Jon Stewart Takes Aim at the Surreal State of American Politics

Welcome to The Daily Show, where reality seems to be slipping into satire—and satire is catching up to reality. With just two weeks to go before the 2024 presidential election, Jon Stewart opened his show with a familiar mix of exasperation and hilarity, confronting the fever dream that is the current political landscape in the United States.

It’s clear from the opening moments that Stewart is not here to play it safe. After introducing his guest—Minnesota Governor Tim Walz, the Democratic nominee for vice president—he dives headfirst into the surreal, calling out the absurdity of both political camps. The Republican nominee is hanging out in a Bronx barbershop, while the Democratic nominee is hosting a book club with Liz Cheney. “What the [BLEEP]?” he exclaims. “You’re not allowed to hang out with a Cheney. They’re Marvel. You’re DC. It’s a rights issue.”

This is the surrealism Stewart speaks of—the ideological contradictions, the alliances that make no sense, and the campaign that seems to have left logic at the station.

But the heart of Stewart’s monologue centers on Donald Trump, whose antics continue to defy political gravity. Trump, wearing a McDonald’s apron at a Pennsylvania drive-thru, casually muses about French fries and superstition while simultaneously casting existential doubt on the integrity of U.S. elections. “Are you [BLEEP] Forrest Gump?” Stewart asks, mocking Trump’s confusion over how French fries are served. “For decades that you’ve been eating at McDonald’s, you thought workers reached into the boiling oil with their hands?”

The image of Trump, in uniform, fumbling through fryers and making sweeping statements about the fate of American democracy encapsulates what Stewart refers to as “Ave Maria dance party” politics. It’s equal parts spectacle and menace—a distraction machine that masks very real threats.

But Stewart doesn’t just go after the Republican frontrunner—he also skewers the media. “They know they’re mad,” he says, “but they’re not exactly sure which thing they should be maddest about anymore.” The overreaction to Trump’s fast-food charade, Stewart argues, misses the point. Yes, the McDonald’s stunt was staged, and yes, Trump looked absurd pretending to be a worker. But that’s not the outrage. The real issue, Stewart points out, is the alarming rhetoric Trump delivers between salt packets and shake machines.

Take, for instance, the bizarre and deeply inappropriate moment at a Pennsylvania rally when Trump launched into a ten-minute monologue about golf legend Arnold Palmer’s masculinity. “I wanna [BLEEP] Arnold Palmer so bad,” Stewart jokes, mimicking Trump’s strange obsession. But the joke has an edge. “This is one of his milder genital rants,” Stewart notes, dryly. “Kind of his Kidz Bop genitals rant.”

And yet, as strange and comical as it is, Stewart draws attention to the more disturbing implications of Trump’s speeches: labeling elected officials like Adam Schiff and Nancy Pelosi as “the enemy within,” suggesting the military may be needed to deal with them. That’s not funny. That’s authoritarian rhetoric. And it’s being normalized.

Stewart mocks the Republican figures who tie themselves in knots trying to explain away Trump’s comments. “Well, I don’t think that’s what he said,” one insists, as Stewart yells back, “It’s exactly what he said—not dots, words.” The unwillingness to confront Trump’s actual statements, Stewart suggests, isn’t just cowardice. It’s complicity.

It’s this very blend of farce and fear that gives Stewart’s monologue its power. On one hand, Trump is reduced to a clownish figure in a McDonald’s uniform babbling about geese and superstition. On the other, he’s a serious threat to democratic norms, speaking openly about using military force against his political enemies and refusing to commit to accepting the election results.

That contradiction—of a man who is both ridiculous and dangerous—is at the heart of Stewart’s critique. He reminds viewers that absurdity does not equal innocence. Just because Trump speaks in nonsense doesn’t mean his intentions are meaningless.

Stewart goes on to challenge the media and public alike: how do we parse what Trump says when he himself doesn’t seem to care about truth? When asked whether it was true that migrants were “eating the dogs and cats,” Trump replies, “I don’t know if it’s true or not true. I read something.” As Stewart points out, this is the playbook: say outrageous things, deny responsibility, claim you were just “reading” or “reporting.”

And this isn’t new. As Stewart reminds us, this is the man who already tried to overthrow the government on January 6. “I know it didn’t work, but attempted murder isn’t the same as never tried the murder.”

As the monologue winds down, Stewart crystallizes the bizarre convergence of clownish behavior and genuine menace. It’s all there in one final clip: Donald Trump, at a McDonald’s drive-thru window, in an apron, being asked if he’ll accept the results of the election. “Yeah, sure,” Trump says. “If it’s a fair election.”

It’s not a Saturday Night Live sketch. It’s not a Black Mirror episode. It’s real life.

And Stewart’s ultimate question lingers long after the laughter fades: How did we get here? A place where the potential for a coup is discussed over milkshakes and fries. Where authoritarian threats are buried beneath layers of performance and absurdity. And where the media, politicians, and the public are so worn down by the chaos that they struggle to separate the signal from the noise.

In the end, Stewart offers no neat resolution—only a desperate plea for sanity, accountability, and maybe just one Republican willing to admit that words mean something.

Until then, the absurdity rages on.

And Jon Stewart, apron off, microphone in hand, will keep calling it out.

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