Trump Steals the Show: Mocks Biden’s Turkey Pardon ‘Fiasco’ in Rose Garden Showdown

Paul Riverbank, 11/28/2025Trump steals spotlight at Biden’s turkey pardon, mixing political jabs, traditions, and economic debate.

But the storyline of presidential turkey pardons is considerably longer than most dinner table anecdotes. The National Turkey Federation started sending birds to Washington back in the 1940s, though the routine didn’t morph into the well-known “pardon” until decades later. There’s a bit of debate about the origin—I’ve heard old hands credit Kennedy, who once mused about letting a bird “grow.” Headlines at the time latched onto the word “pardon,” and, as often happens, a chance phrase became tradition. Reagan made jokes about pardoning a turkey named Charlie in the late ‘80s, but the ceremony found its current groove with George H.W. Bush. In 1989, he famously promised that his chosen tom wouldn't see the inside of anyone’s oven, sealing the fate of the annual ritual.

President after president has kept the custom alive, mostly with dad jokes and groaners. But, as with nearly everything in American public life, the event’s air of gentle absurdity hasn’t shielded it from politics. This Thanksgiving, Donald Trump inserted himself into the festivities in his unmistakable way. He took a swipe at President Biden, ribbing about the use of an autopen—never missing an opportunity for a jab—suggesting the official pardons just didn’t count. “Totally invalid,” he proclaimed, before half-kiddingly adding that he had personally stepped in and “saved them in the nick of time.” No one can accuse the former president of lacking showmanship.

Thanksgiving, of course, isn’t just about ceremonial clemency for doomed poultry. The politics of inflation elbowed their way into the conversation this year. With the cost of a classic meal rising, the holiday table became a battleground for economic narratives. California’s Governor Gavin Newsom didn’t let Trump off easily, pinning blame for higher food prices on what he called “Trump’s golden era.” He even took to social media with a cheeky image merging Trump’s face onto a turkey—a not-so-subtle poke at his rival’s perceived vulnerabilities.

Meanwhile, Trump hit back on a different front, touting Walmart’s discounted Thanksgiving meal as evidence that costs were under control—though, as fact-checkers uncovered, that “deal” omitted a few traditional items and redefined the meaning of a feast. Still, the very public argument over prices reflects a broader economic anxiety shared across kitchen tables nationwide. Recent studies, highlighted amidst the spectacle, linked Trump-era tariffs on imported goods to some of the inflationary pressure. September’s inflation rate hovered around 3 percent, with grocery costs ticking up 2.7 percent from the prior year. Turkeys weren’t spared: according to the Times of London, recreating a Julia Child-inspired spread would cost about 9 percent more than last year, with turkeys alone jumping by nearly a quarter.

But for all the posturing and partisan theater, there’s something disarmingly universal about watching a president try to keep a straight face while surrounded by clucking livestock and flashing cameras. One can’t help but wonder if, just for a moment, the sharp edges of the national debate dull and a kind of shared amusement takes over. Children watching from home are less interested in tariff debates than they are in seeing whether the birds behave, and even the adults might crack a smile at the spectacle.

In the end, the annual White House turkey pardon is one of those peculiar American traditions that balances on the knife’s edge between sincerity and parody. For a handful of minutes, jokes and traditions intertwine, and political rivals trade barbs that land a little softer than usual. It’s fleeting, but perhaps that’s its greatest virtue—a temporary pause in the ongoing contest of narratives. As the turkeys head off into their unlikely retirement, we’re reminded that, even in the thick of political conflict, the country still makes room for a bit of levity and common ground—even if only until the next round begins.

Sometimes, it feels like the only constants each November are football and that odd White House moment when somebody in a suit spares a turkey—at least symbolically—from certain doom. This year, in the shadow of the Rose Garden, the presidential ritual played out as it does. Gobble and Waddle, a hefty pair from North Carolina, waddled onto the lawns after a surprisingly plush night’s stay at the Willard InterContinental. Their next address? North Carolina State University, where they’ll presumably feast on grains and inspire poultry science majors.But the storyline of presidential turkey pardons is considerably longer than most dinner table anecdotes. The National Turkey Federation started sending birds to Washington back in the 1940s, though the routine didn’t morph into the well-known “pardon” until decades later. There’s a bit of debate about the origin—I’ve heard old hands credit Kennedy, who once mused about letting a bird “grow.” Headlines at the time latched onto the word “pardon,” and, as often happens, a chance phrase became tradition. Reagan made jokes about pardoning a turkey named Charlie in the late ‘80s, but the ceremony found its current groove with George H.W. Bush. In 1989, he famously promised that his chosen tom wouldn't see the inside of anyone’s oven, sealing the fate of the annual ritual.President after president has kept the custom alive, mostly with dad jokes and groaners. But, as with nearly everything in American public life, the event’s air of gentle absurdity hasn’t shielded it from politics. This Thanksgiving, Donald Trump inserted himself into the festivities in his unmistakable way. He took a swipe at President Biden, ribbing about the use of an autopen—never missing an opportunity for a jab—suggesting the official pardons just didn’t count. “Totally invalid,” he proclaimed, before half-kiddingly adding that he had personally stepped in and “saved them in the nick of time.” No one can accuse the former president of lacking showmanship.Thanksgiving, of course, isn’t just about ceremonial clemency for doomed poultry. The politics of inflation elbowed their way into the conversation this year. With the cost of a classic meal rising, the holiday table became a battleground for economic narratives. California’s Governor Gavin Newsom didn’t let Trump off easily, pinning blame for higher food prices on what he called “Trump’s golden era.” He even took to social media with a cheeky image merging Trump’s face onto a turkey—a not-so-subtle poke at his rival’s perceived vulnerabilities.Meanwhile, Trump hit back on a different front, touting Walmart’s discounted Thanksgiving meal as evidence that costs were under control—though, as fact-checkers uncovered, that “deal” omitted a few traditional items and redefined the meaning of a feast. Still, the very public argument over prices reflects a broader economic anxiety shared across kitchen tables nationwide. Recent studies, highlighted amidst the spectacle, linked Trump-era tariffs on imported goods to some of the inflationary pressure. September’s inflation rate hovered around 3 percent, with grocery costs ticking up 2.7 percent from the prior year. Turkeys weren’t spared: according to the Times of London, recreating a Julia Child-inspired spread would cost about 9 percent more than last year, with turkeys alone jumping by nearly a quarter.But for all the posturing and partisan theater, there’s something disarmingly universal about watching a president try to keep a straight face while surrounded by clucking livestock and flashing cameras. One can’t help but wonder if, just for a moment, the sharp edges of the national debate dull and a kind of shared amusement takes over. Children watching from home are less interested in tariff debates than they are in seeing whether the birds behave, and even the adults might crack a smile at the spectacle.In the end, the annual White House turkey pardon is one of those peculiar American traditions that balances on the knife’s edge between sincerity and parody. For a handful of minutes, jokes and traditions intertwine, and political rivals trade barbs that land a little softer than usual. It’s fleeting, but perhaps that’s its greatest virtue—a temporary pause in the ongoing contest of narratives. As the turkeys head off into their unlikely retirement, we’re reminded that, even in the thick of political conflict, the country still makes room for a bit of levity and common ground—even if only until the next round begins.