That was the single worst day of Donald Trump‘s administration. Sorry, Grandpa Dobbs, but your Cheeto-hued idol stuck his prick in a light socket, and the results aren’t pretty.
Set aside that Trump’s foundering campaign has burned through a billion-with-a-b dollars to end up down in key swing states and nationally. That the vaunted digital Death Star magic of Brad Parscale has been replaced by the basic-bitch campaign of Bill Stepien—no wartime consigliere but a struggling accountant canceling polls, media buys, and field operations around the country to try and stop the political bleeding. Trump barely knows who Stepien is, except as That Guy I’m Going to Fire Next.
All that’s just icing. No, this week’s wounds are from Trump’s own quivering, liverish lips and the shit sandwich he stuffed between them on Wednesday. It’s not every day that your hubris and dumbfuckery leads you to do 18 on-the-record taped interviews with Bob Woodward confessing to, oh, 200,000 fucking cases of manslaughter because you lied and lied and lied and lied and lied and lied and lied again to the American people about the impact of COVID. It’s not some vague J’Accuse from the resistance now; Trump admitted early on that he knew just how deadly and how dangerous the virus would be, and lied anyway. That’s some killer clown show.