Once, Bill Maher was the guy with the cigarette and the sneer — the one who made fun of power because it needed to be made fun of. That’s the gig. That’s the press. That’s comedy. That’s what we’re supposed to do in a free country with an ego problem.

Now he’s licking Trump’s ring and giggling about it like it’s prom night.

Maher didn’t just dine with Trump. He dined out on him. Called him “charming.” “Measured.” “Self-aware.”

He even brought a printout of Trump’s old insults — and let Trump autograph them. You couldn’t write a better metaphor if you tried: the comedian handing over his bite, begging for a signature.

Jesus Christ, Bill.

This isn’t about comedy. This isn’t about healing. It’s about access. It’s about the same media complex that watched Trump spit in the face of the First Amendment and still came back for selfies and soup.

The press — yes, even the satirical press — isn’t meant to cuddle up to authority. It’s meant to scrape against it. To demand facts, challenge claims, and expose the soft tissue under the bluster.

There is no evidence — none — that Maher asked a single hard question over that meal. No inquiries about election lies, immunity fantasies, or fascist flirtations. Just Kid Rock, Dana White, and a guy who once compared himself to George Carlin, all toasting the man who tried to burn the Constitution with a Sharpie.

Maher didn’t just fail to push back. He became what he once mocked. He became Ari Fleischer in a black tee. He became a late-night succubus — drained of principle, hungry for relevance, feeding off a dying host.

And he’s not alone.

The tech bros are doing it. The Democrats are doing it. Schumer’s backing GOP shutdown budgets. Zuckerberg’s praising Trump for “decency” in crisis. Everyone’s pretending it’s normal again. That the man who said he’d be a dictator on Day One doesn’t really mean it.

But this isn’t politics as usual. This is cowardice dressed as bipartisanship. This is complicity by applause.

What the hell happened to our balls?

We’ve let the loudest man in the room rebrand himself as a misunderstood grandpa, and the people who should know better — comics, columnists, so-called guardians of the truth — are helping him do it. Not with propaganda. With silence. With jokes. With dinner.

And if this keeps up, the next autocrat won’t need to take the press down. He’ll just invite it over.

And they’ll bring the wine.