Listen up, you spineless spreadsheet jockeys and gluten-free trust funders: the biggest agricultural circus since the days of the Dust Bowl is rolling into town, and the ringmaster is none other than The Donald himself—King of the Midwest, Killer of Quinoa, Sultan of Soy. Did you want clean food? Got a problem with chemical cocktails in your cornflakes? Too bad, buddy. In the Trump Funhouse, corn is king, subsidies are the sultan’s latest gift, and if you grow anything that doesn’t come in 500-ton silo bags, you can take your organic fingerlings and pound sand. Welcome to the $12 billion Champagne Shower, exclusively for Big Ag’s VIP section. This isn’t a bailout—it’s a bonanza. The kind of monstrous, monolithic cash drop that makes your average wheat baron salivate so hard, their monocles fog. Picture gleaming tractors tearing up soil like it’s Wall Street on Black Monday: It’s the Iowa Industrial Gold Rush, minus the pesky fool’s gold. Only the real players get invited: corn, cotton, rice—if your crop can’t win a tractor pull or bench-press a combine, stay home and whittle your hemp jewelry. Sure, you small-potato types thought trouble in the supply chain was bad, but here comes Uncle Sam bloated with subsidy largesse, and he brought gifts. Nope, not for everyone—it’s for the commodity titans with Wall Street power ties and dirt under their Louboutin-ed toenails. Everybody’s shouting “MAHA!” but nobody’s sure if it means ‘Make Agri Handouts Awesome’ or ‘My Artichokes Have Abdicated’—and the rural base can’t tell if they’re voting or filing for bankruptcy. Oh, you wanted a clean food revolution? Save it for your TikTok influencer therapist. Because the only revolution happening here is our government’s policy, spinning like a hedge fund manager on diet pills. This gang doesn’t flip-flop, they execute a triple-lutz off principle and stick the landing in a pool of Monsanto-branded Gatorade. Let’s talk regulation: remember the promises? The crusade against chemical evil? The pledge to rip out every last vestige of pesticide-slick corporate rot by the roots? Turns out, political seasons change faster than a Manhattan waiter swaps Armani ties. New sheriff in town, except he used to be the lobbyist for the horse thieves. The EPA? More like the Exclusive Protection Agency—for CEOs. It’s an all-star team of industry insiders and chemical cowboys. If you squint hard enough, you can see the Roundup residue on the press release. The upshot is obvious: The only asset class worth owning in the new Farm-aceutical America is patented, government-backed, bio-engineered produce. Lettuce for the lettuce lords. Subsidies for the sultans of sorghum. The rest of you, take your spinach and go eat it in the shadows. Maybe lobby for a handout—if you can find the customer service hotline. The rest of us? We’ll be on the 80th floor with a corn-ethanol martini, shorting kale futures and watching America’s rural underbelly tie itself in knots over which flavor of chemical cocktail to obey. It’s not just politics. It’s economic Darwinism at its juiciest: only the genetically modified survive.