In the sprawling, often surreal theater of American public life, few personas have been as meticulously crafted or fiercely defended as that of Donald J. Trump: the “very stable genius.” It is a brand built on a foundation of sneering at “low IQ” opponents, boasting of his time at the “Wharton School of Finance,” and an almost compulsive need to assert his own intellectual superiority. For decades, this image has been a central pillar of his public identity.

But what happens when that pillar is struck, not by a political rival or an investigative journalist, but by a late-night comedian armed with a mischievous grin and a 50-year-old document?

This just happened on Jimmy Kimmel Live!, where the host didn’t just tell a joke; he staged a full-blown comedic crucifixion of a myth. In a segment that began with laughter and ended with a stunned gasp, Jimmy Kimmel “released” what he claimed was Donald Trump’s 1965 College Board SAT scorecard, a document the former president has allegedly guarded more fiercely than state secrets. The reveal was more than a punchline; it was a targeted, fact-based takedown of the entire “stable genius” narrative.

The monologue began as many do, with Kimmel expertly dissecting the political absurdities of the day. His primary target was Trump, who had recently held a rally where he dedicated a significant portion of his time to mocking a Harvard-educated economist. Kimmel didn’t just report this; he framed it. He played a searing montage of clips, a greatest-hits collection of Trump at various rallies, sneering at “Harvard idiots,” questioning the intelligence of his adversaries, and relentlessly polishing his own credentials.

The audience laughed, as they always do. But then, Kimmel’s expression shifted. The usual comedic glint in his eye was replaced by a look of serious, almost moralistic inquiry.

“You know,” he said, pacing his stage, “for a guy who is so completely obsessed with everyone else’s grades, test scores, and where they went to school, he has guarded his own school records like they’re the last copy of the Home Alone 2 DVD.”

This, Kimmel explained, wasn’t just a casual observation. It was one of the great, enduring mysteries of the Trump persona. He leaned into the camera, reminding his audience of the stakes. “His own former lawyer, Michael Cohen, even testified under oath that Trump threatened his high school, his colleges, and the College Board with lawsuits if they ever released his grades or his scores.”

Kimmel let that sink in. The implication was clear: this wasn’t just privacy; this was a cover-up. “Think about that,” Kimmel pressed. “What kind of person threatens to sue their old gym teacher? It really makes you wonder, what in the world is he so afraid of us seeing?”

The stage was set. The suspense was palpable. Kimmel, a master showman, paused, and that mischievous grin returned.

“Well tonight, my friends,” he announced, his voice dripping with theatrical flair, “after months of our team of investigative researchers—and Guillermo, Guillermo was a huge help on this—digging through dusty archives, we finally found it. It’s the document he never wanted the world to see.”

He gestured dramatically to the giant screen behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaimed, “I give you the official 1965 College Board SAT scorecard of one Donald J. Trump.”

An image of a vintage-style scorecard filled the screen. The name was clearly visible. A hush fell over the studio audience, a collective intake of breath mixing anticipation with disbelief. This was the moment. The joke was about to stop, and a truth—or at least, Kimmel’s version of it—was about to hit like a bombshell.

“All right, America, are you ready?” Kimmel asked. “The moment of truth. The official SAT score of the ‘Very Stable Genius’ is…” He squinted at the screen, drawing out the moment for maximum comedic effect. “A grand total of 970 out of 1600.”

The audience was quiet for a beat, processing the number. Was that good? Bad? The context was missing.

Kimmel, sensing the void, immediately held up his hands and delivered the devastating context. “Now, to put that in perspective for those of you who might have forgotten your SAT days,” he explained, “the national average for all high school students in America that year was 980.”

The studio erupted. The number wasn’t just mediocre; it was, according to this document, below average.

“That’s right!” Kimmel shouted over the wave of laughter and shocked gasps. “The man who has spent half a century calling Harvard graduates stupid, himself scored below the average American teenager!”

This was the kill shot. The entire foundation of the “stable genius” myth, the idea that Trump possessed a rare and superior intellect, was comically and publicly shattered. Kimmel wasn’t done. He piled on, twisting the knife with a series of fabricated sample questions from the test.

“This explains so much,” he riffed. “We also got some of his answers to the sample questions. ‘What is similar about a grape and an orange?’ Trump said, ‘They’re both types of soda.’ ‘What is 30 minus 7?’ Trump said, ‘My approval rating.’”

While the scorecard itself was presented as part of a comedic bit, the power of the moment was undeniable. It was a perfectly executed piece of satire, using Trump’s own obsession against him. For years, the public has been told to trust in his “great brain,” to believe that he sees things others don’t, that his “gut” is smarter than any expert’s education.

Kimmel’s segment called, as he put it, “the biggest bluff in modern political history.” It exposed the vast canyon between the leader’s carefully crafted public persona and the potential private truth.

In the end, whether the 970 score is historically accurate is almost beside the point. The segment’s brilliance was in its ability to hold up a mirror to the absurdity. It highlighted the profound irony of a man who demands intellectual perfection from everyone but has, according to his own former lawyer, allegedly threatened legal action to prevent anyone from examining his own.

The laughter in the studio wasn’t just at a joke. It was a release of tension, a collective acknowledgment of a hypocrisy that has been hiding in plain sight for 50 years. For one night on live television, the myth of the “very stable genius” was brought crashing down to earth, not by a political opponent, but by a comedian who understood that sometimes, the most effective way to expose the truth is to frame it as the ultimate punchline.