MEMO: From my sources deep in the MAGA HQ, some fresh hot data:
The voting is finished. The incumbent appears to be losing. Will he resist defeat? Issue a call to arms? Seek mayhem in the streets?
From six confidential messages, electronically intercepted, rerouted to my email inbox, then painstakingly decrypted, I can report that one central strategic theme leaps out again & again:
His loyalist followers are now being told not to tolerate the current trend. And so they must now reach into their holsters, lock & load, and prepare to pull the trigger and empty their — wallets.
Yes, behind the bluster & the threats, at the heart of the response is what has always been there, The Holy Grift.
Yes, cabinet secretaries may come and go; pandemics will “turn the corner” and disappear on command; the Superspreader rallies may be paused.
Yet, one things abides through it all and reigns supreme:
One wheel within these wheels keeps turning in perpetuity:
“Every knee shall bow, every tongue confess . . .” And every donor’s bank balance will be drained.
During the long Post-midnight darkness of Tuesday/Wednesday, no less than six appeals such as the following for emergency mobilization were emitted.
They were candid about the extremity of the situation, and clear about the drastic, norm-busting response required. Specifically: send more money. NOW. Send more. Send more. Now.
They’re even still offering the 10X (1000%) match, which is likely a measure of desperation, disguised as a message of how dire the emergency is supposed to be.
But what are these donations for? After all, the campaign is now technically over.
Well, for one thing, numerous reports in recent weeks have detailed how strapped for money the MAGA campaign had become, when it belatedly discovered how much had been wasted or stolen by overqualified junior grifters from the $1 billion-plus war chest MAGA had raised.
For another, if the incumbent is going to make a serious effort to stop the counting of several million remaining ballots in numerous states, there will be huge legal bills to deal with. It will likely take the full-time efforts of several attorneys just to find new ways to skip out on paying them.
For that matter, my suspicion is that enormous legal bills await him anyway, whether in or out of office, but especially out.
And this is not to mention the expense of living in the style to which his self-styled royal family is accustomed, once Uncle Sam slips out of reach as the Sucker-In-Chief to stick with the invoices.
And not least, whatever fatal blows the Man might be fantasizing about striking against our democracy, if they involve more than watching Fox and wolfing down Big Macs, or require skipping the links, they ultimately can’t compare to following his true calling of using Executive Time to tend the central icon of the cult, The Holy Grift.
So, he’s probably toying with the tantalizing prospect of mounting an actual insurrection. That would certainly put the cap on his success in driving that latest company, Trump Executive Branch, Inc., into the ditch.
Yeah, but: I take comfort in his wariness of that scheme’s obvious drawbacks: First, it’s too much work. Also it’s a game overstuffed with suckers and losers. And besides, bone spurs.
Instead, there’s always The Grift. There, opportunities abound, as they always have. And what better to add to a career that has melded empty golf courses with failed casinos, plus grabbing all those women, spoiled wineries and so much more — how else to top that than adding a takedown of The World’s Former Greatest superpower?
I can see its temple already, rising near Orlando, dwarfing the mousy conceits of Disney: MAGAWorld.
For a measly $250K membership, guests can drain their own swamp, jail political rivals and smack Fake News reporters, and shake hands with talking wax holograms of petty dictators. Then they could rod around with cool “militia” studs on their big bikes, waving AR-15s rented by the hour, and finish by joining an unmasked Superspreader rally party at the end of every ride.
You gotta do it. They’d be lined up around the block, grandkids in tow, waving their platinum cards. I bet if you pardoned Michael Cohen, he’d turn around and help you make it happen.
You could get on it in mid-January at the latest. Meantime . . .