Slowly but surely, inch by painful inch.
Even apart from the fact that trust in media is at historic lows, this is what happens after decades of hyperpartisan coverage. The reason saying “I know you want to save Hillary Clinton” stings is because everyone knows it’s true. It’s not just true of Clinton, it’s true of nearly every Democratic officeholder in the land. There are consequences to unfair coverage, and one of them is that it’s hard to take media freakouts seriously anymore.
The media have spent the better part of the last 40 years crying wolf about every single conservative office seeker in the land, painting them as “successors to George Wallace.” The dog doesn’t hunt anymore, and just at the time it might be needed.
I won’t even bother reminding anyone of what political party George Wallace was a diehard member of. Praetorian Media won’t ever bring it up, but the truly beautiful thing is that—despite their most diligent efforts—we all know anyway.
If the media had been even a fraction as outraged by Hillary Clinton’s server, her shady lies, her foundation’s solicitation of funds from oligarchs and dictatorships while she served as secretary of State, the revelation that foreign governments had almost certainly hacked her information, this freakout by the media would come off very differently.
If the media had not spent 2012 mocking Mitt Romney for his “gaffe” of saying that Russia was our biggest geopolitical threat, if they had cared when Ted Kennedy asked the Soviets to intervene in the 1984 Democratic primary, if they briefly interrupted worship at Barack Obama’s feet when he made hot-mic promises to Russians, and so on and so forth, this would be a different story.
Funny, don’tcha think, how the Russians were the Democrat Socialists’ bestest pals for so long—any public mention of them as any kind of adversary or rival would give them the shrieking fantods, for decades—right up until they seemed to cross Her Royal Bitchness. Then, suddenly, they weren’t. You can almost hear them gasping “Evil Empire” right about now, and just never you mind the paroxysms of appalled agony they lapsed into back when Reagan said it all those years ago.
There’s a lesson here, and we ought to note it well: the liberal-fascists are all about winning—more than anything else, even to the exclusion of everything else. They swap allegiances, trade enemies for allies, and talk out both sides of their mouths without fear of repercussion or recrimination. They say ten different contradictory things before breakfast every single damned day, and on the rare (pre-Trump) occasions when they were called on it, simply tossed off an accusation of “racism” or “misogyny” or “homophobia” or some such and then changed the subject.
They got away with it for years and years, and figured they always would. Now, at long last, there’s a Republican nominee for president who goes after them relentlessly, and doesn’t give so much as a fart in a whirlwind how outraged Praetorian Media might wax about it. He knows who’s on his side—and who never will be, no matter how hard he tries, McCain and Romney style, to suck up to them.
We now have this perfect confluence of absolute fed-upness with all this on the part of a great swath of the country, standing behind a guy who doesn’t give a flying fuck at a rolling donut who gets upset by the shit he flings at the libtards. Rather than doing the whole “let’s not be beastly to the commies” vaudeville act the Republicrats have been sickening us with for so many years, we finally have a guy who will actually say, “hey, don’t like what I just said? Fuck you, here’s more of it. Hope you fucking choke on it.”
And since this is beginning to feel like less of a focused post on a single topic and more of a generalized, willy-nilly diatribe (as has long been my wont here anyway), allow me to edify you folks with a little story on how I know Trump is going to slaughter Hillary and her Demonrat Party so completely this fall.
A few days ago I was driving by Belmont Abbey College, which for geographical reasons I have to do frequently, usually several times every day. It’s a beautiful old place; my mom worked there for a good many years, and me and my brother used to pretty much have the run of it. I actually pulled in and parked the other day so my daughter could sit and listen to the sext bells ringing, which she heard from the road as we passed by and wondered about. The oldest freestanding monastery in the US, it is. Look it up if you don’t believe me. None of which matters right now, and I apologize for the digression. Anyways.
I got behind this fella, known in these parts as the Can Man. He’s an elderly black guy who drives a plain white box van with “The Can Man” painted on the sides. He picks up empty soda cans from local businesses, households, or just off the side of the road, and hauls them off to the recycle center to make whatever few shekels he can off ’em. Just another guy trying to eke out a living any way he can off the flyblown corpse of the once-mighty American capitalist economy, right?
WELL. I used to see him riding around these parts fairly regular, and then all of a sudden I didn’t, for about a month there. I was actually kind of concerned; like I said, he’s an old guy, and I hoped he hadn’t kicked the bucket or gotten bad sick or something. Laid up in the hospital late in life with nothing backstopping you but Obamacare isn’t something I’d wish on anybody, be they close friend, casual acquaintance, or complete stranger.
I need not have worried, it turns out. What he was doing was getting his box truck painted. Well-painted, actually, a truly handsome professional job. And what he had painted on his sole source of income was this: big, splashy American flags on both sides and the back. With a photo-perfect representation of Donald Trump on all three sides, and a small caricature on the right rear, tucked in between the wheel well and the bumper. Big, bold lettering all around, saying: “Vote Trump! MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”
Now just you think about that for a moment. Here’s a guy the Democrat Socialists would assume would be forever yoked to them. Black, every bit of 80-some years old, dirt-poor, making whatever living he can out of the discarded metal scraps of a moribund economy. I don’t know him and can do nothing more than speculate, but going on the odds, I’d say he’s a guy who probably never voted Republican in his life, and never dreamed he would.
But there he is, all in for Trump. He’s so all in, he spent probably two or three grand of his own hard-earned, at exactly nobody’s instigation and for no conceivable reward, to paint the man on the side of his work truck. There’s no way on God’s green earth that the Trump organization is paying him for his support; there’s no chance whatsoever that they’ll ever even know about him at all. He’s willing to risk whatever scorn or approbation he’ll undoubtedly get from dumbass Yankee yuppies around here to speak his piece…all over the side of his work vehicle.
Let me know next time you see that kind of sincere and spontaneous support for Cankles, or any other slimy professional politician you can think of, from whichever party.
If The Donald ever did hear about the Can Man and his campaign truck, he’d probably buy him a new truck…and a house to park it beside. That, too, is just as American as hell, in all the right ways. But none of it will matter in the least to the Can Man. He’s putting his livelihood on the line because for the first time probably ever, he’s got hold of some hope that maybe, just maybe, the politics as usual that has brought America to its knees in every way that matters might just be disrupted. He knows in his gut that we need that more than anything else right now. And he won’t be the only one out there who feels that way. Not by a long yard he won’t.
The Can Man does not give a single shit about Trump’s position on “free” trade, or TPP, or Glass-Steagall, or the CFPB. He doesn’t care about the sort of arcane arguments about Constitutional nuance people like you and me get exercised over. Crooked Hillary or Slimy Ted Cruz or any of the others could come oiling up to him, wrap a greasy tentacle around his shoulders, and promise him the moon, steak every Wednesday, and free hookers for life in return for his vote, and he wouldn’t even remember their names ten minutes later. He’s seen and heard all that shit way, way more than enough already, and he just doesn’t care.
All the Can Man wants is a president who will put American interests first, each and every time—that’s all, and that’s plenty enough for him. If you think that doesn’t add up to a blindside ass-kicking that Cankles, the Democrat Socialists, and Praetorian Media will never see coming or ever have the faintest hope of understanding, I suggest that you hide and watch.
It’s gonna be fucking great.