David Colburn

When Donald Trump slapped a 50 percent tariff on Brazilian steel and aluminum, the American media did what it always does: called a panel of economists, invited two guys named Doug to debate supply chains, and cut to commercial with a promo for prescription heartburn medication.
One Doug said it was a bold move. The other Doug shrugged and said, “Well, at least he didn’t touch the coffee.”
He spoke too soon.
When Trump hit the Canadians, they got so annoyed that they threatened to revoke Trump’s honorary poutine privileges. Mexico considered raising the price of guacamole just to watch the Super Bowl crowd cry.
But Brazil?
Brazil didn’t schedule a trade summit. Brazil didn’t draft a diplomatic statement. Brazil didn’t even bother to make a spreadsheet.
Brazil just opened Photoshop and unleashed the Vampetaço.
That’s not a typo. That’s a tactical meme offensive, a coordinated flood of social media posts featuring Brazilian soccer star Vampeta, whose half-smirk and notoriety have somehow turned him into the country’s unofficial avatar of digital protest. America has cats and Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka. Brazil has Vampeta.
The Vampetaço dates back to 2023, when a wave of Brazilians began using images of the retired footballer to troll political figures who insulted Brazil or threatened its interests. The strategy? Respond to an attack not with outrage, but with ridiculousness to spam the offender’s social media with a torrent of Vampeta memes, burying the comments in a landslide of absurdity. Which, given the absurdity, is fighting fire with fire.
When Trump revived his Cold War cosplay and slapped tariffs on Brazilian exports earlier this year, the Vampetaço was deployed once again, not with graphic content, but with a blitz of images that said, in essence, “You want to mess with Brazil? Here’s Vampeta. A lot of Vampeta.”
The actual images aren’t racy. In fact, most are harmless, headshots, sports photos, and an overabundance of a shirtless pose from a long-ago magazine shoot. It’s not scandalous, just unexpected, the sort of photo that makes you pause and gape in astonishment.
The power of the Vampetaço isn’t in shock, it’s in scale. Thousands of identical or lightly doctored images, swarming an online space like a meme locust plague.
The point isn’t to offend. It’s to overwhelm. To break the dignity of the moment through sheer comedic force. To make serious people feel silly for picking a fight with a country that has better things to do, like throw memes.
While American analysts were debating whether tariffs would raise the price of patio furniture, Brazil was weaponizing internet absurdity like a samba-powered snowball cannon. Trump tried to flex U.S. economic muscle. Brazil flexed its meme muscle.
And no, the campaign didn’t cause Trump to lift the tariffs. But in the court of global public opinion, Brazil didn’t look cowed or humiliated – it looked like the only country still having fun. The Vampetaço turned a grim economic gut punch into a cultural punchline. No one remembers the actual price of Brazilian rebar, but people remember the shirtless guy with the smirk who hijacked a comment section.
What Brazil pulled off with the Vampetaço wasn’t lewd, or crude, or particularly cutting. But it was brilliant. It was the equivalent of replacing someone’s podium with a whoopee cushion, not to harm, but to puncture pomposity.
Trump’s tariffs were supposed to show strength. Brazil answered with sarcasm, repetition, and a soccer legend’s smirk. It didn’t change policy, but it shifted the tone, and in a world built on narrative, that’s not nothing.
So the next time a world leader comes for Brazil with spreadsheets and threats, they should ask themselves one question:
“Am I ready to be swarmed by Vampeta?”
Because in this meme war, Brazil didn’t go low.
They went loud.
And in the age of digital diplomacy, that’s more than enough to make an impression.