#john mccain's family

[arctic-hands]

The list of people in the "death" section of kissinger's Wikipedia article who praised his life does not inspire confidence that he was in any way a good man

[mariacallous]

https://meidasnews.com/news/republican-mayor-of-3rd-largest-city-in-az-endorses-harris

John Giles, the Republican Mayor of Mesa, Arizona, wrote an OpEd today for the Arizona Republic stating the reasons why he is endorsing Kamala Harris for President. Mesa is the 3rd largest city in Arizona, and the Arizona Republic is the largest newspaper by circulation in the crucial battleground state. 

Giles listed the following reasons why he can't support Donald Trump: 1. He refused to accept the outcome of the 2020 election, and continues to do so. 2. He continues to trash the American legal system to delegitimize it. 3. He orchestrated the "fake elector" scheme in Arizona. 4. He orchestrated the sham "audit" of the election by the Arizona Senate and Cyber Ninjas. 5. He blocked the bipartisan border bill negotiated in the Senate. 6. He treated Infrastructure Week like a joke when cities like his badly needed it.

7. He is a convicted felon and threat to the nation. 8. He has threatened to abandoned NATO. 9. He has eroded public confidence in our institutions. 10. His advisors and associates drafted Project 2025, which is a threat to our freedoms. 11. He is crude and vulgar. Giles then listed the reasons why he isn't just anti-Trump, he is also pro-Harris: 1. The Administration delivered on their promise with infrastructure funding for the Phoenix-Mesa Airport, and made technological investments in the transportation sector. 2. Thousands of new jobs are being created in Arizona with the CHIPS Act. 3. She has taken a strong stand against gun violence. 4. She has taken a strong stand for women's rights which are under assault from MAGA Republicans.

Giles then concluded with the following: "We can choose a future for our children and grandchildren based on decency, respect and morality — or succumb to the crudeness and vulgarity of Trump and J.D. Vance and the far-right agenda they would champion.

Arizona leaders like McCain and Sen. Mark Kelly have embodied the commitment to country over party. And it’s that same high caliber of character and leadership I see in Vice President Harris.

That’s why I’m standing with her. Kamala Harris is the competent, just and fair leader our country deserves. This year too much is at stake to vote Republican at the top of the ticket.

It will take Arizona Republicans, independents and Democrats standing together against a far-right agenda. Let us put country over party by voting to stop Trump and protect our democracy."

Powerful stuff. 

Winning back Arizona is crucial for Donald Trump. It is difficult to see any electoral path to victory for Trump without Arizona. He has continued to support candidates in that state like Kari Lake and Blake Masters who are toxic to moderate voters. He continues to attack the McCain family, who remain popular with those same moderate Arizona voters. 

This endorsement by Giles certainly doesn't help Donald Trump, and gives a big boost to Kamala Harris in Arizona.

[izooks]

From: JoJoFromJerz

Dear Ma & Pa MAGA,

You say that Donald Trump “loves our troops.”

So, I want to know why that is.

Is it because he received 5 deferments from the draft for military service during the Vietnam War?

Is it because he demeaned a POW, attacked a Gold Star family and told a military widow that her deceased husband “knew what he had signed up for.”

Was it the time he downplayed the traumatic head injuries suffered by our troops after a missile attack as “not real” because they weren’t ‘missing hands and limbs.’

Is it due to all the years he tried to slash benefits for our veterans, the time he said he didn’t want to be seen with war-wounded amputees, and to keep them forever out of his sight, or the time he called our fallen heroes of war “suckers” and “losers”?

Is it the all the times he called our military leaders “dumb” and “overrated” while calling terrorists like the Taliban & Hezbollah “very smart”?

Was it the time he demanded the flags after McCain’s death be returned to full mast, or the time he demanded that a ship bearing his name be blocked from view?

Was it when he stole, hid and lied about our national security secrets, potentially imperiling countless men & women in uniform all over the world?

Or was it when he suggested that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff deserved to be executed?

Maybe it was when he asked Gen. John Kelly (who lost his son in combat) at Arlington National Cemetery, why anyone would sign up for service because as far as he saw it, there was “nothing in it for them.”

Perhaps it was hearing him say that as President he would allow our adversary to attack the same allies this county’s Greatest Generation fought beside and died defending?

Or was it when he insulted Nikki Haley’s husband for currently serving our country overseas?

Which of those things was it that made you believe he loved our troops?

Because I’d really love to know.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relieved. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…” You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a  Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

[republicansaredomesticterrorists]

“Former Trump White House chief of staff John Kelly is blasting his onetime boss over disparaging remarks he says the then-president repeatedly made about service members and veterans and for what he called Trump's untruthfulness about his positions on various groups as well as on abortion.

In a statement to CNN published Monday, Kelly delivered a scathing criticism of former President Donald Trump while confirming reporting in The Atlantic in 2020 that detailed the comments he made during his presidency.

"A person that thinks those who defend their country in uniform, or are shot down or seriously wounded in combat, or spend years being tortured as POWs are all ‘suckers’ because ‘there is nothing in it for them,'" Kelly said of Trump. "A person that did not want to be seen in the presence of military amputees because ‘it doesn’t look good for me.’ A person who demonstrated open contempt for a Gold Star family — for all Gold Star families — on TV during the 2016 campaign, and rants that our most precious heroes who gave their lives in America’s defense are ‘losers’ and wouldn’t visit their graves in France.”

The Atlantic reported that Trump privately made damning statements against U.S. service members and veterans, such as the late Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., who had been a Vietnam prisoner of war, and former President George H.W. Bush, who was shot down as a Navy pilot in World War II. During a visit to France in 2018 for the centennial anniversary of the end of World War I, Trump also reportedly called Marines who died at Belleau Wood “suckers” and fallen soldiers at Aisne-Marne American Cemetery “losers.”

Kelly also slammed Trump as someone "who is not truthful regarding his position on the protection of unborn life, on women, on minorities, on evangelical Christians, on Jews, on working men and women. A person that has no idea what America stands for and has no idea what America is all about."

He continued, “A person who cavalierly suggests that a selfless warrior who has served his country for 40 years in peacetime and war should lose his life for treason — in expectation that someone will take action,” an apparent reference to Trump's recent statements about Army Gen. Mark Milley, who just retired as the chairman of the Joints Chief of Staff. “A person who admires autocrats and murderous dictators. A person that has nothing but contempt for our democratic institutions, our Constitution, and the rule of law.”

“There is nothing more that can be said,” Kelly added. “God help us.”

[mysharona1987]

Sounds like he has Trump’s attitude when he was talking about John McCain.

“I prefer the people who don’t get caught.”

I feel so bad for the hostages and their families. Bibi wrote them off as collateral damage weeks ago.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Dan Pfeiffer at The Message Box:

The generally accepted — and oft-repeated — narrative about Trump is that he is a cult-leader who can bend the Republican base to his will. On issues like free trade and foreign policy, he broke with long-standing Republican orthodoxy and faced no repercussions. He attacked Republican stalwarts like the Bush family and John McCain. Not only was there no blowback, Trump also made these folks' personas non-grata in the Republican Party. Whether it’s indictments, his sexual assaults, or his dalliances and dinner dates with Nazis, Trump could force the Republican Party to go along. The GOP is Trump’s party and what he says goes. Trump is a man accountable to no one. This has benefited him politically and brought in folks who hate politics and distrust institutions. But that image became fuzzy last week when Donald Trump bent to the will of anti-abortion extremists in a stunning flip-flop on abortion that tells us everything we need to know about Donald Trump. He poses an existential threat to reproductive freedom for tens of millions of Americans.

The Flip-Flop to End All Flip-Flops

I have written about Trump’s abortion flip-flop a couple of times in the last week, so if you are a regular reader of Message Box, please feel free to skip ahead. If not… In an interview with Dasha Burns of NBC News, Trump implied that he would vote for the amendment on the Florida ballot guaranteeing access to abortion and effectively overturning the state’s six-week ban. Trump is now a Florida resident and many are unsure how he plans to vote on the amendment. Trump’s stated position on abortion is that it's up to the states. For crass political reasons he has been critical of Florida’s extreme ban. A day ago, Trump flip-flopped, telling Fox News that he would vote NO on the amendment. So what happened in the subsequent twenty-four hours?

Well, the evangelical community and anti-abortion activists went ballistic. They blew up the phone lines to Mar-a-Lago or wherever Trump  was laying his head last week. They argued that Trump’s new stance would depress turnout from his base. Ever since Dobbs, Trump cannot get it right. He watched his slate of hand-picked candidates get mowed down in 2022 and he sees the polls showing large majorities oppose the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the sorts of state and national abortion bans of which Republicans have long dreamed. Trump thought his “leave it to the states” policy would help. It didn’t. Floating the idea of voting for the abortion amendment was another desperate effort to get on the right side of the issue that has cost Republicans nearly every election. This time, Trump crossed a line. The anti-abortion faction of the party told him to reverse course and he did so immediately. One of the core tenets of Trump’s political philosophy is to never, under any circumstances admit to wrongdoing. Heck, Trump doubled, tripled, and quadrupled down on defending and dining with Nazis. So the fact that Trump changed course so quickly and with so little resistance on abortion is quite notable.

[...] These folks will be calling the shots in a Trump Administration. They will influence policy and staffing decisions and that should scare the shit out of anyone who cares about reproductive freedom. Dobbs was the beginning — not the end — of the Far Right’s efforts.

Donald Trump being made to cry “uncle” and say that he is voting no on Florida Amendment 4 after being heavily criticized by anti-abortion commentators when he stated that he would initially consider voting in favor of Amendment 4 is proof that the anti-abortion extremists still call the shots in the GOP.

[moderat50]

Trump Insults Another Member Of The Military

Trump called the WWII dead "losers". He criticized Gold Star soldiers & John McCain, a war hero. Now, he is now criticizing Nikki Haley husband, an active military soldier. We should repect those who sacrifice to serve and honor those who gave their life for this country. None of Trump's family serviced. Trump avoid serving with the excuse of a foot spur. A FOOT SPUR!

Biden's son served.

[ideasarestuckinmyhead]

Maybe some y! Charlie? :3c

And a pinch of Rat Poison!

TW: poisoning, talks of suicide, and douchebag thoughts of....John.

Charlie smiled at the neighbor that always flirted with Casper, who made it VERY clear they didn't like it. Said neighbor was named, John McCain age 32 divorced because he cheated on his wife.

He has three kids who are in their teens and hate him, Charlie doesn't blame them. This asshole is the worst, always cat calling women that pass by and calling Charlie a sissy for not wanting to 'man up' to see who Casper should really be with.

Casper almost went over to bash the older man's skull in multiple times. But Charlie told them to let him dig a deeper hole, and what did John do? Dug way too fucking deep of a hole to claw his way out. What broke the cables back for everyone was him slapping Casper at a block party for turning him down loudly.

"I would rather slit my fucking throat than be with you? Can you not FUCKING SEE THAT IM HAPPY WITH CHARLIE?" Screaming in rage Casper caught everyone attention. Children paused their games as they looked at the two adults in the middle of the party staring each other down.

"Honey, listen let's not make a big dea-" Silky words trying to smooth this over were interrupted. Why? By Casper throwing their drink in his face and flipping him off.

"GO AWAY YOU FUCKING SHITTY ASS MOTHERFUCKER THAT DESERVES TO DIE!" Everyone, not loudly, agreed with the beloved neighbor's words. They all hated him but was civil to him because Charlie asked. The blonde said he wanted to give him a chance to be better, but really he was using this to seem like a saint to everyone.

Suddenly there was a crack and Casper was holding their nose cursing up a storm. Charlie who was by them grabbed a bottle and smashed it over John's face. The older man fell to the ground and screamed as the booze in the bottle stung his scratches.

A few guys in the party grabbed him and began pulling him away from everyone. Family's grabbed their kids to make sure they didn't interfere, and some even called the police. After that party John was shunned by the whole block, no one spoke to him and even the kids threw rocks and bricks at his place.

Using this to his advantage weeks later Charlie snuck into his house at night and waited until he woke up. The rat poison he had made him smile, after the party Casper was planning how to kill him. But Charlie spoke up saying he wanted to get ride of this vermin himself.

And what better way to do that than using the poison that would kill it slowly? Getting enough to kill a 5'10" man was easy just saying you had a lot to a clerk got you enough. Charlie put gloves on and burned the evidence of him buying it, so all he had to do was use it.

When John finally woke up he went down to his kitchen and began cooking breakfast. He mentally cursed that bitch for not letting his advances woo them. He was a fucking catch! If only his bitch of a ex wife never told everyone why he was divorced he would have taken Casper away from that sissy Charlie!

"Stupid slut probably is only playing hard to get! Bet if I got them into bed they'd roll over and let me fuck them." Smug words filled the air as he turned to the spice cabinets. Grabbing one of them he added it to his food and went to the fridge grabbing a beer to drink.

Charlie who heard all of this was clutching the knife he got from the knife drawer tightly. Oh he's going to fucking enjoy taking his life. Watching from a closet by the kitchen he smiled as John greedily ate the food he made.

After finishing both the food and beer he got up to the sink. Before he could get there he started choking on something, then the food he just ate came up his throat. Puking out basically his guts out he wheezing on the floor as he began to convulse.

Seeing this Charlie opened the closet and walked to him. The blonde made sure to conceal his identity so when the police found his shitty ugly nasty mess they couldn't find out what happened. Taking out the note he made it told how John committed suicide because everyone hated him.

How he hated the man he became after losing his ex wife. Along with other words, making sure it sounded like him Charlie cursed him and Casper in the note. Leaving the rat poison boxes on the counter he smiled thinking how Casper would love this.

"Wish I killed you a different way now....like taking out your heart and giving it to my lover. Oh they'd love that!" Giggling maniacally Charlie thought of other things he could have done. John's final moments of his life was Charlie standing over John slitting his wrists.

After finishing Charlie left to the house making sure no one saw him. Casper was there and gave him a questioning look like catching a kid in the cookie jar.

"Awe baby did you kill him? Should have let me help! I wanted to kill that fucking lowlife for giving me a broken nose!" Going to their boyfriend Casper gave him kisses, both kissed happily.

"I did sorry Cas, I just couldn't wait anymore. I made it look like suicide though!" Giving them a happy look Casper laughed at his words. The two continued their day until they heard sirens blurring up and down the block.

"Oh! The cops arrived! Hope they liked the scene I left them!" Curious Charlie with Casper went out of the house, just like everyone else. Seeing the ex wife on the side walk puking on the lawn made Charlie sad.

The case of John McCain was ruled a suicide since he did buy a lot of Rat Poison a day before this. Also with the note Charlie made left finger prints and DNA of John on it. Casper was just glad that sick fuck was dead finally now they can enjoy being with Charlie peacefully like before John moved in half a year ago.

[darkmaga-retard]

They have engineered a situation where the system can no longer be trusted at any level...

Roger Stone

Aug 14, 2024

President Joe Biden, Rep. Jamie Raskin, and Vice President Kamala Harris

A recent op/ed in The Hill written by Myra Adams, a nobody who was supposedly on the creative team of two GOP presidential campaigns in 2004 and 2008, repeated the familiar trope that President Trump is a threat to democracy and jeopardized the long-standing American tradition of the “peaceful transfer of power.”

Adams lamented about a Wall Street Journal poll of first-time voters aged 18-21 showing that none of them cared about Jan. 6 or threats to democracy. Adams believes that the youth of America should be enraptured about media-driven hysteria rather than concerned about their tenuous future in Kamala’s America.

Young Americans look at a country where their freedom and opportunity are vanishing. They look at the prospects of buying a home, gaining a quality job, and creating a family as a pipe dream. World War 3, a conflict that may cause young people to be placed on the frontlines, is unfolding because of military conflicts agitated by U.S. foreign policy.

Young people do not have the luxury to be gilded from the America’s grim realities. 

Adams is dismayed that young people aren’t aware of just how evil Trump truly is, how his words cut at the heart of democracy, and sow seeds of discord within the political system.

Whereas politicians like Joe Biden, John McCain, George W. Bush and Obama would pay lip service to each other, not overstepping certain bounds because they ultimately serve the same masters. Trump generally refuses to give his political opposition anything but scorn and revulsion.

“It is immoral and un-American to assume without evidence that the opposing team will cheat and rob your guy of the presidency,” Adams wrote, adding she was appalled because “Trump has managed to turn himself and the Jan. 6 attackers into victims while Republicans applaud.” 

[truth-has-a-liberal-bias]

Over the past few weeks, warnings about the threat posed by Donald Trump’s potential reelection have grown louder, including in a series of articles in The Atlantic. This alarm-raising is justified and appropriate, given the looming danger of authoritarianism in American politics. But amid all of the worrying, we might be losing sight of the most important fact: Trump’s chances of winning are slim.

Some look at Trump’s long list of flaws and understandably see reasons to worry about him winning. I see reasons to think he almost certainly won’t.

Yes, recent polls appear to favor him. Yes, Joe Biden is an imperfect opponent. And yes, much could change over the next 11 months, potentially in Trump’s favor. But if Biden’s health holds, he is very likely to be reelected next year. It’s hard to imagine any Republican candidate galvanizing Democrats, independents, and even some Republicans to vote for the current president in the way that Trump will.

I’m not arguing that anyone who wants President Biden to win—and, more important, anyone who wants Trump to lose—should relax. To the contrary, Democrats, and any other sensible voters who oppose Trump, need to forcefully remind the American people about how disastrous he was as president and inform them of how much worse a second term would be. Thankfully, that is not a hard case to make.

...

Trump’s flaws look far worse today than they did eight years ago. To take one example that should concern conservative voters: his behavior toward and views of service members. In the 2016 campaign, Trump’s attacks on Senator John McCain and on the Gold Star Khan family were bad enough.

Now we have a litany of testimonies that he expressed contempt and disgust for wounded veterans—demanding that he not be seen in public with them—and that he debased fallen soldiers, describing them as “suckers” and marveling, “What was in it for them?” According to an Atlantic report, when he was scheduled to visit a World War I–era American cemetery in France in 2018, Trump complained, “Why should I go to that cemetery?

It’s filled with losers.” Trump has always posed as a patriot, but he has proved himself unpatriotic, anti-military, and ignorant of the meaning of sacrifice. [...]

[deadpresidents]

If for some reason George W Bush had run against Jeb Bush for the republican nomination who would have won?

That's a pretty great idea for a topic for historians to debate.

I think people forget how effective of a campaigner that George W. Bush was. Yes, he was pretty goofy at times and a master of malapropisms. But he was pretty incredible on the campaign trail in front of smaller crowds and as a one-on-one retail politician. Much like Lyndon B. Johnson, those skills did not translate to television and, on many occasions, it reinforced the idea that Bush was dumb. But simply believing that Bush was dumb is one of the reasons why so many people underestimated him -- and that made him a very dangerous opponent for pretty much everybody that he ran against beginning with Ann Richards in his first race for Governor of Texas to John McCain and Al Gore in 2000 and finally to John Kerry in 2004. That was evident in his Presidential debate performances. In my opinion, Bush probably lost the first of his three debates to John Kerry in 2004, but I've always felt that he won the other two debates against Kerry and all three debates against Al Gore in 2000.

George W. Bush was also one of the most disciplined leading Presidential candidates of the past 40-50 years. He stayed on message, no matter where he was campaigning, who he was campaigning against, or what other news might have been seeping into coverage of him at the time. That was a credit to his enormously talented political teams over the years, but it was also the result of hard work. He'd still say something odd or mangle a few sentences at every campaign stop, but you never had to guess where he stood on the positions he built his campaigns upon.

While he was certainly no Ronald Reagan or Barack Obama when it came to charisma, George W. Bush did have his own unique brand of charisma. Despite his background and the privileges he had from day one due to his family name and his father's accomplishments, Bush had a real ability to connect with people while campaigning. People genuinely liked him. I mean, that's even better understood now when you hear about his relationship with his surprise BFF Michelle Obama or with fellow Presidents Bill Clinton and Barack Obama. Many of his political opponents have noted in interviews or books that they've found it hard not to like him once they got to know him. Again, that's an attribute that doesn't translate well to television, but it was clearly a strength when he was meeting folks while campaigning. He made a lot of people want to vote for him -- as opposed to John Kerry, whose personality didn't inspire a whole lot of fervent supporters in 2004 (I say that with personal experience).

Jeb Bush was a more serious, wonky politician -- with a personality more similar to that of their father whereas George W. famously took after his outspoken, direct mother. Jeb did not easily connect with voters, and was a more naturally cautious politician while George W. was more emotional and decisive (for better and worse). One example of Jeb's cautious nature is demonstrated by the poor timing of his eventual candidacy for President. Once Jeb finally decided to run for President in 2016 he was nearly 10 years removed from the end of his term as Governor of Florida. He jumped into a crowded field where it was difficult to distinguish himself despite his famous last name (and the exclamation point behind his first name on his campaign logo) and was steamrolled by Donald Trump. I think George W. probably would have defended himself and his family against Trump's attacks better than Jeb did if George W. had been the candidate in 2016 instead of an ex-President in retirement. Jeb's 2016 campaign was almost sad in how timid he came across at times against Trump.

Both brothers were born with more advantages than most people will ever have come their way in a lifetime. But I do think George W. tried to be someone other than his father's son more than Jeb ever did. George W. ran for Governor of Texas in 1994 despite the fact that his opponent was the legendary Governor Ann Richards. Jeb ran for Governor of Florida the same year, and their parents believed that Jeb was the Bush son with the real political future and kind of saw George W.'s candidacy as a hopeless cause. But on Election night in 1994, George W. was victorious and Jeb was not. I think that Jeb Bush wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, but George W. wanted to surpass George H.W. Bush's legacy. He didn't in terms of the quality of his Presidency, but George W. Bush did get reelected as President while George H.W. Bush was only a one-term President.

So, in a head-to-head race, I think George W. would probably smoke Jeb. He was just that much more skilled as a politician. Plus, a brother vs. brother matchup would probably be emotionally difficult for anybody and I think George W. clearly had more of a killer instinct than Jeb ever did (that's probably a perfect setup for a drone strike or war crimes comment). Bush had no problem running a ruthless campaign, either. If you don't know what I mean, look up the 2000 South Carolina GOP primary campaign against McCain and the Swift Boat ads against Kerry in '04 (he was also one of the hatchet men for his father during the 1988 campaign against Michael Dukakis, which was one of the nastiest campaigns in American history up to that point). Anyway, I just think George W. was a better politician than Jeb ever hoped to be. In fact, from a purely political perspective -- as a campaigner out on the trail, as a one-on-one retail politician, even as a debater -- George W. was probably a more talented politician than his father. Of course, George W. was nowhere near as experienced or competent as George H.W. Bush was as President. But George W. would easily defeat his brother in a one-on-one campaign and I think he'd even give his father some trouble on the trail in a one-on-one race between them. And then if he was elected, he'd promptly become the really bad President we all remember him as!

Great question and interesting thought experiment!

[m-s-justice]

In a similar vein from my last post, Dempsey and narrative relevancy because holy shit I have lots of thoughts about this. This is mostly about Ultimis Dempsey, but some of it can be applied to Primis, too, probably.

Dempsey is, technically, the only Ultimis character that we formally "see" pre-corruption. We can hear Ult Richtofen before he was zapped by the MPD, but we play as Dempsey in Verruckt. This was probably retconned and the voicelines of the Marines in Verruckt are not likely representative of what Dempsey was like, but... isn't that just sort of insane to think about?

They so could've remastered Verruckt and have Dempsey, Smokey, Gunner, and John Banana actually be characters. We could've had a glimpse into who Dempsey was before being literally tortured and irrevocably changed.

Now, Verruckt and Nacht aren't really relevant to the overarching plot. Their consequences were, but nothing especially important happens with them, narratively speaking. (I love verruckt as a map, it's my favorite WAW map Der Riese can suck it.)

but I really hate to say it, but Dempsey does nothing and is important to nobody. Excepting McCain, but that was for one map and basically a backdrop for his motivations to be at Verruckt to get captured in the first place.

This is most prominent in DE. ZNS and GK both took place in their main character's respective country and dealt with issues specific to them, seen in their Ultimis counterpart. Takeo realizes his betrayal and Nikolai sees what he could become if he chooses to wallow in his grief.

Dempsey just fucking dies. He dies in a 935 base, still frozen by ultimis Richtofen. He's not allowed to have agency or growth. He't not allowed to have his problems taken seriously or explored in any capacity or to have any personal ties. Fucking Dr. Groph got more development in DE than the guy it was actually about.

And this is true of both Dempseys. Primis is jerked around by whoever is in charge at the time, doing what they say regardless of his own personal convictions, often because he feels like he has no choice but to. Ultimis fucks around and spits you in the eye. Bro does not give a shit about anything or anyone. Not in any real sense, anyways. He's american, but does that impact the story at all? Even when he's captured and held in custody by Broken Arrow, his status as an American and former affiliate of Pernell means nothing, it's not even brought up. He's a marine, but he doesn't really exemplify any of it's ideals or practices, other than surface level shit. Any friends or family he mentions are one off lines. They could be canon, but just as easily missed and irrelevant.

I know I've said it before, It's so sad to think about. Poor guy has so little. Probably intentionally so, at least to some degree, like with the deliberate withholding of his first name. Which drives me even more insane. This guy is such a hollow shell that he's denied everything that makes a real, dynamic character. No real connections, no deep motives, no inner conflict, not even a name. He has next to no affect on anything around him.

Everyday I wake up and thank god I'm not Dempsey.

[gwinforth]

Please, if your coworkers want to talk politics tomorrow and make any mention of Democrats' "rhetoric" being at fault, here is your script:

Remember in the town hall meeting when a man stood up and told John McCain that he was terrified of what would happen if Obama won? McCain told him he didn't have to be afraid, because Obama was a good man.

John McCain is the last Republican who didn't talk like Democrats were traitors and unAmerican and after the White Man. And the Republican party via the Tea Party, via MAGA, have only gotten more extreme since.

Literally, since 2008, it's been wall to wall "grammy is going to be rounded up by DEI terrorists and sent to the Obamacare death panel and refugees are going to move into her house the same day and shit on all of your precious family heirlooms".

For your own information: Obama broke these people's fucking minds. The thing Democrats did to "destroy" civil discourse and the status quo and the Country As We Knew It, was... electing a Black man to the White House. That is what it comes down to. That is what happened in the early 21st century to set us on this moronic course.

If you're still talking to this person, kindly remind them that Trump said we have to "get over" school shootings, too; then agree that you're over it, and go on with your day.

[eastcoastboyos]

Undertones

Charleston is a beautiful place, objectively one of the most scenic places we’ve been on this trip, but as has already been noted, the history of slavery still casts its subtle shadow over its natural beauty and architectural extravagance. It’s hard not to think about how much this place has changed — and not changed — over the past 160 years.

-

This morning, the recovering Dylan took the welcomed opportunity to sleep in while the rest of took a National Park Service tour to Fort Sumter, the place where the first salvos of the American Civil War occurred. The four us that went very much appreciated the storytelling of Ranger Walt Young, a young ranger whose knowledgeable enthusiasm for the history of the fort was infectious. On the island fort itself, the humongous cannons and mortars quickly captured our attention, but the history was rich and the time flew by as we explored the small island together. We all agreed it was a worthy expense, especially as it would be our main deep dive into the history surrounding Charleston during our brief visit.

Once back in Charleston proper, we took a brief wander through the historical market (and former canal) before splitting up. I (Joel) couldn’t resist the urge to eat and made my way to a local hip cafe for a breakfast bagel and cold brew. Once I rejoined the others, inspired by my rave reviews, the others set off to the cafe to fill their bellies as well. In the meantime, I chilled (literally) at the hotel, while Dylan – still full from his morning meal and eager to make the best of his time in Charleston, despite still feeling under the weather – set off on his own for a short wander to the nearby battery and mansion row.

Once we’d reconvened, Allen and Derek decided to chill once again (did we mention it’s been stupid hot this entire trip?), while Dylan, Blake, and I set off for some shopping and exploration. (Derek also had important work matters to attend to.)

After wandering together for a while, Dylan and I separated from Blake, who set his mind to finishing his shopping for the trip before the evening. Dylan and I wandered towards the nearby Colonial Lake, where we briefly debated its function and aesthetics before sauntering our way back to the hotel to meet up with the others.

It was almost dinner time, but Blake and I, feeling the lightness of our pockets, decided to set a course for the nearby supermarket to acquire some affordable beers. We would also check on the wait time at our target restaurant for the evening – Hyman’s seafood (4.9 ⭐️, ~40k reviews). However, the journey quickly turned into a wet one. Despite leaving the hotel in presence of light rain, by the time we’d acquired beers and started making our way back, the rain had turned torrential. The streets had turned into rivers (little exaggeration.) Drenched and in good spirits, we made our way back to the hotel with beers and chips in tow.

Fortunately, the rain let up, and just in time too. Appetites were growing ravenous, and we clearly ended up at the perfect place to eat. It lived up to expectations. At Hyman’s we sat at the same table where Michael Phelps, Mel Gibson, and John McCain had eaten. (It was one of their “things” to add small plaques to each table where famous people had eaten.) Amidst our delectable meal of seafood and southern comfort foods, we were also greeted by the owner who was clearly proud of his restaurant’s long family history and attention to customer service. Blake especially was in heaven.

Returning to the hotel with stuffed bellies, we settled in to chill once again. Some us watched Canada take on Argentina in the first half of the Copa America semifinal. Others showered and sprawled out to aid in their digestion. Derek and I went for one final night walk. We explored the water’s edge, stopping to admire the electrical storm in the distance and mansions that echoed the controversial history of the city. It felt like the perfect end to what a short but very sweet stay in Charleston.

Tomorrow we head to Orlando, Florida, our final state and second last stop on what has so far been a varied and unforgettable road trip.

[msfbgraves]

(when Michael assured him that the omega, Anna, was never with Terry's pup and was now mated to a Chicago musician, with young pups of her own.)

You did NOT just allude to Terry McCain and Anna from Excessive Force!! GASP. So clever!! It all makes sense now, she really was the really beautiful female version of Daniel. I guess Terry Silver made such a huge impression on her that she had to marry his long-lost twin lol. Happy ending I guess…? At the same time it shows that though Terry was so disgustingly inebriated, he still went for the closest thing that resembled Daniel. Says a lot.

(As for Terry's people - everyone who didn't know does now, and that was excruciating... but they were all on his side.)

I’m dumb, but I’m kinda confused at the working here—when you say they were all on his side, do you mean on Terry’s side or Daniel’s?

I hate that so many people know about Terry’s infidelity (and no one except Anna knows how far it really went…ARGH. But I am glad he didn’t do all this when Daniel was with pup, that would have made it EVEN WORSE. And that Anna didn’t get knocked up. THE HORROR. Thanks for snooping, Michael! It does make me sad that things weren’t normal between Daniel and Terry for months after the 16th anniversary fail-night. I guess it shows how worried and hurt Daniel really was by all this, plus the added stress of not knowing if Terry got someone else pregnant.

If Terry had, and Michael had found out, how would Daniel feel? What would he do, what would Terry do?

Do the older pups know that Daddy cheated on Mama?

Love that Danny boy had his Name Day celebration and everyone came out in support. Baby boy <333 T_T Hope Terry felt ashamed and horrible <333

My bad - everyone who heard about Terry's cheating at the wake was on Daniel's side. Jaysis, what a mess, so it was! Drink and grief is a terrible combination that way. You can't even blame the poor fella who forgot himself, can you?

I don't think Terry would have done all this had Daniel been with pup, he would have been attacking his own pup, evolutionary speaking that would have put the brakes on. I think Alphas have the same brutal instinct as we do in wartime, that getting an 'enemy' omega or beta woman with pup is a power move, but assaulting your own pregnant women and omegas is too horrible to think about. I feel that people are collectively most protective of visibly pregnant women (and indeed most aggressive towards them when they are battle mad).

But he wasn't with pup.

Also, part of the 'months' mentioned was before the anniversary, but yeah - do we expect him to take everything? Nice deflection of Terry attacking his supposed lack of loyalty, but Daniel is right, keep doing this and even his capacity forgiveness may hit a limit. Peversely, Terry may have been right not telling him, because had he known straight away, Daniel might have nodded when the Don suggested murder.

This is, also, why his family didn't mention anything before. Michael has known about Anna for years, as has Pop. No way they didn't keep tabs on Terry from the second sweet Daniele turned up on their doorstep. It's the first thing the Don ordered Michael to do after putting the fear of God in him - damage control. The further damage being Anna, and had she been with pup, to 'take care of it', make her disappear. When they knew she wasn't with pup, they would have gotten her out of NYC except that John Kreese was ahead of them there. (John would not have had Terry's pup killed, because Terry. Michael would absolutely have had Terry's pup killed, because Terry.)

If Terry had and Michael would have found out, what would Daniel feel? What is there to feel, Daniele? She died before anyone could ever be sure. Yes, an accident, Piccino, those things happen. Don't torture yourself, you know kitties like this meet the wrong people, they are strung out on God knows what sometimes. Did we have anything to do with it? Daniele, baby, it's none of our business. And would any Alpha kill their own pup? Of course not.

Do you swear, Michael?!

Don't insult me. I know you're in pain, Piccino. But don't insult me. Come here, now, give me a hug. It's over, you'll be fine, I promise.

Had Terry found out about a potential pup he would have had to go directly against Michael stop it and Amanda was busy enough thwarting several "accidents" that could have befallen Terry in Sicily as it was. He would have lost, he knows he would have lost, and Terry might feel some kind of primal ache at the idea but he never would have risked it. It's a cold world he lives in.

But! Anna is alive and happily mated and out of the business, she and her mate run a bar. Apparently the guy got kicked out of the force but like Michael cares. Chicago is not their turf, Terry handles new markets.

Do the older pups know Terry cheated on Mama? It's the biggest open secret in the world, but even Eli has enough self control to not even hint at it, especially after Sam had that little talk with Daddy. They were too young, and people say things when they're drunk. We DO NOT TALK about it, Anthony, shut up. No. Shut up! I don't care what you heard, who said anything anyway, I'll shut that bastard up for you. Oh, no, don't? Then stop trying to be clever, little egg, you weren't even alive yet.

I...don't think Terry feels easily ashamed in spite of it all. He has that sureness of his convictions that is just this side of quite sane. He's not sorry he's done it, he's sorry about the effect he's had. He wouldn't have been ashamed if he'd never been found out. Again, you couldn't go around murdering people if you weren't somehow above what other people want in your own mind. So that nameday celebration? He knows why and yet he takes it completely at face value in demeanor. Of course they should celebrate his mate. They should have sooner, come to think of it.