There is a particular, refined sort of cruelty in watching a civilization mistake a frantic tantrum for an economic blueprint. As I sit here, clutching a glass of lukewarm Sancerre and observing the latest convulsions from across the Atlantic, I am reminded that history does not repeat itself; it merely loses its mind in public. Donald Trump, a man whose relationship with the truth has always been one of distant, mutual suspicion, is currently performing a masterpiece of tragicomic desperation. The American electorate, bless their simplistic, high-fructose-corn-syrup-saturated hearts, truly believed that a vote for the orange-tinted savior would somehow recalibrate the global supply chain and deliver them a twelve-cent dozen of eggs. Instead, they have been served a 'policy salad' that is less a culinary triumph and more a collection of wilted grievances tossed in a vinaigrette of pure panic.

The premise was, in its own primitive way, quite charming. 'A vote for Trump means your groceries will be cheaper,' he barked, with the confidence of a man who has never actually pushed a trolley through a discount supermarket in his life. It was a classic populist siren song, designed to lure the weary traveler onto the jagged rocks of reality. And yet, the reality of his first year back in the gilded cage of the Oval Office has proven to be an exquisite irony. Food prices haven't just risen; they have ascended with a velocity that would make Joe Biden—that previous avatar of geriatric stagnation—look like a master of fiscal restraint. To see the 'Strongman' outstripped by the 'Sleepy' predecessor in the race to bankrupt the common man is a subversion of expectations that even Beckett would find a bit too on the nose.

Faced with the terrifying prospect of negative polling—the only metric, one suspects, that actually penetrates the thick skin of the leader's ego—Trump has pivoted to a strategy that can only be described as 'intellectual birdshot.' This isn't governance; it is a rain of incoherent proposals aimed at recapturing the affection of a base that is beginning to notice the empty cupboards. We are witnessing a Republican establishment, long the supposed guardians of some nebulous 'fiscal responsibility,' watching in silent horror as their figurehead spews out a series of contradictions that would baffle a Dadaist. One moment, we are promised isolationist tariffs that would make a 17th-century mercantilist blush; the next, we are told that costs will magically evaporate through the sheer force of the President's personality. It is the economic equivalent of trying to fix a leaky pipe by screaming at the water.

This 'policy salad' is not a menu; it is a cry for help from a man who realizes the theater is burning and he has forgotten his lines. The tragedy is not that the proposals are incoherent—we have come to expect that from the American political class, a group that views logic as an optional accessory. The real tragedy is the sophisticated bureaucracy that must now attempt to translate these spasms into something resembling statecraft. Thousands of underpaid civil servants are likely currently tasked with turning 'make milk cheap again' into a white paper, a task roughly as productive as attempting to teach a golden retriever the nuances of Kantian ethics. It is a spectacle of bureaucratic futility that would be hilarious if it weren't so exhausting.

The American voter, meanwhile, continues to wait for the banquet they were promised. They were told the savior would drive the money changers from the temple, or at least the high prices from the dairy aisle. Instead, they find themselves in a collapsing theater of the absurd, where the lead actor is ad-libbing his way through a script he clearly hasn't read. There is a delicious, if bitter, irony in the way Trump now attempts to 'feel the voters' pain.' It is the performative empathy of a man who views 'pain' as something that happens to people who don't have their own private jets. He spews these incoherent promises not because he believes they are achievable, but because he craves the applause that greeted them on the campaign trail. It is a dopamine-loop masquerading as an economic recovery plan.

In the end, we are left with a sobering realization: the 'bold economic promises' were never meant to be policies. They were simply the shiny lures used to catch the trout. Now that the trout is in the boat, the fisherman is surprised that it expects to be fed. As food prices continue their steady climb, mockingly ignoring the executive orders and the ALL-CAPS social media posts, the 'policy salad' will only grow more convoluted. More ingredients will be added—a dash of deregulation here, a sprinkle of xenophobia there—until the entire dish is an inedible mess of populist desperation. I told you so, of course, but there is little comfort in being right when the world insists on being this consistently, flamboyantly wrong.