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Just when the Democrats thought they had it clinched because of high gas prices from the “little excursion” in Iran, Trump pulls off one of the most brilliant political moves of the last 60 years: a UFC match on the White House Lawn.
It’s a double genius move, like a 1/6 in Wordle. (I’m translating UFC into Manhattan-ese.)
Think about it. First, on Agent Orange’s 80th birthday, instead of everyone talking about a guy who makes Joe Biden sound like Diogenes, we are distracted that our President is a walking coronary wrapped in a babbling Baconator, with ankles the size of the FIFA Peace Prize, who bumbles the names of the countries he wants to bomb or tariff. Instead, we are spending our time bitching about the bong-hitting masses who think Trump is cool as sh*t because he’s hosting that most patriotic of American sports: the UFC.
Coastal metrosexuals and other sissy elites hate the UFC because it stars big macho guys kicking the crap out of each other. It’s the lovechild of martial arts and threepenny opera.
And most Americans just eat it up! They love it, because YOU hate it, you Coastal prigs who don’t like the sight of blood unless it’s Palestinian or Israeli blood (your pick).
Up to one billion people tuned in to watch the UFC SmackDown, including Lord knows how many ‘Muricans, versus only about eight million of us who watched the World Cup game between Tunisia and Sweden.
Galoots in a Cage
The match in DC isn’t really about 14 galoots in a cage, and it’s not about Tunisia versus IKEA. It’s about Them and Us.
Trump, admittedly a bloviating belly-fish who couldn’t hoist himself into a fight cage without J.D. Vance pushing up his rear, got to show that, like most Americans, he’s no pussy, but a Real Guy who’d rather see some big dude punched in the face by a bigger dude than watch some foreigners in little shorts collect little yellow cards.
It’s a total two-fer for The Donald. Up until Trump decided to reduce prices at the pump by blowing up an oil exporting nation, he was the fave of young people, especially young men, of all races, who’ve had it with being put down because they don’t say, “gestating person.”
So, Trump gets to play himself off as a Man’s Man, and at the same time provokes the Progressive pearl-clutching blue-noses into bleating, “For shame! For shame!”
I’m old enough to remember that the last guy to pull this stunt was JFK. Jack Kennedy made a big media sensation out of playing touch football on the White House lawn. Like Trump, Kennedy wanted to show he was a strong young man, not like that old fogie Eisenhower. JFK’s catchword was “Vigor” — though his staff knew that he was usually immobilized, in deep, deep pain from World War II back injuries. (Marlene Dietrich said she had to unwrap the gauze around the President — he was wound up like a mummy — before Kennedy could bang her on the Oval Office desk.)
Not only does Trump get to prove his unparalleled showmanship, his UFC party taunts the NPR snobs into turning up their noses at this for-profit bacchanalia. In fact, I just heard a commentator on NPR tsk-tsk about “despoiling the Peoples’ House” because of the giant LED billboard hawking Ram Trucks, Bud Light and Trump Coins.
But dear Democrats, there is nothing more patriotic than a UFC gladiator performance that celebrates the guys in Dodge pick-ups running red lights with an open brewski between their knees. The UFC fans know damn well you’ll never see an American-made pick-up in Beverly Hills unless it’s filled with brown-skinned gardeners.
In other words, the UFC match is a vengeance battle: the Real Americans versus the bigshots who sneer at them.
Listen, I come from White Trashville. So, let me give you some no bullshit advice on how to disrupt this looming MAGA resurgence: Let’s set up a GoFundMe to pay for a cage fight between Trump, who claims to be the healthiest president in history — and Sen. John Ossoff!
And whoever loses, stays in the cage until the end of this Administration.
Who’s in with me?
Greg Palast is a once-respected journalist who simply goes off into eccentric tangents in his declining years. Nevertheless, he is begging like a dog for funds to create a six-part investigative series on the latest, most devious tools that the Epstein Class employs to steal, disqualify and otherwise play like Satan with your ballot. So, please, make a tax-deductible donation for this pre-Midterm crusade. Or you can save the money for a very large tombstone for democracy. And sign up for Palast’s Substack brain droppings. I mean, why not?