Maybe you were surprised last week when the host of last week’s Democratic debate passed around a cinnamon roll to each candidate and asked them to show how they would eat it. Well, I wasn’t. I knew that this was a moment of truth. That there’s something crucial revealed in the moment before a person devours their meal, the relationship of predator to prey.
Biden kept things clean. A fork, knife, nice tablecloth napkin tucked into his collar, and an anecdote about how he and Obama ate cinnamon rolls together, back in the day. Bernie divided it, gave it to the hungriest members of the audience.
Warren covertly polled the audience about how she should eat it, and nobody remembered what Klobuchar did. And Bloomberg? He took out a cheese grater and a cold brick of Benjamins seized from those he’d stopped and frisked and grated that fat stack on top of the roll.
But Buttigieg? The Mayor? He mutilated that thing. Just look at this scene—the forceful yet delicate grip on the chunk in his hands.
The full-teeth bite, the strain in the cords on his neck. The eyebrows arched in intense concentration; the eyes locked onto a point a thousand yards away as he focused all the power in his body into the bite.
That’s when I knew that he’d be the only one to lead our country. The ferocity with which he tore into it, the sheer determination a sweet, sick contrast to the wrongness of his methods. Someone who eats a cinnamon roll like that won’t take shit from anyone. That’s a man on a mission. A dude who doesn’t give an ever-loving fuck about the mess he’s making. A peep with the power to melt the Oompa Loompa tan right off of Trump’s face by way of pastry. Nobody can stand before Pete’s teeth.
Caucus delegates and primary politics can fuck off to Whoville for all I care. Pete Buttitigigegi and this absolute crime against humanity will steamroll anyone in his way to the White House, and anyone who says otherwise can fight me in the nearest Waffle House parking lot (hint: it’s a long, seven-hundred-mile walk, buckaroo).
