Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Yes, the sweet sound of empathy—Trump-style. As the nation trudges toward the 30-day mark of a government shutdown, farmers are losing their land, federal workers are pawning possessions to pay rent, and families are standing in food bank lines that grow longer than his rally speeches. The world burns, democracy frays, and what, pray tell, is Donald J. Trump’s number one priority? According to his ever-loyal echo, Caroline Levitt, it’s the grand ballroom.

That’s right. While millions of Americans are skipping meals, Trump is skipping marble samples. Levitt’s tone-deaf declaration lands like a modern-day “let them eat cake” —except Marie Antoinette at least had the decency to pretend she didn’t know what hunger looked like. Trump knows, and he still picked out chandeliers.

Picture it: America’s farmers—those “great, tremendous people” he once claimed to love—are now auctioning off generations-old family land, casualties of his tariff tantrums that made soybeans more symbolic than profitable. The dairy industry is collapsing, small towns are bleeding jobs, and Washington sits paralyzed, locked in a stalemate of his making. And yet, somewhere in the ruins of reason, Caroline Levitt smiles into a microphone and declares that Donald’s focus is on finishing his grand ballroom.

It’s the perfect metaphor for the Trump era: while the country cracks, he’s measuring drapes for his next monument to himself. His “people’s house” has become his personal Versailles—minus the culture, class, or comprehension of history. Truman rebuilt the White House because it was falling apart. Trump is demolishing the East Wing because it doesn’t have enough room for his ego.

Levitt’s announcement wasn’t just tone-deaf—it was operatic in its obliviousness. It screamed, “We have no bread? Well, build a bigger dance floor!” It was the political equivalent of gilding a yacht while the crew drowns. In a time of widespread suffering—economic, moral, and democratic—Trump’s priority isn’t feeding the people, uniting the nation, or reopening the government. It’s making sure his ballroom has “the best acoustics, people are saying it.”

And this, dear citizens, is the true Trump legacy: governing as though America is one of his failed casinos. When the lights go out, when the workers go unpaid, when the creditors circle—he simply slaps gold paint on the walls and calls it luxury. He’s not a president; he’s a pageant host with access to nuclear codes.

If Marie Antoinette ruled in silk and oblivion, Trump rules in spray tan and grievance. Her “let them eat cake” moment was one of history’s most infamous gaffes of privilege. His is worse—it’s deliberate. A man who’s seen farmers foreclosed, families evicted, and still says, “But look at this ballroom, folks, it’s going to be tremendous.”

So yes, Caroline Levitt is right in one sense: Trump’s top priority truly is his grand ballroom. Because nothing says “man of the people” like throwing a party in the ashes of the republic.

Let them eat cake? No.

Let them eat gold leaf, courtesy of the Mango Marie himself—Donald J. Trump, the Ballerina of Bankruptcy, the Ballroom Baron, and now, apparently, the Emperor of Empty Priorities.