If I’m going to steal a headline from Dana Summers (Tribune), the least I can do is let him bat lead-off today, which also solves the conundrum of how to even begin organizing the embarrassment of cartoon riches that have emerged since last night’s announcement.
We could get this kind of instant reaction all the time if the stories were telegraphed as far in advance as this one was, which not only allowed for overnight responses but means there’s really no excuse for a bad take.
I would disagree with Summers that the GOP had put everything in place to succeed, because they’ve spent the past week pissing and moaning that they were robbed and that the problem was allowing people to vote without jumping through hoops.
I’ve seen very little serious discussion of why so many people voted against them or suggesting ways to reposition the party for the future.
But, then, “back where they were” seems accurate because they aren’t anticipating making any real changes, and, at this point, are mostly quarreling over who — mostly Trump and/or McConnell — should be blamed.
Elevating DeSantis is, indeed, returning to things as they were, with no meaningful reform beyond a new coat of whitewash.
At which point I was going to quote Proverbs 26:11, “As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly,” but the entire book makes for appropriate and entertaining reading.
We’ll see how it goes, but, for the moment, conservatives like Summers, and like Michael Ramirez (Creators), don’t seem very enthusiastic about a Trump candidacy, though Democrats would do well not to misunderestimate the possibility that the GOP will kill the fatted calf and welcome home their prodigal son.
Though, as Dave Brown suggests, there isn’t much of a fatted elephant left for him to ride into glory.
But, again, take warning: When Hannibal crossed the alps, his surviving elephants were short on fodder when they completed the trip, and, as Shakespeare’s version of Caesar said,
Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
For a more in-depth and relevant historical analysis, click here.
Juxtaposition of the Day #1
“Let me up, you’ve had enough” is a dubious way to begin seeking vengeance, and Bramhall and Luckovich are not the only two observers to suggest that Trump is simply contriving a stalling tactic to keep Tish James and Fani Wilson off his back while his attorneys come up with another cunning plan.
Though this assumes a level of rational determination that others doubt figures in Trump’s impulsive actions. There’s also a substantial school of thought that says he never wanted to be president in the first place, that he only wanted the attention, not the workload.
But, since he appears to have sloughed off most of the work for four years, perhaps he really wants a second bite of the apple.
It all fits this
Juxtaposition of the Day #2
Two versions of the same gag, delivered with more wit and panache by Margulies, but perhaps with more impact by Gorrell, given his history of cozying up to the Orange God King in former days.
Both echo the idea that Trump is more driven by a childish level of narcissism than by any measure of pragmatic decision-making, and while offering examples of the former might spark arguments, there are so very few concrete examples of the latter that it seems both unlikely and irrelevant.
It might be different if Drew Sheneman (Tribune)’s take on the announcement didn’t seem so right on, but Trump has not only failed to take any blame for the collapse of his party but isn’t admitting there was any collapse at all, instead insulting and attacking his critics rather than responding to their criticism.
Which has not been kind, much less conciliatory and certainly not encouraging.
Over at the Bulwark, Amanda Carpenter offers an analysis of last night’s announcement, noting that Trump was low-energy and read from his TelePrompter, causing people to try to wander away in boredom, but she’s not dismissing the potential for him to rise from the ashes of his pyre:
Her associate, Charlie Sykes, has not been nearly so kind in viewing the run-up to last night’s extravaganza:
And maybe the 47th, if we don’t take the potential seriously, though it’s safer for him to “own the libs” than it is for him to try to own members of his own party.
Even though Glen LeLievre seems to think they’re perfectly willing to let him do to them in 2024 what he did to them in 2020 and again in 2022. As W once put it, “Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, won’t be fooled again.”
Well, perhaps.
I guess we’ll see, because, as Ann Telnaes points out, here he is, coming down that escalator again, and, rather than speculate about attempts to hinder prosecution or even to simply pump up his own demented, insatiable ego, she depicts him with a piggy bank under his arm and an honest motivation spelled out on his banner.
Whatever else may be on his mind, he spent four glorious years motivating visiting diplomats to stay at his overpriced hotel in hopes of currying favor with him and charging the Secret Service inflated prices for rooms and golf carts at Mar A Lago during his frequent visits there.
And as Matt Wuerker (Politico) pointed out a month ago, Trump ran a variety of appeals to the MAGA faithful for funds he claimed were to fight voter fraud and appeal the results of the 2020 election, but he pocketed the bulk of the money himself, spending only a pittance on any actual appeal and even less to help GOP candidates in the midterms.
And always, even at his own daughter’s wedding, with that fatuous, self-aggrandizing thumbs-up gesture.
Like little Jack Horner, hoping to pull out another plum.
(Not everyone knew Tiffany Trump even existed, just as not everyone knew there was
an Aimee Osbourne, who opted out of MTV’s farcical exposé of her family.)
Finally today, my truth-in-advertising nomination for Trump’s campaign song:
NOTE: You’ll still see my daily reminders and links on Twitter for now, but you can also find me here:
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Oh Man! “The Hustle” features the world’s worst song, AND the world’s worst choreography! And those slit-leg trousers . . .
He may as well use The Hustle as his campaign theme song, since his 2020 election motto was, essentially, Don’t Switch Horses in the Middle of a Dumpster Fire.
New York Post page 26: “Florida Man Makes Announcement.” 😀