Years ago on the John and Ken Show on KFI in Los Angeles, they came up with this thing called “political human sacrifice.” The idea was voters get mad at Washington, but you can’t fire all of Congress. Too many parking spots to fill. So they pick one random politician, dump every ounce of rage on them, vote for his opponent, and call it a day. The chosen victim is marched up the volcano, and the people go home happy, muttering about gas prices.
That was then. Now it is 2025. The ritual is alive, but the victims have changed. We are no longer sacrificing politicians. We are sacrificing logos and mascots. The mob is still out there, but now it is wearing overalls and standing in front of a Cracker Barrel, yelling about fonts.
Cracker Barrel swapped out Uncle Herschel, the old guy leaning on a barrel. He has been there since Jimmy Carter was handing out malaise speeches. Corporate put in a shiny new typeface, and America reacted like someone stole grandma’s cobbler. Local folks were storming Facebook groups like “Bring Back Herschel or We Riot.” Trump weighed in. The stock dropped. And within days Herschel was back, leaning against that barrel like a man who just beat the deep state. Same pancakes. Same gravy. But the logo was the sacrifice.
Bud Light? Same can. Same shelves. Same product. But one influencer ad later and the guy at the bait shop is shouting, “That there beer’s a political statement now.” People were walking into gas stations like they were voting booths. The ad was hauled up the volcano while locals with camo hats nodded sagely and said, “That’ll teach ’em.”
Disney? Same churros. Same roller coasters. But they spoke up about a Florida classroom law, and suddenly Mickey Mouse was the Antichrist in mouse ears. Folks were yelling, “I ain’t payin’ ninety dollars for a mouse-shaped waffle if that rodent’s pushing policy.” The rides never changed. The statement was the sacrifice.
And then there is American Eagle’s Sydney Sweeney “Great Jeans” ad. A pun. Just a pun. Jeans. Genes. Cute. Except half the internet read it as a biology exam. Next thing you know, a guy in rural Nebraska is shouting at his cousin, “Them jeans are Nazi propaganda, Carl.” The denim never changed. The pun got tossed into the pit.
See the pattern? Nobody is actually mad at pancakes. Nobody is mad at jeans. Nobody is mad at churros. Nobody is mad at beer. They are mad at the marketing. They see a font change and think it is a coup. They see a pun and think it is fascism. They see a mouse with opinions and declare, “That varmint’s running for Congress.”
It is political human sacrifice, country-fried edition. The altar is not in Washington anymore. It is in the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel. The mob is not holding signs. They are holding Styrofoam cups of sweet tea. The victims are not politicians. They are Uncle Herschel, a Bud Light can, Mickey Mouse, and Sydney Sweeney’s pants.
And somewhere out there, a terrified intern is staring at a PowerPoint, whispering, “If I pick the wrong font… I’ll be the next Herschel.”
And they are probably right.
