Sjtroomf’s Tariff Kitchen™ – Episode 1: The Selection Plate
A trailer, a tariff, and a Victory Slab: Meurica’s culinary realignment begins.
🇬🇧 Welcome to Meurica™ – Now with 1,000% less affordable sneakers.
🇧🇪 Welkom in Meurica – Een kleintje met mayonaise.
🇫🇷 Bienvenue en Meurique – Liberté, égalité… et le passé.
🟡 *You are now entering the Sjtroomf Tariff Kitchen™*
🥩 ***All meals are final. All facts are grilled.***
🍽️ *Victory Slab is served hot, spongy, and non-refundable.*
Dateline: Yarmatrass, Meurica, home of the free and the gently used.
In a decisive display of culinary nationalism and cable-based democracy, Boo Schmoo and his wife Lisa Suplee-Schmoo became unwitting participants in the Great American Calorie Realignment of Year XXIV.
—
The night it all changed.
Sjtroomf’s gold-tinted victory.
Eggs became luxury.
Foreign fries were outlawed.
And Boo and Lisa pledged their hunger to this new Meurica.
It was just before midnight in the trailer.
A modest box parked in Yarmatrass—a town named, it’s said, for the number of mattresses sunning themselves in front yards, half-folded like dying clams.
Somewhere between Ooo-hi-oooh and Iii-ooh-Wah, where the gravel outnumbers the grass and the flagpole leans just enough to look defiant.
Inside, Boo Schmoo, upright, wearing a camo vest over his gut-hugging tee, beer can in hand.
His wife, Lisa Schmoo—maiden name Suplee—holding her meat stick like it was a remote control.
Tonight was Selection Night and Sjtroomf was about to speak.
Lisa sat rigid on the sofa. Eyes locked. Grip on the meat-remote stick unchanged.
Boo wasn’t drinking—he was guarding.
His beer can sweating.
So did he.
The flat-screen buzzed.
Flickered.
Settled into GritTV Newsnacks+.
Selection results scrolled across the screen in aggressive red, blue, and—new this year—a bit of beige, the compromise color for undecided libertarians.
Lisa held her breath.
Boo cracked his knuckles.
Suddenly:
“We interrupt this broadcast with a historic announcement from President-Select Sjtroomf.”
The feed stuttered once.
Then locked in.
Sjtroomf stood at the podium, glowing like a NASCAR Jesus.
That LED halo behind him? Divine approval.
Just inside the ring of lights, Cousin Georgy — grinning like a sinner in Sunday neon — stood dead center, mid-wave.
Lisa gasped.
Boo pointed.
“Classic Georgy,” he muttered.
“And hot damn. He’s even in the glory shot.”
“MY FELLOW MEURICANS,” Sjtroomf barked.
“THIS IS THE MOST VICTORIOUS VICTORY OF ALL VICTORIES. THEY TRIED TO STOP ME. THEY AI’D THE ALGORITHMS. BUT I OUT-LOVED THIS COUNTRY INTO GREATNESS.”
Lisa blinked.
Boo nodded… then saluted the TV, like he understood.
“STARTING NEXT WEEK,” Sjtroomf continued, finger stabbing the air,
“WE’RE SLAPPING A THOUSAND-PERCENT TARIFF ON ANYTHING NOT MADE IN A BASEMENT IN OOO-HI-OOOH.”
⸻
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
Newly Banned Imports, per Executive Order 1776.2:
• Mustard? Tariffed.
• Olive oil? Banned.
• French fries? Renamed. Now Meurican Fries.
“AND ONE MORE THING,” Sjtroomf boomed, now visibly sweating.
“IF YOU CAN’T PRINT IT, NO SOUP FOR YOU!”
Lisa reached out toward the TV, like she wanted to high-five his tiny, golden hand.
Then—
SmukTime!
The screen glitched—then cut to Leon Smuk, CEO of SMUCKDUCK Energy & Tactical Light Meals, broadcasting from what appeared to be the inside of a microwave.
His arm raised at an unsettling 10 o’clock angle.
His eyes darted—sweating, blinking, and vibrating with importance.
“My batteries…” he wheezed, dabbing his lip.
“…They’re stoaring SUN. Very powerful.
And if they melt sometimes? That ain’t failure. That’s flexibility.
It’s energy that thinks. Or… SCHTINKS.”
He gestured to a bubbling green cube behind him.
“Version 8.4 launches tonight. It glows. It hisses. It powers a panini press for fourteen seconds.
Available only in Arkansas… and on the Moon.”
Lisa didn’t know whether to take notes, applaud, or unplug the toaster.
⸻
Cut back to Sjtroomf.
“WE WILL PRINT OUR DINNER,” he roared.
“WE WILL AI OUR DESSERT.
WE WILL NEVER EAT FOREIGN AGAIN.”
Nobody picked vegetables anymore.
The hands that once fed the nation? Replaced by Agribots.
Cilantro, once plucked by calloused fingers, now clawed by solar-powered pincers.
The Spice Amigos? Vanished.
Along with flavor, joy, and anything resembling poetry.
Now we season with grief and scan QR codes for taste.
Bon appétit, Meurica.
Inside the trailer, Lisa dabbed her eye with the corner of her apron.
“No more foreign? But my loempia. From Swang Tang. The one with the crunch.”
Boo saluted the toaster. “USA.”
Outside, the solar battery hissed—like it knew better.
Inside, Martha 2.0 blinked to life.
A clunky blue-and-white unit in the corner.
Meurica’s official kitchen compliance device.
“Printing... Victory Slab. Garlic Ranch Edition,” she chirped.
And just like that, the future was plated.
This one is free.
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➜ Next week in Sjtroomf’s Tariff Kitchen™
Episode 2: Weekend Special – Salt in Bulk
The shelves are gone. The apps are watching.
Lisa bargains with a raccoon-fork logo.
Boo sees George Washington in a bowl of cat food.
And the egg—oh god, the egg—glows.
© NEXPATS / 2025. All rights reserved. This work is protected by international copyright law and the U.S. Constitution’s First Amendment. It is a satirical, transformative creation intended for commentary and parody.
All characters, institutions, and brand names are fictitious or intentionally parodic. Any resemblance to real persons or entities is either entirely coincidental or deliberately satirical in nature.
Stealing it would be rude. Citing it would be cool. And if you truly must rip it off—at least buy me a beer and cite your source like a civilized dissident.
Very creative….sobering, funny and sad ……