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It’s Over. It’s Over
Carville Calls It! (1,001,000 reads)
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Twice in one week, James Carville wheeled out the hearse, measured the casket, and etched the epitaph. No hedging. No polite euphemisms. Just a gravestone carved with contempt: Here lies the most despicable clump of wasted skin ever to stagger across the American experiment. Not his exact phrasing—but spiritually, unmistakably so.
And I believe Carville. This is his vocation. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, he listens to the tremors beneath the political floorboards. He smells rot before it surfaces. He’s been right too often, for too long, to ignore. Indiana has spoken. Lights out for Trump world.
I remember the first day Trump walked into the White House and said it plainly, without flourish: Trump is a vessel. A container for white grievance, rage, and resentment reheated. Racism is given posture. Cruelty given permission. A man who fed on humiliation—his own and everyone else’s—and climbed by barking, bullying, and bludgeoning his way upward. Sometimes intuition is not mysticism. Sometimes it’s pattern recognition sharpened by years of watching the same poison wear different masks. Trump has sucked the world dry. He owns it now. It fills his diapers.
Then I saw Nancy Pelosi floating a thought—Democrats, should they regain power, might consider not impeaching Trump a third time. A call to restraint. To decorum. To the exhausted religion of norms.
This is where Pelosi and Carville part company. This is where rationality collapses under the weight of reality.
Carville is right when he bellows: Democrats, stop being pussies. Stop being measured. Stop being polite. We are long past rational. Rationality assumes good faith. It assumes shared ground. That ground has been salted.
You don’t cauterize a cancer with civility.
If Democrats ever seize the reins again, the mandate is not healing—it is eradication. Lawyer up. Court up. Charge every sycophant, every enabler, every provocateur who carried water, shuffled papers, or whispered obedience—every accomplice. No rest. No absolution. Because if you don’t finish the job, the snake sheds its skin and comes back sleeker, meaner, and immune to the last dose.
Carville understands this. From the Supreme Court—where immunity was laundered into doctrine—down to the Mar-A-Lago errand boys moving classified documents at a disgraced man’s request, accountability must be relentless. Not symbolic. Not selective. Total.
And yes, Carville is fed up—with the party, with the caution caucus, with the Hakeem Jeffries wing of deflection and delay. Legislators so tepid their pulse barely rises above winter—leaders who mistake passivity for prudence and fear for strategy.
I’m looking instead at Gavin Newsom and Robert Garcia. Newsom as president. Garcia as attorney general. Not because they whisper unity, but because they signal appetite. You want results? You don’t dabble. You don’t triangulate. You go all in.
Garcia has already rattled the corrupt billionaire class, prying open sealed doors, pressing for the release of Epstein-related files, insisting—dangerously—on accountability. That alone tells you who fears him. We are circling a breaking point in the festering mess with Garcia, Massie, and others poking the pedo-pit. The pressure is building. Cracks are forming.
Mark the calendar. December 15 through 19 will not pass quietly. It will burn.
Rick Wilson of the Lincoln Project dropped a document like a match into dry grass—an email thread from inside the White House involving a group brazen enough to call themselves the “Pedophile gang.” Emails. Names. Context. The kind of thing that should dominate headlines for weeks.
Instead, legacy media did what it does best now: flinched. Soft-pedaled. Buried the lead beneath a cushion of cowardice. Another weekend of weak-ass reportage. Another exercise in restraint mistaken for responsibility.
But restraint is how we got here.
So, let’s see—just once—if they grow a spine.
Because this isn’t about vengeance, it’s about finality. It’s about making sure that when we say it’s over, we mean it.
Marge agrees.
Carville Calls It! (1,001,000 reads)
(do sign up for daily newsletter
Twice in one week, James Carville wheeled out the hearse, measured the casket, and etched the epitaph. No hedging. No polite euphemisms. Just a gravestone carved with contempt: Here lies the most despicable clump of wasted skin ever to stagger across the American experiment. Not his exact phrasing—but spiritually, unmistakably so.
And I believe Carville. This is his vocation. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, he listens to the tremors beneath the political floorboards. He smells rot before it surfaces. He’s been right too often, for too long, to ignore. Indiana has spoken. Lights out for Trump world.
I remember the first day Trump walked into the White House and said it plainly, without flourish: Trump is a vessel. A container for white grievance, rage, and resentment reheated. Racism is given posture. Cruelty given permission. A man who fed on humiliation—his own and everyone else’s—and climbed by barking, bullying, and bludgeoning his way upward. Sometimes intuition is not mysticism. Sometimes it’s pattern recognition sharpened by years of watching the same poison wear different masks. Trump has sucked the world dry. He owns it now. It fills his diapers.
Then I saw Nancy Pelosi floating a thought—Democrats, should they regain power, might consider not impeaching Trump a third time. A call to restraint. To decorum. To the exhausted religion of norms.
This is where Pelosi and Carville part company. This is where rationality collapses under the weight of reality.
Carville is right when he bellows: Democrats, stop being pussies. Stop being measured. Stop being polite. We are long past rational. Rationality assumes good faith. It assumes shared ground. That ground has been salted.
You don’t cauterize a cancer with civility.
If Democrats ever seize the reins again, the mandate is not healing—it is eradication. Lawyer up. Court up. Charge every sycophant, every enabler, every provocateur who carried water, shuffled papers, or whispered obedience—every accomplice. No rest. No absolution. Because if you don’t finish the job, the snake sheds its skin and comes back sleeker, meaner, and immune to the last dose.
Carville understands this. From the Supreme Court—where immunity was laundered into doctrine—down to the Mar-A-Lago errand boys moving classified documents at a disgraced man’s request, accountability must be relentless. Not symbolic. Not selective. Total.
And yes, Carville is fed up—with the party, with the caution caucus, with the Hakeem Jeffries wing of deflection and delay. Legislators so tepid their pulse barely rises above winter—leaders who mistake passivity for prudence and fear for strategy.
I’m looking instead at Gavin Newsom and Robert Garcia. Newsom as president. Garcia as attorney general. Not because they whisper unity, but because they signal appetite. You want results? You don’t dabble. You don’t triangulate. You go all in.
Garcia has already rattled the corrupt billionaire class, prying open sealed doors, pressing for the release of Epstein-related files, insisting—dangerously—on accountability. That alone tells you who fears him. We are circling a breaking point in the festering mess with Garcia, Massie, and others poking the pedo-pit. The pressure is building. Cracks are forming.
Mark the calendar. December 15 through 19 will not pass quietly. It will burn.
Rick Wilson of the Lincoln Project dropped a document like a match into dry grass—an email thread from inside the White House involving a group brazen enough to call themselves the “Pedophile gang.” Emails. Names. Context. The kind of thing that should dominate headlines for weeks.
Instead, legacy media did what it does best now: flinched. Soft-pedaled. Buried the lead beneath a cushion of cowardice. Another weekend of weak-ass reportage. Another exercise in restraint mistaken for responsibility.
But restraint is how we got here.
So, let’s see—just once—if they grow a spine.
Because this isn’t about vengeance, it’s about finality. It’s about making sure that when we say it’s over, we mean it.
Marge agrees.
