Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Oh, what a glorious time to be alive—if you happen to have a private jet, a few offshore accounts, and a team of accountants whose job is to make sure you pay less in taxes than the guy who stocks shelves at Walmart. Yes, the era of Donald the Deal Maker—the self-proclaimed “champion of the working man”—has once again proven that when a Republican says “America First,” what they really mean is “America’s Billionaires First, Everyone Else Can Fight for Crumbs.”

Let’s revisit the campaign trail fairy tales, shall we? Donald, in his infinite benevolence, promised lower prices on everything. Groceries? “They’ll be so cheap you’ll thank me.” Gas? “You’ll fill your tank for pennies.” Rent? “People will live like kings.” And healthcare—oh, that magical land where everyone would get “better, cheaper, and beautiful healthcare,” all while somehow dismantling everything that remotely resembled the Affordable Care Act. It was going to be “phenomenal,” “tremendous,” and “done within weeks.” Of course, in Trump Time™, “weeks” apparently translates to “never.”

So here we are. Prices are not down—they’re up. Way up. Housing is now a luxury good. Eggs are still apparently made of gold. And healthcare? Still a nightmare, unless your definition of “affordable” means taking out a second mortgage to fill your prescriptions. But don’t worry, Big Pharma is doing great! After all, those poor pharmaceutical CEOs were getting so tired of polishing only one yacht.

The Republican economic miracle has struck again: record profits for corporations, record bonuses for executives, and record anxiety for everyone else. It’s trickle-down economics at its finest—except the only thing trickling down is contempt. The working and middle classes are expected to smile politely while the ultra-rich get another round of tax breaks “for the good of the economy.” Spoiler alert: the economy in question is theirs, not yours.

Donald’s latest carnival act—pretending to care about the “forgotten American”—is as transparent as his tanning lotion. He talks about “draining the swamp,” but he built a golf course on it and sold memberships to his billionaire friends. The “forgotten men and women” he loves to mention at rallies? They’re now forgotten again—until the next election, when he’ll dust off the same tired promises, slap on a new hat, and shout, “Only I can fix it!”

And while the base cheers and waves their little red hats, the one percent pops champagne in Manhattan penthouses, laughing all the way to the bank. They know the game. They fund the campaign, write the tax laws, and get richer while the rest of America argues over who’s to blame for the rent hike.

So yes, Donald delivered—just not to you. The rent didn’t go down, your paycheck didn’t grow, and your grocery bill looks like a car payment. But the wealthy? Oh, they’re living the dream. The Trump presidency is the best return on investment they’ve ever had.

Congratulations, America. The “art of the deal” turned out to be the same as it’s always been: the rich make the deal, and the rest of us get the bill.