You're looking at a preview of the cover of The New Yorker, which has done some fabulous work lately satirizing the idea of Trump in stark terms and with vicious abandon.
If you want to understand what all the fuss is about, look to the arts. Everything is being cut, everything is under siege, and the only thing keeping a lot of people sane is knowing that there are like-minded humans out there who are creating things, writing things, and reflecting back the unreality of modern life right now. It's an insane time, but the satire is pretty fucking good, if you don't mind my saying it.
There's no pretense in this work of being "tongue in cheek" or of simply making fun of someone powerful. This cover shows a bloated, hapless Trump raining destruction down on our institutions. His soft, padded ass is the most prominent thing on display here, and this depiction goes to the heart of what matters about insulting a dictator. You take his most ridiculous feature and you blow it up. You make it indistinguishable from anything else.
When we can look back at this era with some perspective, these are the images that will stand out. They are searing and truthful in a time when the truth can't even get through the door.