The Toxic State of Trump’s Union
He transformed the Senate chamber—where history and tragedy and farce have all been made—into the rotten dregs of a frat party. Cheering, whistling, fist pumping. There’s going to be literal cheerleaders at the next State of the Union: big-breasted blondes in spangles leaping through pretend derricks spouting real oil. Flashing lights, gold hardware. A brass band.
That said, I am vigorously pro-stunt. Democrats should do more of them. Representative Al Green was tossed from the venue because he brandished a sign reading “Black People Are Not Apes” as Trump took the floor. Fantastic. Be the show, not the staff, I say. And above all, in this tawdry media environment, get the headlines.
There were Epstein survivors at the State of the Union: over a dozen of them. They couldn’t be stacked around Pam Bondi or presented as a group, so Trump didn’t see them, obviously. But you could put each survivor across the table from Trump one at a time and I don’t think Trump would see them. He’s never seen them. He may have been in a room with them once—he may have been more than in the room—but predators don’t see individuals. They see an audience.