Hey everybody! Let’s check our handy Election Countdown Clock! Hang on a sec…
Forty days to go! Okey-dokey, and how are the polls looking? Gimme just a jiffy here…
Uh-huh. Got it. Dead heat. Statistical tie. Good, good.
O.K., look, there is no frigging way I can take 40 more days of this.
You know, I’m so tired of this election cycle it almost makes me weep. The days are passing like weeks, and nothing ever matters. Donald is out there running what has to be reckoned one of the most lacklustre campaigns in history, while Kamala and her team are conducting what has to be considered one of the best, and still, it keeps coming back “statistical tie, within the margin of error”. Kamala handed Donald’s BBQ’d ass to him on a platter at the debate, and what do we get? Statistical tie, within the margin of error. Trump and Vance are stumbling around from pillar to post, screeching like rabid howler monkeys, regaling the faithful with ridiculous tales about filthy Haitians eating everybody’s dogs and cats (and the geese in the local park too, and God knows what else, has anybody done a head count at the zoo?), post-birth abortions (which neither is nor ever has been a thing), skyrocketing crime rates (they’re down dramatically across the board), cities in flames (not happening), an economy in tatters (it’s the best in the developed world), kids undergoing forced sex-change procedures at school (sure, most public schools can’t afford to keep a stock of bandaids and aspirin on site anymore, but they’ve got fully-staffed operating theatres at the ready for when they decide to haul poor little Johnny out of third period Spanish for his involuntary sex-reassignment), and other rank bullshit so transparent that you get the feeling even the morons in the MAGAverse know they’re being lied to. What do the pollsters tell us? Statistical tie, within the margin of error.
They’re backing it all up with ludicrous, pulled-straight-out-of-their-asses “statistics” that nobody, but nobody could believe, because they’re literally impossible, like “107% of all new jobs created under Biden went to illegal immigrants” (jeepers, that’s 7% more than all of them!!), and “they let in 23 million illegals and plan to admit 150 million more” (geez Louise, that’s a lot in a country with 333 million citizens!). Then of course there’s all the horse-huckey about voter fraud, and the stolen 2020 election, and on and on, one whopper piled on top of the other, each new one bigger than the last, as they’re forced to ratchet up the rhetoric to maintain something akin to shock value, except nobody’s shocked anymore. It’s never been so vile. The public reaction? Statistical tie, within the margin of error.
Donald’s never sounded so much like a sieg-heiling, goose-stepping Nazi, either, and don’t be coming at me with Godwin’s law and accusations of hyperbole, not when this is the latest embellishment on his insane scheme to round up literally millions of undocumented immigrants and put them in camps:
He’s yet to mention that it’ll be easier and more efficient if they all get their new ID numbers tattooed on their forearms, but maybe that’s set out somewhere in one of the endnotes to Project 2025.
Anyway, you’re tired of hearing it, and believe me kids, I’m tired of writing about it, and I probably wouldn’t be bothering at this point except that now, just when you think they’ve plumbed every conceivable depth of mendacity and demagoguery, they’ve come up with something new (and I’m sniffing Stephen Miller’s peculiar sweaty stench all over it). Get this:
WOW. This goes way beyond the usual lies and phoney statistics. It’s got nothing to do with ridiculous, unworkable policy solutions (like building The Wall, or slapping a 20% tariff on every imported good). This is something other. Yes, he’s making the usual, empty promises to fix everything, this time without even suggesting a fictional panacea, but this isn’t really about anything he’s proposing to do, it’s more about how they’re supposed to feel about things, given that the Great Donald, Protector of Females, will once again have their backs, just as he always has. Somebody, obviously, has told him he has a serious problem with the opposite sex, and he thinks he can gaslight his way out of the hole, implying, along the way, that his own misogynist policies have had nothing to do with how upsetting things now seem to the women of America in 2024. It’s such a shame, really, how out of sorts they all feel, poor things, but they should take heart, secure in the knowledge that their loving Uncle Donny will be looking after them, and everything will be right as rain. He’s not just lying. He’s telling them they live in a different reality altogether, and soon they’ll understand. Honestly, I’ve never heard anything like it in democratic political discourse:
Sadly, women are poorer than they were four years ago, much poorer, are less healthy than they were four years ago, are less safe on the streets than they were four years ago, are paying much higher prices for groceries and everything else than they were four years ago, are more stressed and depressed and unhappy than they were four years ago, and are less optimistic and confident in the future than they were four years ago. I believe that. I will fix all of that, and fast, and at long last, this nation and national nightmare will end…Because I am your protector. I want to be your protector. As President, I have to be your protector…I will make you safe at the border, on the sidewalks of your now violent cities, in the suburbs where you are under migrant criminal siege, and with our military protecting you from foreign enemies, of which we have many today because of the incompetent leadership that we have. You will no longer be abandoned, lonely, or scared. You will no longer be in danger. You’re not going to be in danger any longer. You will no longer have anxiety from all of the problems our country has today. You will be protected and I will be your protector. Women will be happy, healthy, confident and free. You will no longer be thinking about abortion.
Look, that’s not a stump speech. It’s a goddam Las Vegas hypnosis act – swear to God, he’s droning out post-hypnotic suggestions! You will no longer have anxiety. You will be happy, healthy, confident and free. You will no longer see me as the architect of your current misery, because I am your protector, and you see that clearly now. You will no longer think about abortion. You will feel an irresistible urge to vote Republican in all Federal, State, and Local elections. When I say the words “racial purity” you will feel compelled to find an immigrant community and set it on fire. Now upon my command you will awaken feeling rested and refreshed.
Back when all this began, Donald modelled his efforts at mass motivation on the tricks he learned studying Vince McMahon and the rabble-rousing techniques perfected by the likes of Hulk Hogan and Randy “Macho Man” Savage at the WWE. He still performs the old schtick (and even invited Hulk Hogan to speak at the most recent RNC), but more and more, lately, Donald seems to be trying to tap into something even more potent and insidious, that weird power of suggestion that the showmen at Caesar’s Palace and the MGM Grand leverage to convince hapless members of the audience that they’re actually a mixed gaggle of barnyard animals and fiddler crabs. The thing is, Donald doesn’t want to be the hottest act on the Strip. He wants to be Jim Jones. He wants to be David Koresh.
It’s creepy AF. It’s scary.
But is it working? If it wasn’t for the damned polls I’d be telling you that Trump’s a spent force, and he can pretend all he wants that his last name is Mesmer, it won’t matter because he’s already toast. Don’t worry about it. This thing is all over but the cryin’. His campaign is a shambles, his pick for veep is the most despised politician in the country, he’s boring the crap out of his thinning crowds, women hate him to the tune of a 20+ percentage point disadvantage to Harris, Project 2025, which Kamala has largely succeeded in hanging around his neck despite his many disavowals, is about as popular as mouth cancer, and his disapproval ratings are terrible, falling ever lower the more people see of him. Yup, I’ll chortle happily to myself after watching the highlights of his latest sparsely attended word salad extravaganza, the fat bastard’s done for.
Then the New York Times will publish the latest results: statistical tie, within the margin of error.
40 more days.
the needlefish 