Jackie Evancho performs the national anthem as Vice President Mike Pence and President Donald Trump watch on Jan. 20, 2017, in Washington, D.C. (Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images)

The Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Jackie Evancho. The Reagan Years. Pete Carol and the Blues. Yosemite Street Theater. Y’all these are the “big” names of people performing at President-elect Trump’s upcoming inauguration festivities on January 20th. Those last two I made up because that’s precisely what this random ass list of performers sounds like. On what is arguably the most revered stage in our country will be wedding cover bands and a marginally known reality show singer. Oh, and the headlining superstars, the Radio City Rockettes, are joining them. But even they don’t want anything to do with this fuckery of a nationally televised drunken karaoke session/dancery/dance soiree.

Y’all how did we get here? Also where is Deborah Cox right now? Who shot John and forgot to kill him? I have so many questions. And of all the reasons why I’m pissed at the incoming presidential administration, this may be the biggest. Neo-Nazis? YAWN. Trickle-down economics? Been there done that. A vengeful, petulant man-child with the ability to leave his renewable supply of Cheeto dust on the nuclear codes because he is a literal chip? A fragile, substance-deficient chip? Meh.

No y’all, the real tragedy is that we are doomed to four to eight years of white bread and mayo culture in the White House. Not even the siracha mayo that costs $8 that you decide to buy anyway because you started getting a good government paycheck with benefits. I may know someone who did that. That someone may be me. But no. After eight years of free rounds at the Whole Foods buffet, we’re being force fed “dressing,” the bootleg kind of mayo that minuswell just be replaced with a raw egg and sugar because it’s on that level of repulsive.

But on the other hand, with all the baskets of deplorableness it’s given us, 2016 has bestowed us with a gift at the 9th hour. For a man who derives his life force from adulation and acceptance, Donald Trump is feeling the sting of rejection and embarrassment for all the world to see. He thought he could insult half of the country and we was just gonna dap him up after and be like “it’s all good fam, we cool.” Unless you’re Kanye.

Trump spent years calling people of color racists and criminals. He insulted liberation movements and liberals, everyone on the coasts, me, you, your momma, and your cousin too. And he somehow forgot that most of these mofos come from groups that made American popular culture. Naw bruh, you don’t get to talk shit about the only people that liberated America from dancing in kilts and blowing on bagpipes for perpetuity and then expect them to happily perform for you. Unless you’re Kanye.


From the Rolodex of celebrity friends Donald Trump thought he had, not eem one could help him save face? You know he’s probably saving 2017 “New Year, New Me” memes in his revenge folder on the hard drive. He got subtweets stashed away for Tom Brady and ‘nem that he’s gonna whip out all year.

“If you can’t love me at my January 20th, you don’t deserve me on my State of the Union”

“The Mixx are my one true friends, America. Check out their EP. Lank in the bio”

To make matters worse, or actually, more delectable, in true millennial fashion there is an alternate benefit concert with actual celebrities on the same day as Trump’s inauguration with the slogan “Love Trumps Hate.” If 2017-2020 brings us no other joy but petty celebrity subevents in this Trumpocalypse, I’ll be here for it. Oh Trump is having a press conference? Get Diddy to have a press conference outside Trump Tower, and him and Mary would just diddy bop for an hour. He’s signing a bill into law? Madonna and Katy Perry can get on CNN and hold up a paper that says “sign deez.” But then they’ll also pass out petitions. Because that’s pretty much the only way millennials know how to protest.


So fret not my friends. Enjoy these next four years of Trump likely self-imploding and begging to get back in Hollywood’s good favor. It’s one of the few rewards we can muster in this prison sentence of Miracle Whip and white bread sandwiches.