The 2028 contest for the White House has opened its curtains early with a flourish of theatrical absurdity. Dan Greaney, the Emmy-winning writer of The Simpsons episode that portrayed Donald Trump as a future president 16 years before his victory, has declared his own candidacy, appearing in a social media video in wizard’s robes and a grey beard to declare, “Judgment Day is here.” Calling himself a “self-proclaimed prophet,” Greaney later shed the costume to reveal a more earnest pitch: a platform of “America for all,” and a positioning as a progressive Republican taking aim at the complacency of both major parties, the billionaires, and the Trump administration itself. He is not the only figure from the entertainment-media fringe testing the waters. Viewed from Washington, the early jostling is notable; focus groups cited by The Independent show that right-wing podcaster Candace Owens, a purveyor of unfounded conspiracy theories who has clashed with Trump, is gaining serious traction among disparate voter demographics who praise her as articulate and well-grounded.

Viewed from London, such developments reinforce a now-familiar pattern: a political culture in which celebrity and digital fame provide a more effective springboard than party machinery. The Russian outlet Lenta.ru, reporting on Greaney’s announcement, devoted particular attention to the 2000 episode “Bart to the Future,” in which Lisa Simpson inherits a budgetary crisis from her predecessor Trump—a joke that landed differently after 2016. The report noted that the series’ creator, Matt Groening, has often been called a “prophet,” a mantle Greaney now claims for himself. In Moscow’s telling, the story is less about a serious candidacy than about the global reach of American pop culture’s predictive satire, though Greaney’s invocation of a progressive Republican identity hints at a genuine attempt to exploit the ideological void between a polarised Democratic establishment and a Trump-dominated GOP.

The parallel emergence of Owens—who has promoted conspiracy theories about Israel and the French first lady—suggests a fragmentation of the American right that goes beyond personality. Despite Trump’s past derision, which included sharing an AI-generated image mocking her intelligence, Owens’s support in focus groups illustrates how a new generation of right-wing media influencers can build loyalty independent of the Trump brand. For observers in Brussels and other capitals accustomed to stable party structures, the dual ascent of a comedy writer and a podcaster reflects an electorate unmoored from institutional authority, seeking authenticity in performance.

Whether Greaney’s long-shot bid, launched with a law-school graduate’s nod to political ambition and a theatrical “Screw it, I can be a politician,” evolves into a more structured movement remains doubtful. Yet the 2028 campaign season is already exhibiting a centrifugal force that pulls the political centre of gravity further towards the entertainment sphere. In a cycle where the predictive power of a cartoon script becomes a campaign asset, the boundary between governance and spectacle looks set to blur even further.