Senator Fetterman is the New Senator Sinema
By Michael Kelman Portney
Let me paint a picture. Not with oils—those are for honest laborers. This is finger paint for toddlers who somehow wandered into the Senate chamber wearing Chuck Taylors and slogans.
You remember Kyrsten Sinema, right? The bisexual rollerblading maverick in a wig from Arizona who made “Fck you, but make it fashion”* her governing philosophy? The same one who campaigned as a Green Party progressive, lecturing us about income inequality, and then—faster than you can say “filibuster”—was blowing kisses at hedge fund managers like they were prom dates and she was double-booked.
Well, guess what? We’ve got another Sinema on our hands, but this one wears Carhartt and pretends it’s armor.
Enter: John Fetterman.
The man came out swinging. A populist pitbull. He looked like the kind of guy who’d break up a bar fight, unionize the bartenders, and still be home in time to tuck in the dog. People loved him for that. The hoodie. The tattoos. The “no bullshit” image. It was a branding goldmine—Bernie Sanders with biceps. We thought we were getting Working Class Jesus.
And then… silence. Followed by awkward CNN appearances. Followed by, "Hey wait a minute… why does this dude sound like a DNC press release wearing a distressed Metallica tee?"
It’s happening again.
There’s this mysterious alchemy in D.C. where every grassroots champion enters on fire and exits a damp sock. The transformation is so consistent it’s almost a scientific law:
The more a politician talks like a punk before they’re elected, the more likely they are to become a landlord in spirit.
Once Fetterman got seated, we didn’t get the rebel we were promised. We got applause lines for Biden, photo ops with police unions, and a suspicious absence of that firebrand energy. Oh, but don’t worry, he still wears the hoodie. Because that’s what matters. The aesthetic revolution!
Same playbook as Sinema:
Campaign like you hate power.
Get elected.
Discover you love brunch with lobbyists.
Mutate into the thing you swore to burn down.
Here’s the cheeky bit—maybe we’re the suckers. Maybe the costume was the point. Sinema had her wigs and neon outfits. Fetterman has his working-class cosplay. But what both have in common is this: when power called, they didn’t resist. They rebranded.
We were sold anti-establishment, but bought a product line instead. These folks aren’t walking the walk anymore—they're skipping down the K Street runway.
Fetterman was supposed to be the antidote to the hollow-souled Democrats who smile while selling out. But if Sinema was a trojan horse in a tutu, Fetterman might just be the same trojan horse in flannel.
So what’s the moral here?
Stop falling for aesthetic progressivism. Watch what they do, not what they wear. And when your populist hero starts echoing establishment talking points, don’t make excuses—make noise. The revolution isn’t fashion. It’s fire. And it doesn’t ask for permission.
