snip

The man talks to the American people like he's babysitting adults who keep licking outlets for sport and then proudly showing him the scorch marks. He stands there in that tragic citrus glow, like a punished beach ball someone forgot to deflate after an orgy at Mar-a-Lago, and explains the economy with the condescending patience of a man reading Goodnight Moon to a pile of damp casino carpet ripped up during a hepatitis outbreak and still suspiciously warm from whatever the hell happened on it. Every lie erupts out of him like someone squeezed a fire hose full of raw sewage and mystery fluids they don't test for in polite society.

He has never stepped inside a grocery store, yet stomps around like the self-anointed Pope of Produce, the Sultan of Store Brands, the Guru of Goddamn Groceries, the deranged high priest of whatever rancid refrigerator prophecy he hallucinated while huffing aerosol cheese. This is the same confused pantry poltergeist who once insisted you need ID to buy cereal. Cereal. As if Tony the Tiger is quietly deputizing shoppers at dawn. He thinks he invented groceries. He thinks he authored pasta. He genuinely believes Thanksgiving "surroundings" is the correct term for stuffing and sweet potatoes, like a short-circuited kitchen gnome glitching his way through a holiday he has never cooked, tasted, or emotionally acknowledged.

So the question is ... are you?