When I think of the difference between Donald Trump’s first term and Donald Trump’s second term, the image that stands out most is the president bombing.

Not a country, in this case — a comedy routine.

It was this January’s keynote speech at the Alfalfa Club dinner, a hokey Washington institution that exists solely for the president to pop in once a year and fire off a bunch of jokes prepared by his speechwriters.

Trump broke with precedent and skipped it in his first term, but decided to give it a shot this time. On the surface, it might have seemed a subtle return to some kind of presidential normalcy — like his much-publicized first appearance at the better-known White House Correspondents’ Association’s dinner on Saturday, a media gathering that traditionally also features a presidential standup set.

But when Trump stood up in his black tuxedo and addressed the Alfalfa Club’s ultra-elite membership, which consists primarily of longtime politicians and Fortune 500 CEOs, it did not go well. Here’s how the Washington Post described the scene:

Tough crowd!

It’s easy to see this as an anecdote about yet another snooty Washington establishment turning their noses up at Trump, but that’s not really the story. The reason the jokes didn’t land wasn’t the audience, or the writing, or the delivery. It’s that they weren’t jokes — they were policy.

When Trump talked about his “hate” for the audience, the actual Trump Justice Department was working its way through his enemies list. In fact, suing the Fed chair to lower interest rates would actually be the lighter approach; in real life, the sitting Fed chair (an Alfalfa member, of course) had just publicly accused the White House of launching a specious criminal investigation to achieve the same goal.

Trump delivered his riff on foreign policy right after he had threatened to invade and annex Greenland, which prompted a global crisis that only ended days earlier when the stock market began melting down. And statehood was no laughing matter in Canada, whose citizens resoundingly elected Prime Minister Mark Carney on a “Never 51” platform after Trump threatened ruinous tariffs if they didn’t join the US.

Trump’s first term featured plenty of people freaking out over his day-to-day pronouncements. But a large amount of abnormal rhetoric or reported behind-the-scenes behavior was also waved aside as hot air, or exaggeration, or dark humor for supporters who were in on the gag. That’s much harder this time, when there’s frequently the force of government behind them, something the media members in attendance for Trump’s speech on Saturday understand all too well.

This is the difference between Trump I and Trump II: Nobody is laughing this time.

The dead seriousness of Trump II vs. Trump I is a helpful frame in part because this new sense of unpredictability — and the dread that often comes with it — crosses party lines. Both his critics and supporters have adjusted to how they view and discuss him with this change in mind.

Let’s start with his supporters. During Trump’s first presidency, there was an entire intellectual scaffolding built around the idea that people needed to lighten up a bit when it came to his more inflammatory or threatening or bizarre statements.

Columnist Salena Zito, who chronicled his 2016 voters on the ground, astutely noted that they often took him seriously, but not literally; while the press took him literally, but not seriously. There was much discussion of his 1980s book The Art of the Deal and its endorsement of “truthful hyperbole,” which Trump described as “an innocent form of exaggeration.” Critics saw it as a manifesto for lying; supporters also cited it to reassure themselves that his more out-there talk was knowingly savvy.

Democrats were never fans of Trump’s schtick, of course. But the first term was also filled with self-appointed strategists warning that Trump’s wilder provocations were mere “distractions” meant to pull his opponents’ attention from more serious and realistic concerns elsewhere.

Trump and his staff were happy to maintain this idea themselves. Whenever a statement or position stirred up an unusual amount of trouble, it was common to mock people for having ever taken it at face value.

Did Trump say Democrats committed treason during his State of the Union speech? “He was obviously joking.” Did he say he’d pardon people who illegally carry out his orders? Kidding, of course! Bombing civilians? You took that stuff literally? Demanding Greenland? Didn’t you see his hilarious Photoshop of Trump Tower in Nuuk?

It’s clear that many Trump pronouncements considered idle “trolling” in his first term were, in retrospect, more serious proposals that were held back by stronger political constraints or a less compliant Cabinet. Now, in his second term, whether you agree with his decisions or not, these declarations are no longer brushed off as easily as “mean tweets” riling up humorless scolds.

In his first term, Trump could get away with occasional sacrilegious talk about being the “chosen one” or the “second coming of God” by claiming sarcasm. In his second term, when Trump posted a picture of himself playing AI Jesus, religious conservatives were far less quick to dismiss it and forced him to take it down, even as the White House passed it off as a gag.

In many ways, this kind of audience response is Trump’s dream. He’s been obsessed for decades with the notion that the world is “laughing” at America; an extension of his own lifelong grievance toward Manhattan snobs mocking his louche Queens persona.

Legend even has it (denied by Trump) that he might never have run for office if President Barack Obama hadn’t mocked him to thundering guffaws at the 2011 White House Correspondents’ Dinner. Now is finally his big chance to return to the same stage his hated predecessor occupied and deliver a roast of his own.

He probably won’t have to worry about excessive laughter this time.