‘SNL’ Just Can’t Wait for Trump’s Return to the White House—Really!

This week’s Saturday Night Live was proof that we’re just not ready to process the election yet. It’s a subject everyone is either sick of, or sick over. Not talking about it feels weird and wrong; talking about it feels tedious and noisy and hopeless.

Supposedly there was an online petition for SNL not to go the mournful route it had in the 2016 post-election cold open, when Kate McKinnon—who’d spent the year playing Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton—sang a version of Leonard Cohen‘s “Hallelujah” at the piano. (I loved that performance, for what it’s worth, and put it on par for emotional impact with SNL’s first post 9/11 show—when everybody’s then-favorite mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, stood flanked by NYC firefighters and police officers.) Would Maya Rudolph, who I hope at least had a good weepy phone call with Vice President Kamala Harris this week, appear? Would the cold open be somber or outraged or sincere? And what would even feel “right,” as every response right now feels exhausting and wrong?

All to say, the cold open worked for me. It began with vets Kenan Thompson, Bowen Yang, Ego Nwodim, and Heidi Gardner speaking stone-faced to the camera, listing off the stunning premise of President-elect Trump’s decisive win as if they were an HR department reading off a script. But then they all flipped the script and started marveling at the Emperor’s fantastic wardrobe. Whatever the lamestream media’s problem was with Trump, the SNL family has always had his back. (All except Michael Che, warned Colin Jost, spelling out his co-anchor’s last name just in case Trump wanted to get to work on his enemies’ list.) “I was one of the proud 8% [of Black women] who voted for you,” promised Nwodim. “If we find out someone here voted for Kamala, we’ll rat them out so fast,” said Yang. Sarah Sherman dangled their “three new disgusting cast members” as scapegoats for him to exact revenge.

Someone stuck poor James Austin Johnson, who I imagine was the drunkest cast member of all on Tuesday, in a “hot, jacked Trump” muscle suit. “Heil King,” Marcello Hernandez praised. The only big laugh of the open was Dana Carvey’s pivot from playing President Joe Biden to playing Elon Musk. He jumped around and threw his arms in the air like a dipshit—I’m going to miss you most of all, Governor Walz—and then the cast treated the disaffected young men of America to a rendition of “Y.M.C.A.” Good, tender chaos.

I like Bill Burr’s comedy. I can get with the punch-in-the-face blast of his voice. But good lord, did he ever bomb during his monologue. He began by saying he doesn’t watch politics, which is about the dumbest, least useful, least relevant opener five days after this election. (Probably a bad booking, SNL, however the vote count went.) And if only Burr had stayed there, committed to the privilege of apathy and disdain. Alas—after a boring bit about recovering from the flu and vaccines and a depressing Asian suspicion joke, he jumped train cars.

“Let’s get to what you all want to talk about,” said Burr. “Alright ladies, you’re 2 and 0 against this guy. But you learn more from your losses than your wins.” Then this dipshit started lobbing cheap grenades about “ugly women—feminists I mean” and pantsuits and how female candidates need to stop trying to have respect for themselves. “You got to whore it up a little,” said Burr.

Maybe there’s an argument to be made that what Burr was trying to say is that all of politics is a whore’s game, and male candidates are better at selling off parts themselves to win elections—that nobody runs for office because they have healthy respect for themselves. But these were ugly jokes at the worst possible time. Burr came off not as a provocateur, but a dickhead yelling obscenities at women from the back of the bar.

Michael Che drank from a glass of whiskey through most of Weekend Update. “Man, how did I let y’all convince me that rural Pennsylvania would pick the Jamaican Indian lady?” he said. He was almost amused that we’d got him going there for a bit. “Clearly, I’ve just been spending too much time with you white liberals and your goofy optimism.”

The cast goodbye at the end of the night looked like the scene standing outside a church after a funeral. There were some hugs, some plastered-on smiles, and none of the women were making eye contact with creepy uncle Burr. Take it from me, ladies: skip the wake.

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