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In a bid to serve as the ultimate culinary overlord and reclaim his throne as Fast Food Czar, Donald Trump has decided to dive into the greasy, golden world of McDonald’s during the riveting final stretch of his third campaign for the White House. Picture it now: the former president, clad in an apron that matches the kitchen’s ketchup splatter, breathing new life into fry-cooking, a skill as alien to him as humility.
Trump, in a move that screams “I’m in touch with the common man!” swapped his business attire for fryer grease, showcasing his latest talent: handing out mystery meat and questionable fries at a Pennsylvania McDonald’s. The restaurant was closed for the occasion because who wouldn’t want to watch the man whose dietary tendencies have been likened to a toddler’s first buffet experience attempt to “cook” food he never actually learned to make? He cheekily informed his drive-thru customers that he personally crafted their meals, leaving us all to wonder if it was just an elaborate setup for a horror flick about food poisoning.
In an exquisitely ironic twist, we have Kamala Harris, former fry-flipping, ice cream dispensing warrior from the ’80s, now accused by Trump of fabricating her humble beginnings in the fast-food trenches. A vintage political zinger that would make a Shakespearean fool nod in approval! Trump, apparently obsessed with this ages-old nugget of biographical trivia, has transformed it into a campaign motif, claiming Harris’ tale of flipping burgers is as fictional as his own claims about standing amidst the rubble of 9/11, waving his financial prowess like a trophy.
“I’m looking for a job!” Trump declared, a fitting motto for a man whose entire career seems like one long, painful audition for a role he’s way too overqualified for—mostly because he’s never actually qualified for any role whatsoever.
Harris, meanwhile, has chosen the classic technique of ignoring the circus, while Trump’s supporters flutter about with their conspiracies, asking her for a McDonald’s W-2 from 1983. The sheer absurdity! It’s as if someone asked to see George Washington’s childhood report card on cherry tree chopping. The truth of Harris’ fry-cook history isn’t just a convenient fact; it’s an aesthetic choice now—the art of juxtaposition: a woman who’s flipped patties against a man whose entire existence seems like a poorly scripted reality show.
To put it delicately, the Democratic National Convention this summer compared Harris‘ working-class origins with Trump’s silver spoon upbringing—”one candidate slaved over the fryer, while the other was likely served foie gras on a diamond plate.” Trust Bill Clinton to slip in a jab about how Harris might take the Fast Food crown from Trump‘s past: “She will probably spend more time at McDonald’s than I did.”
Meanwhile, Tim Walz chimed in to paint a picture of young Trump in a McDonald’s: “Can you even imagine him working there? I mean, he’d end up building a wall around the drive-thru.”
And thus, the ironic stage is set against the backdrop of political theater that manages to make even Fast Food appear gourmet. In the grand narrative where two drastically different career trajectories collide over fries, one can’t help but feel grateful for the absurdity—because sometimes, the line between a dictator and a dinner attendant seems to blur, especially when you’re biting into the same Big Mac.
In this replay of gladiatorial politics, the culinary rivalries are high, the accusations tasteless, and somewhere, a moldy cheeseburger lies forgotten in the back of the fridge, just like the truth of what these candidates are actually serving us. Bon appétit!
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