more than just lousy messaging, a lack of actual message

This will surely piss off some of you. Fine. The time to be pissed off is now.

You fucks. You lousy, defeatist fucks.

Now that I’ve set the tone:

This is an open letter to the Democratic Party, from one of your own. To be more exact, likely soon to be one of your former own. Because if you continue at this lightning pace of self-inflicted failure, I’ve had it, I’m out, I’m done. After my long, solid-blue voting life; my volunteering huge chunks of time to you, from one election to the next; my championing your candidates inspired and otherwise, there’s little left now but my disdain, and my deepening disgust.

My disgust with you has become overwhelming.

You should know that the last thing I want is to be leaving you like this. Yet if we’re both being honest, we both know you have it coming. Because you, you clueless, endlessly retreating Democratic Party leadership, you suck. You just do. You suck.

Let me point out before going any further that I am desperate here. That this ain’t no joke. That I sure as hell ain’t laughing.

“America,” poet Allen Ginsberg once famously declared, “this is quite serious.”

America, my America, the America of your party’s shrinking/abandoning membership, we are desperate. So when will you, my derelict Dems, finally notice this, and react accordingly – with compunction, with conviction, with serious commitment to change? Hell, when will you react at all?

I really am this close to divorcing you. I cannot continue in this grossly unhealthy relationship, when you clearly won’t pull your own weight – to, in sickness and in health, stand up for the very things you vowed always to uphold.

Remember that New Deal deal, the sweeping set of government reforms in the 1930s aimed at improving the lot of the many, who were then in little position to improve it much for themselves? That vast and mighty undertaking that defined the Democratic Party for generations to come?

Even more, do you remember, perhaps, the U.S. worker? The factory schlubs who cranked the gears that torqued the American engine? The small-town, coal-smeared miners who fired up our urban ironworks and foundries? The sky-scaling steel monkeys who lifted our literal horizons? The pourers and haulers and pickers and pounders, harvesters and painters and pumpers and pavers? The tradesmen and women who hammered out a do-better-than-our-parents tomorrow?

The sweat-and-toil front-liners who rose each day to do battle for our economy? All those staunch souls, that is, whom NAFTA and the TPP went on to screw, and screw but fucking good (free trade, anyone? Fuhgeddaboudit!).

You wonder why Trump, a cartoonish conman with the abiding intelligence of a bucket of mud, was able to win “bigly”– at least bigly enough to feel emboldened to shove his “beautiful” tariffs down Middle America’s collective throat? And instead of the majority of us instantly recoiling over what that was gonna mean under the vacuous direction of a vengeful, compassionless wannabe-tyrant, we, America writ large, instead swallowed right through our gag-reflexes, gargling yes, and may I please have some more?

Real wages have been stagnating for years, yet all through the last election cycle, from Biden on into Harris – and even right now, amid all of this garbage-fire fuckery – you’ve pointed to Biden’s economic-growth numbers, saying look, look what we did! Impressive numbers up against Trump 45’s, sure, but what reasonable kind of measure is that? Because any such notches in the Democrats’ plus column ignore the bald fact that the best American jobs aren’t truly available to the majority of Americans, while the remaining gigs mostly pay absolute shit. And that’s even as all the things that money can buy go up. Up, up, up, and away.

What was that Democratic Party line again, the one leading up to the last election about the explosion in prices on basic goods that was causing such wild panic along Main Street, U.S.A., a fear frenzy that legacy media then swooped down upon, like some mass murder of carrion crows?

Let me remind you, since you seem to be feigning ignorance of your own words lately: You assured us that inflation was just a temporary hurdle, even as Republicans bellowed: Eggs, eggs, eggs, gas prices and eggs!

And mainstream media parroted: Eggs, eggs, eggs, gas prices and eggs!

Anyway, you pressed on regardless, you otherwise eggheaded Dems: Inflation is really so much worse right now in other countries, so you, U.S. citizen, are actually doing OK! You just need to understand it’s really not so bad. You merely need to look at it the right way.

Eggs, eggs, eggs, gas prices and eggs!

I can’t see straight anymore, I just can’t. You, my once and likely former Democratic Party, are increasingly bad now for my health and sanity, and for this country’s health and sanity.

Because this is real, goddammit. This is right fucking now, where we are way past the point to have stripped away all the counter-productive nostalgia, that sentimental hand-wringing over St. Obama and any delusions he might run again, or that Michelle might ever run, period. Not to mention all those endless Hillary and Kamala what-ifs …

We have arrived at a new and abject normal. What was just ain’t coming back. There is only forward, whatever the hell that means.

Except that in this stark new reality you, oh Democratic Party, are that proverbial deadbeat spouse let go from work for your own failings, who now fritters your days away slumped into your couch, perpetually promising to get back out there, to regain your old job just as soon they’re hiring again. Meanwhile, you’ve done absolutely zilch to boost your chances of garnering even a second look from those who sacked you in the first place.

Anyway, you protest, none of this should be on you anyway. It was your bosses – we, yes, the voters, us – who actually failed here, in not seeing all you had to offer.

except that it is. it truly fucking is.

It’s really not your fault!

And everyone who’s anyone, and even anyone who’s not, all of us keep screaming this at you. And yet.

Yet you, Democratic Party leadership, continue to flagrantly ignore all the shouting, just as you’ve ignored every note I’ve personally sent you through your official party website, accompanied always by my phone number, my email address, etc. So you, the once-proclaimed protector of we the people, might get back to check in with me, also the people.

You’ve steadfastly ignored me and, I can safely assert, all the rest of us out here who are frantically trying to reconnect with hope, each time we’ve attempted to make ourselves heard – except, it seems, as a means of freshly harvesting our contact info, for a new barrage of constant money-begging, your own “You can’t afford to ignore this text/email!” texts and emails, which I do indeed now simply ignore. (No exaggeration: four of those interminable things from different Congressional candidates popped up in my inbox on one recent day alone.)

When did you become nothing but a group of tone-deaf whiners banking on someone else to bail you out, to the point it’s now a terrible joke, an actual cliché: The onlything the Democratic Party is good at anymore is groveling for money?

I get that you have to raise mega-bucks in this post Citizens United hellscape (that, let’s be honest, you punted on back when you had the votes to possibly address it, because you clearly don’t object all that much to sucking on the corporate nipple yourselves, or funneling in massive hauls of dark money, so long as you’re winning). I get that cash-influx is what your leaders believe to be their principal function, yet when all your outreach to me, the potential voter, seems like you asking me to take yet another risk on yet another near-certain loss on investment, maybe it’s time to re-evaluate what you’re selling before asking me to buy it?

How do you not know, implicitly, that your beleaguered base is furious with such behavior? That we’re steadily abandoning you because of all your sidestepping around the true elephant in the room – which, ironically, isn’t the Republican Party?

Did it really take that set of mid-March polls, from NBC and CNN – with the Democratic Party scoring 27-29 percent favorability; I mean, Jesus fuck! – for you to even begin public discussions that you are perhaps in a bit of a tough spot? For you to start sending out your sacrificial lambs du jour for uncomfortable media interviews to nonetheless proclaim, with no conviction, aw, it’s really not that bad?

except that it is. it’s truly that bad.

New CNN polling in early May, now more than 100 disastrous days into Trump’s second presidency, had Democrats faring no less abysmally (40 percent chose Trump over Democrats in handling the economy; Dems scored a catastrophic 32 percent). How fucking out-of-step do you have to be to continue to flounder against a reactionary moron who has now set fire to damn near everything in America, including the economy?

The Democratic Party is on a crash course with utter dissolution, out of America’s sheer disgust, disinterest and lack of faith in you, and in those deathly tired talking points you continue to truck out even as you’re accused, on all fronts, of being woefully out of touch. You claim to be the party of “resistance,” yet there you are, slumped into that fucking couch, getting baked on your own lies, of how all your fleeing former champions will come rushing back to you with renewed fervor, once we all finally see how bad that dang Trump is (we get it; we got it a long time ago; it’s not news), all the while stuffing your hollow face with Cheetos, and failing once again to see the irony.

One wowsers act of Cory Booker bravery, or a Susan Crawford FU-Elon state Supreme Court win, these alone do not a fighting party make. Such anomalies, and they definitely are deviations from the current dreadful norm, make the case against you all the more.

I just re-watched Jon Stewart’s March 17 interview with Connecticut Sen. Chris Murphy, touted as one of your best and brightest. Murphy prattled on with the same pie-in-the-sky pablum, conceding, when pressed, that the Democratic Party has perhaps “lost our way,” and that Dems have to do such and such and this and that to right the ship, never mentioning, of course, that the ship itself had capsized.

That it’s taking on serious water.

That the ship is actually sinking.

Needless to say, Murphy avoided the actual questions presented to him – about a gameplan, an actual gameplan, for the party’s future. For our country’s future. For winning back the disillusioned voters you’ve gotten way too used to taking for granted, the Mr. and Mrs. Americas you sold the hell out through cozying up to corporate donations, and through trade policies that inarguably drove away jobs, but which you nonetheless gaslit as economic progress.

Murphy evaded making any case that you are actually doing anything, because he knows you’re not, that you are a bunch of squabbling, money-pecking chickens clucking about in the middle of a barnyard that is clearly on fucking fire.

These metaphors for failure really come way too easy, y’know. That’s not on me; that’s all you.

It’s like you’re playing in the most important ballgame of your lives, yet you put in a pitcher who promptly saunters out from the mound and up to home plate, and then pivoting back around, hurls the ball all the way up, up … and over the home-run fence. Turning anew to the befuddled batter, your slinger declares, “See, I’m really on your team! So take your time, enjoy the view as you round the bases; you’ve earned it! In fact, why not take a load off altogether? Hell, I’ll just go ahead and run ’em for ya!”

Shit, I did it again, didn’t I?

Murphy sounded genuinely put out with the crap he was tasked to say. Though don’t misunderstand me, it’s not just how he was presenting things, it was more that he clearly had nothing at all to offer beyond that same outmoded, outdated, out-of-fucking-touch fluff that put you in your self-proclaimed powerless position in the first place.

knock, knock. who’s there? no one.

I’ve been a true Democratic Party foot soldier through the years. I’ve consistently done your legwork, sometimes quite uncomfortably, in every way. In the most recent election debacle, I canvassed, days at a time, out in rural eastern North Carolina, serious Trump country, the MAGA signs sprouting like toxic weeds along the two-lanes around me, and me bobbling about on an arthritic ankle with a cane for support.

And as to signs: So many went ignored this last time, that something was clearly rotten in the state of these United States. In my door-knocking at those inevitable tenantless rental units that pop up on every canvassing list, I found the same election handouts I myself was carrying crammed already into overfull mailboxes, often in twos and threes, or piled among the other trash on untended doorsteps.

Oh, that highly heralded Democratic Party ground game! A groupthink mindfuck mindset that if you kept sending us volunteers out to those same closed doors, that it would somehow, what, get them to open?

Because honestly, what if they did open? What then?

In the final weeks of last October, I was dispatched to many of the same economically challenged neighborhoods I’d canvassed in 2019, but where in this election, a number of young black men who did open their doors practically sneered at me, saying it was time to give Trump a chance.

Likewise, I phone-banked on many evenings when I couldn’t go canvassing during the day. This time, though, I was routinely hung up on, by registered Democrats – Democrats! – who, after mentioning they’d voted early, advised me, often in no uncertain terms, to mind my own business when I said I hoped we had their votes.

“When we vote, we win,” right? Remember that one? That was sure a good one, wasn’t it?

Because, yeah, I also attended your happy little rallies where such overamped slogans were tossed out by your big names past and present.

Remember also all that “When we fight, we win!” crap?

So tell me, now that it’s crystal clear to anyone paying even modest attention, of all that the Democratic Party has lost: When does that actual fighting bit begin?

ok, so it’s also the messenger …

How can you not see that getting Chuck Schumer to immediately step down as Senate Minority Leader is the absolute baseline for starting to claw your way back from the edge of your own impending irrelevance? You shitcanned kindly old Uncle Joe, whom we can now safely say needed to be pushed to leave whole fucklot sooner, so what’s the holdup with kindly old Grandpa Chuck?

Like Biden, Schumer’s a decent dude, sure. No question he’s done a yeoman’s job representing New York, and has hammered home a boatload of vital national legislation across his esteemed Congressional career. Yet as the illustrious Hunter S. Thompson was fond of saying, so what?

Because that isn’t what we’re talking about here, is it?

No matter how you slice it, Schumer is the public face of the Democratic Party, and that’s a wingding of a problem for you. Young voters have plainly said they don’t like the guy, and if I myself never again have to see him peering over those little glasses as he explains how guacamole is made from avocadoes, it’ll be way too goddamn soon.

So you’ve got this old codger who’s being very successful at driving away the essential youth vote, and who, quite famously, quite publicly, capitulated at the first sign of a real fight with the new Republican majority, an event that for many of us amounted to selling out this country.

How do you not recognize these optics as the kiss of death they are?

You’ve likewise got diehard Dem Pete Buttigieg in your stable. Accomplished at both national and local levels of government, and damn likeable, Mayor Pete’s also largely unassailable by potential detractors on account of his own military service. Yet his talents are languishing inexcusably on the political sidelines, aren’t they?

At a mere 43 years old (if anyone’s counting, and they are), Buttigieg is a master at navigating PR hotspots; his Fox News forays have been next-level impressive for his unflappable bearing and ability to cut through the thick GOP whitewash, all without alienating his essentially hostile audience.

It seems boneheadedly obvious to me: Create an official public-relations arm to rep for Dems in both chambers of Congress (if there isn’t one already, though based on your wretchedly impressive record of PR flubs, who would even know?). Put Buttigieg at the helm.

Fucking pronto.

#ditchchuck

Schumer cannot be your public face. Goddammit, fix this! Whatever it takes, even if it means having to rewrite party rules, I dunno, whatever the fuck, just do it! Schumer himself made it quite clear he isn’t stepping down from the Minority Leader position on his own.

Hell, tap Booker, or at least someone similarly bright and balls-to-the-wall, someone able to authentically convey conviction. Without that – without proving to America that you as a party actually have the smarts, and the cajones, to push past accepted boundaries and normal work limits (25 hours without going to the john? Cory’s a hero of containment, if nothing else) – and you’ve conceded every potential battle in advance.

House “leadership” isn’t a damn sight better, though at least Hakeem “I’m Bored So Let’s Wrap This Up” Jeffries, sporting business-caj for a late Sunday brunch at Le Diplomate, doesn’t come across as struggling to read the smaller print on a deli menu whenever he speaks publicly. Between his well-publicized book tours, of course.

Also, of course, lately even Schumer’s been out touring his own book, about antisemitism, right when the party in power, the party ol’ Chuck should be actively, publicly fighting, is itself bigotry manifest. (Between pushing his book during a March 27 Late Show appearance, Schumer did deign to ham-handedly dodge questions on his own culpability in this unholy mess we’re in, and that he himself had made exponentially worse in siding with the GOP on its spending bill two weeks prior.)

This is what America sees when it looks at you, Democratic Party, our would-be savior, who’s clambered down from the proverbial cross to go shake your bloody hands with our orange-painted Pilate, thanking him for the opportunity to give up the holy ghost of public service so very, very publicly.

We who used to identify squarely with you now believe you’ve up and quit on us, that appeasement is all you have left to offer. And here again, yet again, how do you not see that plainly for yourselves?

You had a real chance with the Democratic National Committee leadership vote in February, to show you’d made a sincere step forward after getting your asses handed to you three months earlier. Yet instead of picking a go-get-’em! mensch like Ben Winkler, you opted for the “well-connected” Ken Martin. Seriously?

Thankfully, you’ve also got young David Hogg, a nationally known symbol of fighting, actually fighting, for what he believes, who’s now among the DNC vice chairs. Hogg’s “Leaders We Deserve” outreach campaign has had some serious juice to it – except that the DNC establishment recently handed Hoag his ass for daring to punch upward, to go against party seniority. Because of course it did.

Failure’s a helluva drug, isn’t it?

FFS, Hogg actually gets it: The very appearance of establishment is extinction-eventing you self-defeating dinosaurs.

Old is the new loser.

Because Martin, with all the rizz of a blanched turnip, comes off like some NPR station-boss launching another fall fundraising drive. This ain’t a guy with the charisma, the chutzpa, to lead his troops anywhere even close to battle. He is a white flag, safely flapping along America’s sidelines, waving away, waving away, waving …

Waving, it increasingly seems, goodbye.

are you trying to lose?

It’s a valid question.

Like Schumer, I’m kind of an old fuck myself, though it’s worth mentioning I’m also not the most visible mouthpiece of a flailing national political party that only recently shot its own ass so horribly in the foot, to this time just mix up the goddamn metaphors.

But old guy that I may be, even I can say, without qualification, that the Dems need to, as fast as humanly possible, get younger, at the very least in terms of attitude, and ideas.

Hell, rumpled old Bernie remains invariably on-message with a still-engaged part of the electorate; he’s younger in his drive, and direction, than the vast majority of his fellow Democratic members of Congress, of any age, the majority of whom have blithely tried to ignore Bernie’s essential input for years now. Years.

Meanwhile out here in the America that votes (and, per last November, also doesn’t), where you no longer give much of anyone the feels, they still feel the Bern. Even you blinders-wearing blunderers have to have noticed the sizeable crowds showing up everywhere to bask in that meme-able old-guy crankiness that somehow actually enlivens Sanders’ youthful vision.

Though perhaps not, because then there’s the rest of your goddamn party, old in all the ways that lose elections.

Because old is the new loser. Old is the new loser. Old is the new …

Old is the new old.

And OK, Bernie is also now quite physically old. So let’s talk young in years, then.

You outright dissed one of your finest talents, the undeniable Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who should easily have gotten that House Oversight position back in December, if you had actually been paying any attention to the national mood, and not falling back, as ever, on your let’s-keep-trying-what’s-not-working-here agenda. And you ditched 35-year-old AOC for … 75-year-old Gerry Connolly? Are you fucking serious?

AOC is a recognized and galvanizing brand in her own right – how many of us are a readily known acronym? – who’s endlessly out advocating for her constituents, and has recently been co-headlining those Fighting Oligarchy Tour stops with Bernie, where ravenous souls show up and hope against hope that this highly dynamic duo has some galvanizing message that can feasibly move us all forward.

Yet AOC is ultimately allowed to do all of what within the Democratic Party’s insular power structure? It’s really just Bernie Part II, isn’t it?

You old-guard cowards still believe party subservience and simple seniority, even at the expense of mettle and merit and an actual vision for helping others, and of winning hearts and minds – and, by fucking damn, votes – is somehow the ticket forward. You’ve believed this implicitly, for at least as long as I can remember. You’ve always been dead wrong.

Which is a fairly certain path to actually becoming dead.

Not long after I graduated from high school, a friend tried to involve me in the College Democrats at my university. This was 1986, the Reagan years, still early into that dismal Mondale-through-Seven Dwarves stretch of pitiful Democratic Party fails that now encapsulates so many of your own self-perpetuating problems. Back when Dems once again had no counter to catchy Republican messaging (“Morning in America,” anyone? How many times have you PR-floundering fail-floozies got to be flayed by some version of “Make America Great Again,” anyway?)

What I remember most from that experience, though, is how the College Dems officers mused openly about their post-midterm-election expectations if they remained active within the organization, to land gigs after graduation within N.C.’s own Democratic Party, on the way up the ladder into national politics.

Buy the ticket, HST also liked to say, take the ride.

Cuz to be clear, those neophyte politicos weren’t saying they deserved those future party positions on anything akin to merit, but due to the relationships they could foster, who they hobnobbed with along the way. They’d get the gigs, ultimately, for putting in the time.

It struck me even then, and does no less to this day, as a kind of non-familial nepotism, what I believe, especially of late, is the party’s own Achilles heel, the equivalent of tenuring a lousy professor.

The system takes care of its own, if the standards are followed, if the norms are upheld. If the system itself is given its due.

except fuck the system. the system has failed.

Because the system is exactly like being saddled with your Schumers, your Connollys, your Martins, et al., in public positions that negatively define party image, and all of that in the face of considerable vibrant young talent, upstarts who should instead be the very forefront of how you present yourselves.

So let it be said that AOC is smarter than you, than me, than most all of us combined, and possesses that crucial passion the Democratic Party has forfeited in order to play the victim 24/7.

Which sounds pretty goddamn pathetic when spelled out like that, doesn’t it? Which is because, voilà, bingo, it is. #Pathetic.

The Dems have yet another firebrand in Rep. Jasmine Crockett, from persistently red Texas, who’s ready to throw punches at a moment’s notice. She’s relatable, whip-smart and engaging to the nth degree, and she also quite clearly cares. And at a mere 44 years old, Crockett is damn youthful by go-ahead-and-die-already Democratic Party standards. She’s also undisciplined, her naysayers argue, with her “hot-wheels” asides.

But so what?

Remember what you sanctimonious windbags did in 2018 to the promising political career of Al Franken, another true talent, over an infraction Republicans would, frankly, have boasted about? Sure it was silly of him. Sure it was a bit crass. Yet, context here: Franken was an SNL vet and a stand-up comedian before he threw his hat into the political ring, and you loved his off-the-cuff wit right up until you … needed someone to publicly sacrifice to parade around your own #MeToo bona fides.

You and your self-important, self-congratulating idiocy tossed out the baby with the trending bathwater on that one. Because we could sure as hell use Franken’s intelligence and political instincts informing Democratic Party rebuilding right about now.

I’m pretty goddamn woke, by any measure, but FFS, if you require some sort of puritanical pedigree of PC perfection in order to bestow the Democratic Party’s blessing, then go ahead and lose another fucking election.

Crockett gets the GOP’s goat, driving them batshit crazy, which inspires us desperate folk back home on the failing American farm, we who desperately need anything to cheer about at this rotten moment in time.

So the real question: Who else ya got who can do all of that, too? Who else ya got who can peel back the skin on the GOP, and make them sweat straight out of their open sores?

Find those people.

Find them now.

Make them your public face.

Make them your messengers.

put them in, coach.

That is, before the game is called for lack of interest.

Because oh, the game, that American political game, its rules steadily changing at least since those first Federalist Society rumblings in the late 1970s, and certainly by the Reagan presidency shortly thereafter. Yet you Dems have, what, never taken a moment to notice this, beyond more begging for my own dwindling dollars? Because here you are still playing politics as the equivalent of rounds of checkers against the GOP election machine, which gravitated long ago to multidimensional chess, and is even now working vigorously to change election laws out from under your own ability to win any major future race.

You’ve had years to figure this out. Years.

So where the fuck was your own Project 2025? Hell, where is even a hint of a coherent, readily comprehensible Democratic Party vision for 2026, one addressing, at minimum, broad workforce and economic concerns? And for 2028, where Trump’s team is even now selling actual merchandise promoting an unconstitutional third term?

Check mate, bitches.

Because what do we get from you instead?

We get more Chuck!

Chuck, even now telling us we’re still good, just hold on and wait some more.

Chuck, working up some flop sweat there on his stationary bike in the Congressional Gym, all the while saying thank you to Republicans for the damage they’re doing, and giving away the company store for the price of … well, the price of absolutely nothing, really.

Chuck, unable at times to read his own teleprompter lines without getting derailed, or sounding like he needs to take a quick nap between words.

Or perhaps he is taking a nap, even as he’s speaking?“I’ll have the (snort, snore) … pastrami, please. And also, a (snuffle, sputter) … a nice plate of that Republican budget agenda that I see is on the menu there. And maybe with some pickles?”

We’re sure in a fucking pickle now, Chuck, no question about it.

what? is? the? matter? with? you? people?

The Democratic Party is actively dying, and I’m honestly not sure it shouldn’t in this lousy iteration you’ve allowed yourselves to become.

America certainly doesn’t deserve the hell it’s going through, no matter who is ultimately to blame, but I very much think that you do; you deserve what’s happening to you. Your complacency, let’s be blunt, is killing your motherfucking “brand.”

So for pity’s sake, quit prattling on about what you ought to do to try to fix things, and actually deal with this opportunity, toot fucking sweet. Just don’t be surprised that if you choose not to, as your consistent inactions strongly suggest is the course you will inexplicably continue to take, that you will be traveling that pinheaded path without me. Hell, without a whole damn lot of us.

Don’t expect me at your funeral, either, which I’d hazard is on target for the 2026 midterms, as you cannot grasp that your willfully misguided adherence to long-evaporated political norms, and your poorly calculated belief that America will come running back when it sees the error of Trump’s way, is what’s actually killing your “brand.”

It ain’t, though. Not at all. It’s you. It’s damn sure fucking you.

Also, if I have to hear from another of your bumbling cheerleaders about boosting that blasted Democratic Party brand, or witness another “relatable” Instagram video of, let’s say, some member of Congress putting on eyeliner in her car while chiding those awful Republicans for ________ (fill in the blank here).

Where is something tangible, something beyond tastefully applied makeup? Some plainly explained evidence of a true party reinvention in progress? Something that doesn’t simply point at Evil Trump, and says bad, oh, he’s bad, and did you notice how bad?

FFS, saying you’re not Trump is not an action plan.

A plan, yes. An actual plan, which points to once again giving a shit about me, and we, the people, not just you,the party. A plan for those many turned-away-from-you voters, those even-more stayed-at-home voters and, now, for those of us poor rats increasingly ready to jump from your sinking ship, as fast as we can get to the motherfucking rails.

Because as I see it, you’re no longer worth my devotion, or anyone’s.

Which brings us back to where we started, and where I greatly fear we also end.

You fucks. You cowardly, lazy, arrogant, simpering, defeatist, readily defeatable fucks. You, the true elephant in the room, have nonetheless truly become the braying asses of your own long-standing logo.

Do something, goddammit! How many times does that need to be said to you?

Do. Fucking. Something.

Something, that is, besides effectively digging your own grave.

Also, because this has been such an elevated discussion on my part, please understand that should you opt to continue along this stupid, self-annihilating course, that once you’ve tucked yourselves in for your long dirt nap, into the dirt of your own inexplicable hubris, I will drop by to piss all over whatever’s left of your lousy remains.

I’ll have to wait in line, of course. Which I’ll do. Because I, for one, still care. I, for one, still have some actual convictions.