The FAFO Chronicles

This post makes me a little nervous, for reasons that will become obvious. But I'm tired of fretting about jinxes when the truth, the righteous path, the black and white are staring us in the face.

Back in the olden times, before the fuckery descended upon the land like a wet blanket that smelled of tanning oil and dogshit, I wrote a post entitled "Explaining Trump" that used a Drew Magary GQ piece as source material. Magary had attended a Trump 2016 rally, and come away if not at all sympathetic, at least clear-eyed about the candidate's appeal. As did I.

We return today to Magary's work as what I hope might wind up a bookend on a benighted era for our society. In his regular SF Gate column, Magary excoriated the New York Times for its reflexive bothsidesism, its sanewashing of Trump's patently unhinged public expectorations. The thesis of the piece is captured in this quote: "The Times cares more about its place in the power structure than in actually affecting that power structure." 

It's an interesting piece, but that's not the element that caught my attention. Rather, it was this passage from the opening graf: 

We’re just over a month away from the presidential election and, if you ask the New York Times, the race between Vice President Kamala Harris and former president/Keystone kriminal Donald Trump remains “deadlocked.” Despite the fact that Trump is losing in Pennsylvania, a state he needs to win, by four points. Despite the fact that polls in North Carolina just turned in Harris’ favor. Despite the fact that a grassroots campaign for Harris, one that numbers in the hundreds of thousands, sprung up the instant her boss ceded his spot in the race to her. Despite the fact that Trump got his ass beat in a nationally televised debate with Harris after repeating, with supreme gusto, the lie that Haitian immigrants in Ohio are eating people’s pets. The lie that his own running mate openly said was a lie.

You don’t have to work terribly hard to sum up this race as it stands: Harris is destroying Trump, because Trump is a deranged old s—tbag. See how easy that was?

See what I meant about nervous? That kind of talk is anathema to lefties and Boston Red Sox fans, and I'm both. But there are reasons to believe that the worm is turning. That we're finally, slowly, slowly (said the sloth), but hopefully inexorably towards karmic retribution. 

As Jack Nicholson's Joker once said, "This town needs an enema", and we're starting to see some of the shit that's been packed into our national intestinal tract [did TR return from the wilderness to write this?] slide down the drain. It seems The Finding Out may have commenced.

Steve Bannon is in prison. The Department of Justice issued an indictment alleging that some of the right-wing looniverse's most execrable dopes have been unwitting Russian assets for years (and if you don't think Ben Shapiro isn't getting his affairs in order, you don't give the KGB enough credit). Cretinous Trump body man and Project 2025 advisor Johnny McEntee allegedly sent sexually aggressive texts to 18 year-olds from a business Instagram account. At least McEntee was savvy enough to confirm his targets were 18, which Matt Gaetz seemingly didn't when he attended a "sex party" with a 17 year-old, according to sworn testimony.

We could go on. And we will, because holy fucking shit have you read about Mark Robinson?

I hope I'm not stomping on OBX Dave's Carolina beat here, but if you haven't been following the recent news about current North Carolina Lieutenant Governor and GOP gubernatorial candidate, let me sum it up in a few words:

He's a wannabe Nazi slaveowner with a who fucked his sister-in-law and wrote about it on a porn website he frequented. And I swear that all of those things are true. Allegedly*.

*Nah, that shit is dead real. Sue us, Lt. Governor. We could use the money we'll get from counter-suing. We have top notch legal counsel. Top notch.

There are miles to go before we sleep, and if the last eight years have taught us anything, we write off That Fucking Guy and his enablers at all of our peril. God damn, but we need that cleanse, to wake up in the shower like Patrick Duffy and realize if was all a dream. Or that we need to invest in real estate in Portugal.

We've long said here that karma is a bitch. Sometimes she takes her sweet time. But if she gives us Stephen Miller's head on a stick, we'll call it almost even.