Marshallin’ the facts. Summin’ it up.
Mr. Cohen’s column will provide a few moments of innocent merriment in a world gone mad, so please read it, preferably with a stiff drink. I don’t propose to discuss the substance of his remarks, only to address the question he poses.
The answer is that no, this is not irrational public suicide. And no, Trump’s behavior over the past days is not evidence of genius, either.
It is, instead, indicative of what you have to do when twenty reliable bishops have seen you with your hand in the cookie jar—and are prepared to give their testimony in court.
Where We Are This Afternoon
Trump has pretty much exhausted the whistleblower-complaint-is-a-hoax bullshit. When you did it, and the irrefutable evidence shows you did it, the only way to defend yourself is admit that you did it, and just try to brazen it out.
So Trump has admitted that he asked foreign countries for dirt on his most electable rival, and loudly proclaims he’s do it again. Genius? No. Only thing he could do. Faute de mieux.
He does it, of course, in his own special way. By analogy, you might say it’s like a variation on the story of the emperor’s new clothes. In this variation the emperor knows he’s naked. And he gets naked because
- he wants everyone to admire his membrum virile, and because
- his greatest joy in life is to see his toadies make idiots of themselves, being forced to deny the bleeding obvious, all for the sake of Dear Leader.
But having been forced to retreat to the yes-i-asked-for-foreign-help-and-so-what defense, he remains, as of this afternoon, terrified of the quid pro quo problem.
And How Long Before the Next Logical Step?
Not bloody long, because the damn horse is out the barn door. I’d give it until, say, next Tuesday—after which he’ll expect all his lickspittles to defend blackmailing Ukraine for political dirt, not to mention selling out American farmers and workers to China in order to get some political dirt from that source.