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Trump’s Cookout of Broken PromisesAmerica’s barbecue isn’t sizzling, it’s bleeding. Prices are up 25%, meat is the new eggs, and Trump’s gaslighting can’t disguise what the register already screams.Guest article by Michael Cohen. Follow him on Substack by clicking here for more.
Labor Day weekend is supposed to be about burgers sizzling, ribs slow-smoking, and steak hitting the grill with that perfect hiss. But instead of flipping patties, Americans are flipping out at the grocery store register. Because here’s the new reality: meat is the new eggs. Prices for beef, pork, and chicken have gone up nearly 25% in the past six months, and suddenly, those backyard barbecues are starting to look like high-end dinner parties at Peter Luger’s. Except you don’t get the white tablecloths—you just get the bill. This isn’t abstract economics. This is your cousin asking why the burgers are sliders this year instead of quarter-pounders. This is your neighbor noticing you “forgot” to serve steak tips. This is you, standing in front of the butcher counter, doing the mental math and realizing you could either buy a rack of ribs or pay your electric bill. Maybe both—if you skip the beer. Now, the White House wants you to believe everything is under control. Trump’s minions are out there peddling fairytales about how the economy is “booming” and inflation is just “fake news cooked up by the media.” Sure, tell that to the woman staring down a $15 pound of ribeye while her kid is tugging her sleeve begging for hot dogs. People know the truth every time they scan their debit card. You can’t gaslight a receipt. Remember last year’s “eggflation”? When eggs became a luxury item and suddenly you had people whispering about omelets like they were insider Wall Street trades? Well, now it’s meat’s turn. Beef is through the roof. Chicken prices are strutting higher than Trump’s hair in a wind tunnel. Pork? Forget it. You need a loan application to buy bacon. The irony is thick enough to spread on toast: Republicans promised you prosperity, but they’ve delivered a cookout where the only affordable protein is beans. This is what happens when a government that pretends to care about “working Americans” is really just running a casino with the lights on. And I should know a thing or two about casinos. They always look flashy from the outside, but inside, the odds are rigged and the suckers—meaning you—always lose. The guy who promised “the best deals” has turned your holiday cookout into a financial crisis. So, picture this weekend’s American barbecue. There’s Uncle Joe guarding the grill like it’s Fort Knox, rationing out chicken wings like he’s running FEMA. There’s Aunt Linda, who normally brings her famous brisket, sheepishly showing up with pasta salad because the butcher laughed in her face when she asked for a ten-pound cut. And there’s you, explaining to your guests why the burgers are mostly breadcrumbs and onions this year: “It’s rustic! It’s gourmet!” It’s survival—that’s what it is. But here’s the part that really gets under my skin: they think you won’t notice. They think you’ll swallow the propaganda while swallowing your overpriced hot dog. They think as long as Trump is waving his arms, doing the weave, shouting “fake news,” and blaming immigrants, you won’t realize that it’s your wallet getting gutted while billionaires toast to their tax breaks. It’s not just about meat. It’s about dignity. Barbecues aren’t just food; they’re a ritual, they’re tradition, they’re America’s way of saying goodbye to summer with family, friends, and flame-kissed beef. When you can’t afford that, it’s not just inflation; it’s theft of joy. It’s stealing a slice of normal life from hardworking people while the liars in Washington grin and tell you how lucky you are. And let’s be clear: this isn’t a mystery of global supply chains or some vague “market forces” jargon economists use to lull you into a food coma. This is deliberate neglect. Trump’s policies have been a gift basket for corporations and a kick in the teeth for consumers. Meatpacking monopolies are raking in record profits while you’re deciding between ribs and rent. The White House could rein them in, but that would mean siding with you instead of their billionaire donors. And that’s never happening. So when you fire up that grill this weekend, remember what you’re really cooking: the bill for a presidency that treats your paycheck like a slot machine jackpot. Meat is the new eggs, and your barbecue is the latest casualty in Trump’s endless con. But hey—at least the lies are free. HAPPY LABOR DAY TO ALL OF YOU… ARE YOU WITH ME? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE. SHARE. RESTACK. I know—you’re drained. Burned out. Numb from the chaos. Same here. But for nearly a decade I’ve been swinging in the dark, carving out space for truth to breathe. Now I’m asking you to swing with me. Because if you’ve made it this far, you already know: We are not bystanders watching the wreckage pile up. We are the pushback. We drag the rot into daylight. We speak the unspeakable and refuse to blink. But here’s the catch—I can’t carry this fight alone. The storm isn’t coming—it’s here. Wrapped in red, white, and blue. Preaching “liberty” while peddling authoritarianism like it’s a discount sale. So I’ll ask you straight:
This isn’t the kind of post you skim and forget. This is movement. Messy, loud, relentless movement—and it only exists if you fuel it. We need to shout past spin, punch holes through propaganda, and be immune to gaslighting. That takes more than clicks. More than hollow likes. So if you believe truth matters—if you’re sick of the circus, if you want to stop screaming into the void and start striking back—this is your moment. Here’s how you throw down:
And yeah—Founding Members: the first 240 will get a signed, numbered, limited-edition Substack version of Revenge. Not just a collector’s item. It’s proof. Evidence that you stood up instead of sitting out. But don’t get it twisted: This isn’t about a book. You want to make a dent? Then make it—now. Because if we don’t fight for truth, no one will. They. Can’t. Silence. Us. Let’s be so loud they’ll pray we were only angry tweets. Game on.
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