Turning Point USA has announced an “All-American Halftime Show” to counter Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl set. The flyer promises “faith, family, and freedom”—the holy trinity of culture-war marketing. Musical genres include “Anything in English,” because nothing says patriotism like fighting culture wars from the 50-yard line.
This is MAGA in miniature: outrage over trivia while the real betrayals happen backstage.
Trump was reelected on clear promises—lower grocery prices, cheaper housing, an end to foreign wars, transparency on Epstein, and a hard line against corporate greed. Instead, America gets parallel halftime shows and arguments about whether mediocre restaurants should change their logos. The swamp wasn’t drained; it was rebranded. The “Department of Defense” became “Department of War”—cosmetic absurdity that changed nothing about contracts, kickbacks, or the conveyor belt of conflict.
It’s the oldest trick in politics: feed resentment, starve reform. Keep voters furious at performers while billionaires dismantle the nation for parts.
Trump’s cabinet reads like a Wall Street yearbook. Tech titans who crushed small business during the pandemic now whisper policy in his ear. The cost of living balloons. Wages stall. Rents soar. But hey—a Latin pop star is dancing at halftime. Be angry about that instead.
The Bad Bunny “controversy” is the perfect parable. Trump pretended not to know who the performer was, calling his inclusion “ridiculous.” Although, at the time, he probably didn’t—this is the same man who once called Nepal “Nipple.” But the ignorance served a purpose. It sent a message to the base: this outsider isn’t entertainment, he’s an enemy. Forget your bills, forget your rent, forget your shrinking paycheck—there’s a pop star to despise.
Even the Cracker Barrel “debate” follows the formula. When the restaurant hinted at modernizing its image, pundits cried betrayal. Days of airtime devoted to wooden barrels and nostalgia branding—while millions of Americans fought eviction notices, skipped prescriptions, or took second jobs to survive.
These distractions may seem accidental but are really engineered.
The Romans understood this. Panem et circenses—bread and circuses. Keep the people fed and entertained, and they won’t notice the marble cracking beneath their feet. MAGA updated the recipe: cut the bread, double the bizarre. Convince voters that culture wars can fill empty stomachs. That outrage pays your child’s tuition fees. That symbolic skirmishes over logos, lyrics, or lipstick matter more than the demise of the middle class.
Every empire masters this manipulation. Nero fiddled while Rome burned—and threw lavish games to drown the sound of revolt. The Bourbons built Versailles as France starved, dazzling peasants with mirrors and music while famine crept through the countryside. Stalin staged parades so grand they swallowed the truth, the tanks rolling past breadlines that stretched for miles. Mao filled Tiananmen Square with flags and chants while millions perished unseen in the fields. Even modern democracies are not immune: Britain turned Brexit into a reality show while its infrastructure crumbled; America turns its crises into memes. Distraction has always been the tyrant’s tool of choice. The method evolves, the message does not.
Today, the arena has gone digital. MAGA’s modern coliseum is the timeline, its gladiators influencers with microphones instead of swords. The crowds still cheer as they’re fleeced, still roar at shadows while real thieves count the coins.
Behind the noise, the machine hums quietly. Deregulation for the mega-rich. Tax codes that reward hoarding over work. Lobbyists ghost-writing trade laws. A surveillance state that grows no matter who wins elections. Corporations posting record profits while Americans’ savings vanish like smoke.
This is why MAGA media fixates on Disney movies and drag shows while hedge funds swallow up housing. Why they wage war on language while the cost of insulin triples. Why they police football playlists while corporate monopolies devour America.
The base feels the betrayal but can’t name it. The anger is real, the direction misfired. They’re told to hate the immigrant, the artist, the pronoun—anyone but the profiteer. Their discontent is harvested, monetized, and rerouted away from its true target.
Turning Point’s halftime show distills the illusion. “Faith, family, and freedom” becomes a slogan stitched over nationalist karaoke—a “safe space” for those who mistake performance for principle. It’s comfort politics, grievance with a guitar riff.