Hi, everybody. Hi. Gather ’round. Bring your hors d’oeuvres, your artisanal wine spritzers, and maybe an emotional support animal because today, we are going there.
My name is Martha Stewart. You know me. I am the lady who taught America how to fold a fitted sheet. I showed you how to roast a turkey without crying. I can even make your damn napkin feel like it just returned from an Ivy League education. You are welcome.
But today, I am not here to teach you how to bake a soufflé. It will not make your mother-in-law cry tears of inadequacy. Oh no. Today, I am here to remind you of something much more important:
If you are a successful woman who even slightly interacts with a stockbroker, the media will destroy your entire existence. And the court system? The court system will personally hand-stitch an orange jumpsuit for your ass with a monogram.
Let me tell you a little story.
It was 2001. I had an insider tip about a biotech company — a totally boring, nerdy situation involving cancer drug trials. Not even anything sexy, like stealing a Picasso or robbing a casino with George Clooney. No, friends. I heard a whisper that a drug trial was about to flop harder than a third installment of a Disney+ reboot. I decided—God forbid—to sell a few shares of stock.
That was it. No yachts full of cash. No international spy network. No evil laugh echoing off the halls of Congress. I just moved a little stock around.
And within 48 hours, it was like I personally launched the Great Depression.
CNN ran my mugshot harder than a Kardashian wedding announcement. Talk show hosts giggled about me like I had invented evil itself between baking sessions. The court was like, “Oh, an incredibly rich, self-made woman who builds things, teaches skills, and hires thousands of people? Burn her at the stake and maybe roast some s’mores while we are at it.”
So what happened to me?
PRISON.
Federal, please-and-thank-you, jump-suit-wearing, mop-the-cafeteria-floor prison.
All this happened because I made a financial decision. Let me remind you, if Chad in Accounting made it, he would have gotten a raise. He would also have received a condo in Tampa and a personalized beer koozie that said ‘Risk Taker.’
Meanwhile.
MEANWHILE.
A six-time-bankrupt, neon-orange buffoon stood up in front of the world. This happened somehow, somewhere in the bizarre Disney villain reboot that we call 21st-century America. They juggled a bunch of financial felonies like they were bowling pins. They signed autographs in Sharpie directly on the Constitution. The press commented:
“Look at our Crazy Wizard of Our Times!”
They called him “authentic.” “Relatable.” “Refreshing.”
REFRESHING.
As if he were a new flavor of LaCroix and not an entire natural disaster with a spray tan.
I, Martha Stewart, have never once started a riot. I did not plagiarize a speech from Small Town Values Weekly, or try to rebrand Mussolini’s Greatest Hits. However, I went to prison because I tried to save a few bucks on stock.
He, meanwhile, could walk into a bank and empty the vault into a pair of golf pants. He takes a selfie and captions it “Just Friday things.” The news would rush to give him a Presidential Medal of Freedom. It would be made out of a used chicken nugget box.
And nothing fucking happens.
Nothing.
Nada.
Zero.
I once forgot to garnish a Thanksgiving table centerpiece and had to issue a public apology. Donald Trump can create 15 shell companies, funnel foreign cash into campaign hotels, open a pop-up dictatorship, and the Washington Post will be like:
“Is this just alpha male behavior? Let us discuss it for the next 6 hours on cable news with 19 people and 17 different fonts.”
Listen. I am not bitter.
I mean, sure, I decorated my prison cell with twinkle lights. I taught my cellmates how to fold towels into the shapes of exotic animals. I also developed a thriving black-market trade in cinnamon sticks. But am I bitter?
YES.
I AM BITTER.
I am the human embodiment of a lemon wrapped in a burrito of rage, tied together with artisanally sourced twine.
If you think I am exaggerating, let us run a little experiment:
Imagine for one second that it was ME who had fake university scams. Add to that tax fraud charges and government document heists. Then, there are sexual assault allegations and enough shady Russian loans to make James Bond’s eyebrow twitch.
Would I be president right now?
No. HBO would feature me in a six-part docuseries. It is called “Queen of Crime: How Martha Stewart Stole America’s Hope and Dreams.”
There would be dramatic reenactments.
There would be a special episode of “Law & Order: SVU.” In the episode, I get tackled through a tablescape display at Bed Bath & Beyond. Oprah would do a very serious special called “When Good Women Go Bad: The Fall of Martha Stewart.”
Meanwhile, when Donald Trump does it?
People sell T-shirts about it at Cracker Barrel.
I mean, COME ON.
Where is my Cracker Barrel T-shirt?
Where is my $5.99 commemorative mug at the gas station with a terrible Photoshopped picture of me blinking mid-sentence?
Where are MY fans screaming “Martha 2028!” while storming an outlet mall?
Oh, right.
I was too busy building actual businesses, raising actual money, mentoring actual people, and teaching actual skills.
SILLY ME.
Here is the real TED Talk part:
You better embody sweetness and charm if you are a successful woman. It’s like being a living Precious Moments figurine dipped in fairy dust.
You better rescue endangered puppies in your spare time while knitting sustainable sweaters for penguins.
You better smile and nod. Bake and cure world hunger. Apologize for having opinions. Never — and I mean never — even think about making a slightly edgy business move. Be prepared to be set on fire. It’s like you just announced you were opening a Vampire Brothel in Utah.
If you are a man and you are rich, famous, and arrogant, you might believe you could overpower the Constitution. Congratulations! You have just qualified for 24 hours of free press coverage. You also get a lifetime supply of gaslighting opportunities. There’s also an exclusive licensing deal for board games about corruption.
Because America loves a man who fails upward.
America loves a man who sets fire to a daycare. Then he shrugs and says, “Boys will be boys.” Meanwhile, America builds him a shrine made out of velvet paintings and raw hot dogs.
Meanwhile, a woman tries to warn you that your soufflé is overcooked. She gets a 35-page think piece about her “difficult personality.”
In closing, I want to say this:
I am Martha Stewart.
I went to prison for an insider tip smaller than Donald Trump’s coc*. . .I mean moral compass.
And if I ever decide to run for office, I am promising you two things:
- Every citizen gets a free set of bed linens.
- Every felonious jackass who thinks the Constitution is a Mad Lib will be required to scrub grout in public bathrooms. They will do this while wearing a sweater knitted by ME.
Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.
And please remember:
If Martha Stewart had done even 1% of what Donald Trump did, I would have faced serious consequences. The Statue of Liberty would have personally hurled me into the Hudson River as CNN conducted a drone flyover.
Good night, and God bless America. (She needs it.)
