“The Grimace, a very close friend and so beautiful, always a supporter of mine.”
Photo: Chris Kleponis (Getty Images)

Here is the dream, as I imagine it: A bunch of football players are in the White House. Let’s just say they’re the 1985 Chicago Bears, and let’s further say that they’re doing The Super Bowl Shuffle for reasons that are not immediately apparent. We must say this because the dream is not mine—the dream is Donald Trump’s, and it visits him often. Before he dreamed of the presidency, if he ever really dreamt of it, this is what he dreamed about—a commercial for McDonald’s starring him and a bunch of football players. Trump walks into a welcoming pool of perfect golden light and delivers his line to the camera. “I’m Donald Trump,” he honks, “and I’m giving my strongest personal endorsement to the McDonald’s Sex Burger. I know great sex—I love sex, and I always have—and the McDonald’s Sex Burger is the only burger that’s made me feel the same way. I ...” and then he awakes, just before high-fiving William “The Refrigerator” Perry with both hands.

For the moment, if only just, this dream is still a dream. But, on Sunday night, Donald Trump—who really is the president, now—threw a big party for the national champion Clemson Tigers at the White House. Because Trump shut down the federal government in a fit of pique, the White House residence staff could not prepare food for Trump’s new football buddies. Because Trump is Trump, he served them piles of rapidly cooling fast food, after posing triumphantly and making various puckering Trump faces behind these stacks of golden room temperature all-American treats. This was not a dream. It felt like a dream and it looked just like a dream Trump himself would have, but it was no dream.

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So yeah we did a damn Deadcast about it:

But while America’s attention and imagination were captured by the image of the president of the United States leering fudgily from behind stacks of rapidly cooling fast-food burgers, actual sports things have been happening. The NFL season is narrowing rapidly, and we discussed what’s left—the fucking New England Patriots and some faint hope for a Super Bowl without them, respectively—and drew some hasty conclusions from last weekend’s games. We also addressed the stalled-out and frankly depressing baseball offseason, and the broader collusive vibe of this econometrically efficient future we’re all living in. And then it was on to the horror show of the Funbag.

Again, it did not disappoint, offering Lauren, Tim, and me an opportunity to reflect on how many people we’ve personally sickened with our germs over the course of our lifetimes, consider the perverse push-pull anti-appeal of the humble American hot dog, and judge the unconventional spelling of conventional first names that defines a certain unique American name-way. The Trump question, in a twist, came through the comments on last week’s Deadcast, and concerns how our Big Soft Prez would handle/not-be-able-to-handle an old-fashioned White Elephant Party. Would he bring a mink coat? Would he bring some garbage from around his office? Would he threaten to sue if someone stole his gift? I assure you that all of this is considered. We might never recover from that particular thought experiment, but honestly staying sick is probably the more responsible move in this particular cultural moment. It just feels more right.

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