The irony is so thick you could spread it on a stale bun.

During his marathon, rambling State of the Union, the greatest hits of “we’re winning so much you’re tired of winning,” Trump rolled out the men’s Olympic hockey team like they were supporting actors in The Donald Show. “Our country is winning again,” he declared, as if he personally strapped on skates and blocked shots in overtime. He repeated himself, of course. He always repeats himself. Winning so much. Too much winning. Please, Mr. President, we can’t take it anymore. It’s less statesmanship, more late-night infomercial with flags.

And then came the extra twist.

After championing the boys, of course, he pivoted to the women’s Olympic hockey team and casually announced that they’d be coming to the White House soon. As if it were a done deal. As if their presence were his to schedule. The small problem? The women had no intention of making that trip. They had already made it clear they were declining. But in Trump’s ego-driven universe, rejection is not a permissible outcome. Especially not from women.

He cannot tolerate it.

Because this has never just been about sports. It’s about control. It’s about objectifying accomplishment and draping it around himself like another oversized red tie. If the men win, he basks in it. If the women win more, as they have, repeatedly, he diminishes, jokes, patronizes, then insists they’re coming anyway. In his worldview, women don’t decline invitations. They’re summoned. They’re props. They’re extensions of his narrative. The idea that a group of accomplished, powerful female athletes would say “no thank you” and mean it? That short-circuits the circuitry.

So while patriotic songs blasted and McDonald’s cheeseburgers congealed on silver trays, he painted a fantasy where everyone adores him, everyone shows up, everyone claps. Especially the women. Especially the ones who’ve already declined.

We’ve seen this drive-thru diplomacy before. Back in 2019, during the government shutdown, he fed the Clemson Tigers football the same fast-food buffet, burgers and fries stacked like a college tailgate wandered into a museum. Even then, it felt like parody. Now it feels like policy: if you treat the presidency like a Franchise, you might as well cater it like one.

And here’s the thing about that kind of food, sometimes it’s not even warm when you pull away from the window. You ever grab fries on a long road through Wyoming? By the time you hit the on-ramp, they’re limp and cooling, tasting faintly of disappointment. Who wants it after it’s been sitting under spotlights for a photo op? Who wants to pose with a burger that’s been Aging longer than the speech that introduced it?

It’s almost perfect symbolism. The men’s team leaned into the performance, played along with the bravado, let themselves become political scenery. In return? Processed food served as patriotism. A value-meal victory lap.

Meanwhile, the women, who have outperformed, outworked, and outclassed the men in medal counts for years, quietly exercised the most powerful word in the English language: no.

And that “no” may be the thing that bothers him most.

Because cold cheeseburgers are one thing. But a woman declining your invitation? That’s the one item he can’t box up, stack high, and pretend is still hot.

— Michael Jochum

Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition