, per Antenna data. Yet sign-ups spiked too, proving satire’s enduring allure. Kimmel, ever the survivor, mused in a post-suspension interview: “I don’t feel like I’m defending democracy, but poking this guy? He deserves it, and I love that people love it.”

Who, then, truly gets bitten by cancel culture’s fangs? Not Kimmel, whose “cancellation” minted him a free-speech martyr and meme lord, his barbs echoing eternally online. It’s Trump, the unstoppable Ultron, whose legacy—lawsuits, impeachments, and blooper-reel gaffes—crumbles under laughter’s weight. In a nation weary of spectacle, Kimmel’s roast reminds us: comedy doesn’t need a network to endure; it needs only a target. And as long as Trump swings wildly, the punchlines will keep landing. The show, mercifully, goes on—but the real cancellation? That’s history’s final edit, inked in ridicule.