Behold the collective sigh of disappointment emanating from the ivory towers of the coastal elite and the gilded bunkers of the Mar-a-Lago set. The latest word from the high priests of the dismal science—the economists who spend their lives failing to predict the weather of the wallet—is that Donald Trump’s tariffs have somehow failed to set the American economy on fire. At least, not yet. It is a tragic day for anyone who enjoys a good 'I told you so,' which, in this decaying republic, is everyone with a pulse and a social media account. The Left, which spent years screaming that a tax on Chinese steel would result in immediate bread lines and the collapse of the suburban dream, is currently scrambling to find a new disaster to cling to. Meanwhile, the Right is taking a victory lap, convinced that the Great Orange Hope has finally mastered the dark arts of the global supply chain, conveniently forgetting that a 'win' in this scenario just means we haven't quite reached the level of hyperinflation that turns currency into artisanal wallpaper.

Let us be clear: economics is not a science; it is a theology for people who find Latin too challenging and numbers too comforting. The idea that we can predict the behavior of millions of self-interested apes based on a few decimal points is the height of human arrogance. These tariffs are a tax, plain and simple. They are a surcharge on the American consumer’s insatiable, borderline erotic desire for cheap plastic garbage and electronics designed to die the moment the warranty expires. If inflation hasn’t spiked to the heavens, it isn't because of some grand strategic masterstroke from a man who thinks a trade war is a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. It is because corporations, in their infinite and terrifying wisdom, have found ways to hide the costs in the margins of our collective misery. They will shrink the cereal box by another two ounces or replace the last remaining traces of organic matter in your 'meat' with soy-based filler before they let a tariff touch their quarterly earnings reports.

The monthly update cycle promised by these analysts is the ultimate carrot on a stick for the perpetually outraged. It is a recurring subscription to anxiety. Every thirty days, we get to check the thermometer of our own impending ruin. Will it be this month? Will the price of a mid-sized SUV finally cross the threshold from 'soul-crushing' to 'literally impossible'? It is the economic equivalent of a slow-motion car crash where the spectators are also the passengers. We sit in the backseat, arguing about whether the driver is a visionary or a lunatic, while the wall gets closer at a steady, manageable speed. This 'monthly update' serves no purpose other than to keep the news cycle spinning and the pundits employed. It's a way to quantify the boredom of our decline.

The real comedy here is the belief that 'little inflation' equals 'good news.' We have been conditioned to accept a baseline of suffering so thoroughly that we now cheer for the status quo. If the cost of living only increases at a rate that allows us to barely keep our heads above water, we are told to celebrate. It is the Stockholm Syndrome of the middle class. We are grateful that the boot on our neck isn't pressing down quite as hard as the experts predicted. We ignore the fact that the boot is still there, and that the person wearing it doesn't even know we're breathing. The Right will claim this as a victory for protectionism, as if the ghost of Alexander Hamilton has returned to guide us toward a manufacturing utopia. In reality, we’re just paying a bit more for the same junk, while the manufacturing jobs remain as mythical as the integrity of a senator.

Trump’s tariffs are the perfect metaphor for modern governance: a loud, aggressive gesture that accomplishes very little other than providing talking points for the cable news cycle. It is performative protectionism for a performative age. On one side, you have the morons who think 'America First' means we can ignore the laws of global trade without consequence. On the other, you have the hypocrites who decry the tariffs while benefiting from the very systems of exploitation that necessitate them. Neither side wants a solution; they want a villain. And since the inflation bogeyman has failed to show up on cue, they will just have to keep staring at the data until they can hallucinate a monster. The analysts say the impact is 'small,' but that is only because they measure impact in percentages rather than the quiet desperation of a family trying to figure out why a head of lettuce now costs as much as a streaming subscription.

In the end, we are left with a monthly report—a ledger of our slow, bureaucratic decline. The tariffs haven't caused a spike because the system is already so bloated with debt, greed, and structural decay that a few percentage points on imported aluminum are just a rounding error in the grand tally of our failure. We are bickering over the temperature of the room while the house is being sold out from under us by people who haven't looked at a price tag since the Reagan administration. It is not inflation we should be worried about; it is the fact that we have become so stupid that we think a lack of immediate catastrophe is a success story. Sleep well, America. Your ruin is still coming; it’s just stuck in a shipping container somewhere off the coast of California.