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327 pages, Hardcover
First published August 7, 2018
I am the guy you call when it’s time to run the ads that end the campaign, in part because my skin is thick enough to endure the inevitable screeching and rending of garments that come when it’s time to wade into the fight. You call me when you’re in back of the police car outside the shady massage parlor and you have to be on the floor of Congress to vote in 24 hours.. But even though he’s a street fighter by nature, Wilson has his limits:
When Trump slithered down the golden escalator in his eponymous tower in 2015, I felt bile rising in my throat. This guy? This jackass? I was quite sure nothing had changed about his blustering ego, fever-swamp birtherism, and con-artist modus operandi. Given the ideological underpinnings of Trumpism—slurry of barely coherent nationalism, third-world generalissimo swagger, and the worst economic ideas of the 19th century—I recognized he was an existential risk to the country, win or lose.In 2016 Rick Wilson helped Evan McMullin with his independent presidential campaign; in 2017 he crafted the ads for Doug Jone's senate campaign that contributed to Judge Roy Moore’s defeat. These days, you can catch him as a talking head on MSNBC and elsewhere, plugging this book and eviscerating all things Trump.
TED CRUZ
The Faustian bargain Cruz made in his efforts to win over Trump voters has reduced him from Republican Party rock star to something akin to a Trump World house pet: tolerated, occasionally praised, but mostly kept out of sight lest he soil the carpets.
NEWT GINGRICH
As far as ideologies go, the men had nothing in common. Gingrich had one; Trump didn’t. The only similarity in the two men was a chain of broken wedding vows and bitter ex-wives.
MIKE PENCE
Because of Trump’s enormous, delicate ego, Pence has been forced to recalibrate the role of vice president. I missed the part in Article II, Section 1 of the Constitution about kissing the presiden’ts ass 24/7, but apparently Pence found it.
SEAN HANNITY
He even spends his evenings on the phone with the president. I can’t help imagining them like a pair of teenage girls on their Princess phones. “You hang up first.” “No, you hang up first.” “Love you.” “Love you more.”
ANN COULTER
Her arc, like that of the so many Trump backers in conservative media, could only ever end in one way: hot, angry tears and a morning-after binge of chain-smoking Marlboro Reds, hammering back indifferent box-wine Chardonnay, and devouring the souls of orphans.
CARTER PAGE
Profoundly disconnected, socially awkward, and reeking of late-stage virginity, he gives off the creepy Uncanny Valley vibe of a rogue, possibly murderous android or of a man with a too-extensive knowledge of human taxidermy and a soundproofed van.
STEPHEN MILLER
As the classic ideological scavenger inside the walls of government, Miller looks the part: the archetypal sneaking little crapweasel who plays the DC game to the hilt, pursuing his agends instead of those that would be good for either his principal or the country. Watching Miller, I am haunted by how little humanity is behind those 32-year-old eyes.
MELANIA
She is equipped with a magnificent resting bitch face in good times and bad, and her smile collapsing into a poker face whenever he turns away from her at White House events is the political equivalent of a fake orgasm, a performance for an audience of one, hoping to rush things along so she can get back to her Peloton.