Let’s clap. Slowly. Not because things are great. Oh, heavens no. Let’s clap because sometimes the world feels like a badly written joke, and the only polite thing to do is acknowledge the punchline, even if it landed squarely on your own face. Like watching someone confidently walk into a glass door they just cleaned. You don’t laugh at them… okay, maybe a little. But mostly, you just feel that deep, secondhand ouch.
So, Trump grabbed tariffs like a toddler grabbing scissors. “Gonna make things great!” he probably thought, picturing gold stars and parades. What really happened was more like starting a food fight at a funeral. Everything got messy, feelings were hurt, and suddenly your nice suit is covered in potato salad nobody wanted anyway. And guess what? Everything costs more now. Surprise!
Nobody saw this particular train wreck coming. Not the messy, slow-motion kind where everyone just watches, mouths slightly open, thinking, “Well, that’s not ideal.” What started as a big, loud “Look at me!” ended up as a quiet shuffle away from the mess, hoping nobody noticed you were the one holding the matches.
Remember that 25% tax on Canadian stuff? Bold! Like punching yourself in the leg to show the other guy how tough you are. Then came the real kicker: hinting Canada should just pack its bags and become the 51st state. Imagine spilling coffee on your neighbor’s rug and then asking if you can move into their spare room because, hey, you’re already making yourself at home.
And calling their leader the “governor”? Oof. That wasn’t just an insult. It was like telling someone their whole life, their whole home, is just a side thought in your own bigger, better story. Canadians, who are usually nicer than anyone deserves, felt that one. It wasn’t rage, more like a deep sigh and a quiet click as they locked the door. Suddenly, even folks who disliked their own government found themselves thinking, “Well, at least he’s our guy, not that guy.”
So, Canada didn’t yell. They just… stopped coming over. Fewer trips south. Maybe trying that local brand of chips instead. It was a quiet turning away, like unfriending someone on Facebook, but in real life, with real money. And just like that, the folks in charge up North got a boost, not because they were amazing, but because the neighbor suddenly seemed like a bully throwing rocks.
Meanwhile, across the big oceans, something else shifted. Countries that normally wouldn’t share a taxi started huddling together. China, Russia, India, Brazil, South Africa – the “Anyone But The Loud Guy” club. They weren’t trying to take over the world. They were just trying to build a little clubhouse where maybe, just maybe, the US dollar wasn’t the only song playing on the radio. They called it fancy names, but it felt like the world slowly starting to edge away from the guy who only talks about himself.
Back home in the US, if you just wanted to, say, buy a wrench or a tomato? Good luck. Prices went up like nervous squirrels. Not because things got better, oh no. Just because the grown-ups were having a shouting match using price tags.
And the farmers. Oh, bless their hearts. They just wanted to plant seeds and watch things grow. Feed their families. Maybe buy a new tractor. Instead, other countries said, “Nope, not buying your stuff anymore.” So, tons of food sat there, like forgotten toys in an attic. Dreams gathering dust. Factories got quiet too. The machines stopped humming. People who just wanted to work hard and go home tired stood looking at locked gates, feeling like they’d been fired from a job they didn’t even know was in danger. A quiet, hollow feeling in the gut.
The money people on Wall Street? They hate surprises. Especially expensive ones. The stock market did its usual headless chicken dance. And regular folks? People who’d saved pennies and dimes their whole lives for retirement? They watched their 401(k)s – their little pile of “maybe I can rest someday” money – shrink. It felt personal. Like years of getting up early, packing lunches, fixing leaky pipes… just sort of evaporated. That wasn’t just numbers going down; it was futures getting dimmer. A quiet dread settling in.
Then came the whisper of a scary word: stagflation. Fancy word, simple horror: things cost more, but nobody has jobs. Like being stuck in mud that’s also on fire. The perfect punchline to a joke nobody wanted to hear.
Even Trump’s own buddies started shuffling their feet, muttering, “Uh, maybe let’s tap the brakes?” Lawsuits bloomed like sad, angry flowers. Small shops, the ones with bells on the door, just quietly closed. Forgotten casualties in a war fought with spreadsheets.
American tourists, used to friendly faces, started noticing… a chill. Not anger, just a polite distance. Like people remembering you were really loud at the last party and aren’t sure you’ve changed. And even countries that used to be best pals started sneak-texting China, just keeping options open.
But maybe the deepest cut, the quietest tragedy, was for the regular people. The single moms counting change, the factory workers with sore backs, the folks running diners in small towns. They weren’t playing some grand game of “Trade Wars.” They were just trying to keep the lights on, feed their kids, maybe catch a break. When countries fight with money, it’s always the people holding grocery bags, not microphones, who feel the bruises first. It’s a sadness that doesn’t yell; it just settles deep in your bones.
He thought they’d fold. He thought factories would magically roar back to life. He thought America would stand taller. What happened? Friends took a step back. Rivals found common ground. Prices went haywire. And America ended up feeling a bit… lonely. Holding a hammer, wondering why everything looked smashed.
Life’s weird, isn’t it? You try to teach someone a lesson by puffing out your chest, and you end up just pulling a muscle. Or maybe tripping over your own feet while trying to look intimidating.
So, yeah. Clap slowly. For the sheer, baffling, human mess of it all. Trying so hard to be strong, and ending up just… kinda sad and confused. Funny how that happens. Makes you think, doesn’t it? Or maybe just makes you want a quiet drink. Alone.
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Well written.
I am a neutral observer. I live on the same planet as you. I understand your frustration; nobody likes high prices seemingly for nothing. I say seemingly because everything a politician does is for a reason. Sometimes selfish, sometimes for the good of the nation now, others for the long term. The tariffs are phase one of a much bigger kerfuffle. I got my information from this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ts5wJ6OfzA
Watch if you are open-minded enough to have at least an idea why this is happening.
I get it. The video lays out a grand plan—tariffs aren’t random chaos, they’re phase one of a master reboot. Shake the world, rewrite the rules, put America back in charge. Sounds bold. Maybe even smart on paper.
But here’s the thing: you don’t rebuild trust with a hammer. You can’t insult your neighbors, torch old friendships, and expect them to line up for your new world order. That’s not strategy. That’s ego on fire.
Yes, high prices didn’t fall from the sky. They came from choices—choices made in boardrooms by people who won’t feel the sting of an empty fridge or a vanishing 401(k). Regular people pay the price for these ‘plans.’ Not with charts. With anxiety. With bills. With quiet panic.
Purpose matters. But execution decides everything. And if the method burns more bridges than it builds, the goal doesn’t matter anymore. You can have the best map in the world—but if you drive blindfolded, don’t act surprised when the car hits a wall.
I appreciate your response. You’re obviously very passionate and more empathetic with this topic; and know more about the chaos caused by these political disputes. You are in it for the ordinary people, and that’s respectable. I would love to learn more from your political ideas and viewpoints.
To be honest, I don’t have political views—I have grocery receipts. I’m not waving flags or quoting party manifestos. I’m just like everyone else, quietly minding my business until some genius in a suit decides to reinvent the wheel using fire.
Politics, to me, is just a circus where the clowns think they’re philosophers. They act like they care, but behind the curtain, it’s all deals, handshakes, and who’s getting the biggest slice of the pie. Power, fame, money—that’s the holy trinity. The rest of us? We’re just the background music to their campaign ads.
I’m not in it for the policy talk. I react when some so-called “vision” hits my wallet, my job, or the price of tomatoes. Until then, I treat politics like I treat street performers—nod politely, keep walking, and double-check I still have my wallet.
So no, I’m not here to share a political ideology. I’m here because I stepped on a rake someone else left in the grass. And if you call that a “strategy,” then maybe the real plan was to see how many of us they could hit in the face before we said something.
You want my politics? Here it is: don’t set my hair on fire and call it a haircut.
Well said…..as ever! x
Some drink to remember, some to forget… but your words feel like a pour for those of us just trying to understand. Bravo, Kalimuthu—you’ve bottled a moment both bitter and true.
The imagery—tariffs like toddlers with scissors, food fights at funerals, potato salad on a suit—lands like punchlines with bruises. I see you here, not just writing, but reckoning.
It reads like Mark Twain post-NAFTA, with Douglas Adams pacing in the wings and Rachel Maddow scribbling margin notes. Beneath the humor, there’s the quiet ache of collective trauma—the kind that doesn’t scream, just settles into your bones.
You didn’t just name the absurdity. You made it human-sized.
And for that… I’ll raise a glass, grateful for the clarity only a good pour—and a better writer—can bring.
Wow. I had to read your words twice—once with a smile, and once with a small lump in my throat. Thank you for seeing beyond the sarcasm and into the slow-burning ache underneath. I didn’t set out to “reckon,” but maybe that’s what happens when humor and helplessness crash into each other.
Your comparison to Twain, Adams, and Maddow? That’s a shelf I don’t belong on, but it means the world that you placed me there, even for a moment. Most days, I just try to turn my quiet frustrations into sentences that make sense. Sometimes sharp, sometimes sad, always honest.
So here’s to you—raising a glass right back, grateful for readers who don’t just scroll past, but stop, feel, and reflect. That’s rarer than good coffee.
Appreciated