Let Them Eat Tariffs!

Trump’s Tone-Deaf Trade War and the Real Cost for American Families

Donald Trump—the human equivalent of a microwaved marzipan stuffed in a bargain-bin suit, the incurious, idiotic nepo-baby rodeo clown lurching through history like a novelty cake abandoned at a gender reveal wildfire, the self-declared savior of the “forgotten man”—is now lecturing American families about tightening their belts, as if he’s ever seen his own beneath the tectonic plate of congealed fry grease, saccharine sediment, and fossilized Big Mac buns he calls a midsection.

And with the kind of straight-faced, shameless audacity that could light up Times Square for a week, he’s out there telling parents, “Tough shit, kids—better get used to empty shelves. Daddy’s too busy throwing a hissy fit over tariffs to care if you ever see a toy again.”

Because nothing screams “stable genius” quite like torching family budgets and calling it 4D chess—while the rest of us wonder if the ‘plan’ is just to see how much chaos he can cause before he finishes his second ketchup laden lunch.

In a cult-like Cabinet meeting that played like an acid-infused fever dream with North Korean subtitles, the tinkle tape traitor breezily waved off the economic gut punch he’s delivering, suggesting that “maybe your child has to have two dolls, instead of 30.”

Translation: Sorry, America—this year, your kid’s Christmas is brought to you by the letters F, U, and a stocking stuffed with IOUs and existential dread.

As an aside, what in the name of Marie Antoinette’s fucking ghost is he even talking about? Who the hell has 30 dolls? Most parents are just praying they can afford a carton of eggs without taking out a second goddamn mortgage.

This is a “let them eat cake” moment so fucking tone-deaf, it makes Marie Antoinette sound like she was just sharing a recipe for homemade breakfast bars. Trump didn’t campaign on “a little pain” for American families. He didn’t barnstorm the heartland promising to beat your bank account like a rented mule. He didn’t denture-slip spit-spray all over Joe Rogan’s microphone while telling people to brace for empty-ass shelves and wallet-gouging prices just so he could play economic fucking chicken with China.

But here we are, watching him spin suffering as if it’s some patriotic badge of honor. “Tough luck,” he shrugs, “maybe your kid gets to treasure two plastic dolls instead of swimming in a landfill of them.” Meanwhile, millions scramble just to keep the fridge full and the car from running on fumes.

Does he think we’re all fucking stupid (don’t answer that, I know he does). We know this shit isn’t about dolls, or toys, or some deranged Barbie stockpile fantasy (sorry, Ben Shapiro). This is about the entire goddamn economic food chain—starting with the longshoremen who’ll be staring at cargo ships emptier than Trump’s grasp of basic arithmetic, to the truckers hauling ass across the country, to the big box stores whose shelves will look like a post-apocalyptic Netflix binge. It’s about the clerks whose hours get slashed because there’s jack shit left to sell, the mom-and-pop toy shops praying they can unload a single Cabbage Patch Kid, and the greasy spoon diners that keep those workers fueled—assuming anyone can still afford a fucking cup of coffee. Hell, even the gas stations will feel the squeeze when there’s nothing left to haul and no reason to fill a tank.

Cargo ships will crawl into port like dying whales, a pathetic trickle where there should be a roaring tide fueling the entire economy. Longshoremen will stand around, their hours gutted, staring at empty docks and wondering how the hell they’ll make rent. Truckers will sit at home, their eighteen-wheelers rusting in the driveway, engines cold, bills piling up. Retailers—from the fluorescent wasteland of Target to the last-chance hope of Tilly’s Toy Box—will be left scrambling for stock, fighting over scraps while their shelves gape back at them like open wounds. The pain won’t be abstract; it’ll be a gut punch that will ripple across every inch of the country, from the union guy in Jersey who’ll count overtime that never comes, to the single mom in Des Moines who’ll scrape for groceries and pray the car starts in the morning.

And for what? So Trump can lumber onto stage, chin jutted, belly straining against his girdle, preening like a prize rooster with a diaper full of grievances, bellowing about “winning” a trade war nobody ever wanted? This isn’t strategy—it’s a toddler’s tantrum with nuclear consequences, a bullheaded blunder that’ll shatter paychecks, gut small businesses, and leave working families bleeding while he struts off to his next golf outing. When the fallout hits—when jobs evaporate, shelves stand empty, and bills stack up like sandbags—what’s Trump’s answer? “Let them have two dolls.” Next up: “Let them scavenge the pantry for stale crackers.”

Nothing but hot air and horseshit, and we’re the poor bastards left to sift through the wreckage.

Democrats, if you’re listening—and you’d better be—drive this message home like you’re hammering a stake through the heart of economic ruin. Flood every airwave, plaster every billboard, and make sure the truth is staring people in the face every time they open their front door or check their mailbox. Forget Amazon—let’s see it on grocery receipts, bus tickets, pharmacy bags, and gas pumps. Make it inescapable: at the breakfast table, on the commute, in the checkout line. Let the truth echo in every kitchen and break room from Bangor to Bakersfield, until no one can pretend they didn’t hear it.

Tell the fucking world that this shit isn’t about how many goddamn dolls your kid has. It’s about jobs. It’s about livelihoods. It’s about the waitress busting her ass hoping truckers stop for breakfast, the mechanic keeping their rigs from falling apart, the gas station scraping by just to keep the fucking lights on.

He’s perfectly fucking willing to napalm the paychecks, dreams, and futures of working Americans, including plenty of his own voters, just to pad his own bloated wallet and toss another bone to his pack of leeching, taint-licking lackies—because that’s all this orange-tinted con artist, washed-up reality TV blowhard and two-bit grifter has ever given a single shit about: rigging the game so he and his billionaire dickhead buddies can hoard more, suck the marrow out of the middle class, and slap another gaudy coat of lacquer on whatever tacky-ass throne the ultra-wealthy are squatting on this week. The rest of us? We’re just roadkill—collateral damage in their endless, greedy fucking game.

Because when the ships stop coming, the trucks stop rolling, and the stores start closing, it won’t matter how many toys are on the shelf or gadgets are in the cart. People will be too busy figuring out how to keep the lights on and the fridge stocked. The pain won’t just be “a little”—it will be widespread, unmistakable, and impossible to ignore.

Let’s not pretend Trump cares. He never has. His “let them eat tariffs” moment is proof enough: He’s so far removed from the daily grind of American life that he thinks the biggest crisis facing families is an excess of plastic double D dolls. Meanwhile, the rest of us are just trying to survive in the economic wasteland he’s hellbent on creating.

So, Democrats, sharpen your knives and don’t let up. This is the fight. This is the message. This is the moment to remind every American that Trump’s trade war isn’t about patriotism or prosperity—it’s about pain. And he’s goddamn proud of it.

That melting monument to self-indulgence can eat all the fucking cake he wants—since he’s clearly never skipped a serving.

The rest of us just want to be able to afford to eat dinner.

And with that, today’s song:

Love you guys!

Stay safe, stay strong, stay the fuck away from those weird ass Cabinet meetings.

💙 Jo