In a development only a CFO could audit, America learned the former president now files opinions at a rate that would crash QuickBooks. From Cracker Barrel to Sydney Sweeney, he issued ratings, sub-ratings, and footnotes thick enough to stop an ethics investigation. The man is a content sprinkler system, and every room is moist with takes.

He held a press conference shaped like a laminated diner menu, sectioned by cuisine and celebrity. Breakfast got a tariff, actresses got a lecture, and the fries got diplomatic immunity. Reporters were handed placemats and told to circle their feelings with a crayon that said “Again, Wow.”

“We love Cracker Barrel,” he said, grading the cornbread on a curve of pure nostalgia and sodium. “But the rocking chairs lean left,” he warned, introducing a plank to stabilize furniture from ideological drafts. Somewhere, a lobbyist for gravity cleared their throat.

Sydney Sweeney, he announced, is “very talented, probably the best talent, maybe too much talent, which is unfair to everyone else, frankly.” It was a compliment that felt like a subpoena, and the subpoena was scented like pancake batter. Hollywood nodded politely, the way you nod at a raccoon filling out a 10-K.

I charted the statements by starch content and celebrity lumens. The regression spit out a baked potato wearing sunglasses, which, in this cycle, counts as a model with high explanatory power. We publish our methodology on a napkin because the napkin refused to appear on Substack.

True to form, a campaign aide appeared to announce a premium merch drop: an American diner line to “restore flavor freedom” via commemorative syrup holsters and a limited-edition patriot gravy boat. At last, a vessel bold enough to carry both au jus and a bruised ego across state lines.

Policy wandered in wearing a ketchup stain and pretending it had a plan. The platform: more booths, fewer stools, and every check signed in Sharpie like it’s infrastructure week. He offered to broker peace between pancakes and waffles, then sanctioned French toast for colluding with brunch.

He unveiled a Nostalgia Index tied to the price of a memory from 1998. If the index rises, he wants tax credits for anyone who can hum the jingle from an extinct department store. Economists asked for a model; he gave them a skillet and told them to listen for sizzle.

To buttress the vibe, staff distributed a press kit inside a collectible diner menu binder with tabs labeled Feelings, Facts (Optional), and Addendum: Crooners. The only KPI was Clap Per Minute, which surged after every mention of “very” and flatlined during verbs.

His opinion about everything now trades like an ETF: low transparency, high volatility, dividends paid in outrage points redeemable for a table near the bathroom. The fund prospectus lists risk factors as “all of them,” which is the most honest thing we’ve seen since receipts.

In closing, he ranked Sydney Sweeney above the stock market but below a parade in his honor, and Cracker Barrel above the State Department but below a room-temperature steak. It was the rare bipartisan moment where both chefs and diplomats considered going into ceramics.

As the crowd dispersed, he promised updated guidance after dessert, subject to “seasonality and television.” My forecast: another miracle quarter for opinions, aggressively adjusted for reality. Call it non-GAAP taste—because when the check arrives, the tip is always a campaign speech and the table still wobbles.