“MAHA for airports: Trump officials pitch mini-gyms, more play areas.”
—Washington Post
Hello, travelers. I’m the airport’s shiny new pull-up bar, and I’m ushering in a bold era of aviation wellness absolutely no one asked for. As my boys, Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy and Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., explained at Reagan National recently, airports don’t actually need updated terminals or improved escalators. What they’re truly lacking is optics-driven body-suspension equipment, conspicuously wedged between a Shake Shack and a Hudson News for maximum showboating.
I mean, look at my broskies, Seany D and Bobby K. These dudes clearly understand that American air travel can return to its glory only when everyone is business-casual and knocking out double-digit reps. Their press conference made that painfully clear. Two grown men, fully suited, delighting the media with a Department of Swole Affairs demonstration. The muscular metaphor of absolutely nothing showed that the Flexecutive Branch understands that American travelers don’t want former Transpo Secretary Petey Buttigieg’s lame full cash refund for canceled flights. They want to dodge validation-starved peacocks performing feats of strength while racing between Concourse B and C to catch a 5 a.m. flight to Albuquerque. Now, that’s making travel great again.
And listen, I get it. Not everyone is ready for this new era of airport athletics. Some of you are still out here asking for “reliable Wi-Fi,” “functional baggage carousels,” or “a security line that doesn’t resemble the world’s saddest cruise buffet queue.” But those are small-minded dreams. My boys are thinking bigger—elevating the traveler experience one sweat-soaked display of bureaucratic bravado at a time. Forget passenger rights. What you really need at Gate B16 is the thrill of watching two senior government officials work out while passengers politely pretend this is normal.
And this adrenaline rush? It’s not just for the folks in government. Picture yourself in seat 32A when a man—because it is absolutely, undeniably a man—who just crushed three triumphant sets of airport chin-ups plops into the middle seat beside you. A jacked patriot of uncommon virility, he’s now airborne with “the blood flowing,” per Duffy, and the smug glow of a guy who thinks he just saved flying. All while misting the aisle with a fine spritz of Eau de Validation.
It’s the future of aviation, folks. Fewer practical improvements, and more federally funded flex-offs. Welcome aboard.
