“A Little Party Never Fed Nobody”
The convicted felon threw a Great Gatsby-themed party as 42 million Americans faced losing food aid. The symbolism writes itself.
There’s something perfectly on-brand—grotesquely, predictably on-brand—about convicted felon Donald Trump throwing a Great Gatsby-themed Halloween party on the eve of 42 million Americans losing food assistance. The man who has spent decades cosplaying as a self-made tycoon now literally cosplays as Jay Gatsby while millions of families wonder how they’ll feed their kids next week.
Let’s start with the theme: “A little party never killed nobody.” It’s a lyric from the 2013 Gatsby movie soundtrack, meant to evoke roaring opulence and a reckless good time. In Fitzgerald’s novel, of course, that opulence is built on illusion and rot—a hollow pursuit of wealth that ends in death, despair, and a funeral no one attends. F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote The Great Gatsby as a critique of America’s worship of the rich. The convicted felon read it as a Pinterest board.
At Mar-a-Lago, the flappers were fake, the champagne was real, and the symbolism couldn’t have been clearer: while the government shutters food aid, the self-styled “people’s president” partied with his gold-plated inner circle.
If the whole scene sounds like a deleted chapter from Gatsby, it’s because it is—just with worse taste and cheaper marble. Gatsby at least tried to win Daisy’s heart. The convicted felon just wants to win another news cycle.
The White House defended him, of course. “These Democrats are full of it,” said spokeswoman Anna Kelly. Translation: empathy is for losers.
Meanwhile, a federal judge had to step in to temporarily keep SNAP benefits flowing, because apparently feeding Americans now requires judicial intervention. You know who claimed it would be his “honor” to fund the program—if the courts tell him he’s allowed to. Funny how “honor” always seems to come with a caveat when hunger is involved.
All of this while he spent another $3.4 million taxpayer dollars golfing in Florida—his 77th round of the term. Gatsby had his green light across the bay. The convicted felon’s is the fairway at West Palm.
The irony writes itself, but the cruelty is deliberate. There’s no “great American novel” subtext left to decode here. Trump’s America isn’t Fitzgerald’s dream deferred—it’s the dream devoured.
Because when your convicted felon president dresses up as the Jazz Age while the pantry goes bare, it’s not a costume party anymore. It’s class war in a tuxedo.