Iowa Hiho!

[DrMattus]

I am necroing this great thread because it's that time again and with five minutes of reading this forum I have done in the last 10 years, I have identified that you ignorant part-time political junkies still have absolutely no clue about the American electoral system and need a learning suppository. So bend over.

In just five days the most bizarre ritual in American politics kicks off. That's right, it's caucus time, that archaic predecessor to the main event in November, where the great American democracy machine starts churning to spit out the inevitable loser for the 2024 election.

Remember, folks, we're talking about a nation so rabidly infatuated with democracy that they've concocted this bewildering pre-election election, just to tease out who gets to be the sacrificial lamb at the final showdown. These jamborees masquerade as 'primaries' and 'caucuses' or 'caucusi' or whatever the hell they're calling them these days. Iowa, the land where pigs outnumber people and political promises outnumber grains of corn, isn't hosting a primary but a caucus - a beast of a different nature.

"Caucus?" I hear you say "What the fuck is that? Sounds like a dead crow!". Well here's the Iowadown. A primary is an election as you know it. People vote. In booths and shit. But in a caucus? It's basically a series of piss ups in backyards across the state, with extra steps. Imagine a bunch of folks huddled in someone's backyard, nursing a Hawkeye Hooch Pale Ale and huddling for warmth in this freak fucken storm, clustering in corners like penguins in a blizzard, each corner representing a different political candidate. The corner with the fewest shivering souls gets hosed down - literally - and those poor sods have to pick another corner to join, their dreams as frozen as their peckers. It's a primitive dance, but damn if it isn't entertaining. And hey, free beer.

There will be fights. Hurling of insults between the corner's of Hank's democratic cornfield. Accusations of RINO (Republican in Name Only) and the occasional lynching of a suspected undercover ANTIFA operative. The proud boys will shown up in force, guns akimbo. Iowa is permitless open carry.

The joke candidates have already been culled. Ryan L. Binkley, some mutant fusion of preacher and entrepreneur, a cocktail seemingly brewed in a backwoods lab of American politics. His stance, a jambalaya of hardline immigration policies, healthcare reform crusades, and a federal budget diet plan, paints him as a political Don Quixote tilting at the windmills of Washington's status quo. Binkley's campaign, adorned with a pro-life badge and a federalism flag is the sensible republicans choice, promising a return to some elusive, golden age Americana. Whether he's a visionary or a vestige of a bygone era remains a spectacle for the political theater.

Doug Burgum, North Dakota's governor and a tech millionaire who has charged into the 2024 Republican presidential race with the audacity of a prairie dog challenging a buffalo is also out of the race. Despite throwing in more than $12 million of his own cash Burgum's run was like trying to start a fire in a North Dakota snowstorm. His support barely flickered above 1% nationally, and his chances in the Iowa caucus were as thin as cornstalks in winter.

Chris Christie's kamikaze run into the Trump tower has ended not with molten steel beams, but a tiny puff off smoke quickly fading into the crisp morning air. Christie hasn't even bothered to contest Iowa and instead insists he's focused on New Hampshite. But Christie, stomping through New Hampshire with the gusto of a fat man chasing a ghost train, seems as likely to catch a break there as a snowball surviving in the Mojave.

Vivek Ramaswamy rides in, an avatar of American ambition with an Indian Hindu twist. He's like Vishnu on Wall Street, juggling his multiple identities - a biotech maestro, a conservative crusader, a disciple of Trumpian doctrine brandishing peace signs with the flair of a Nixonian guru in a hallucinogenic haze of political theater. Ramaswamy's campaign is a high-wire act, a blend of ancient heritage and modern American bravado. The first of what will be many candidates who channel Trump's bizarre but effective strategy of shock, awe and confusion. For all his bravado, Vivek's corner of the cornfield will be first to get the Gardena baptism in Iowa.

Nikki Haley is a self styled GOP maverick, not game to outright reject Trumpism but clearly more at home in the slightly less batshit brand of teabaggers. She’s casting her dice in Iowa, not for the jackpot but for the show, setting the stage for a later showdown in her southern stronghold. Team Haley will soon get the hose, and her corner will make a bee-line for team Ron.

In the surreal circus of the Iowa Caucus, Ron DeSantis storms in with the cold, dead eyes of a shark and a smile as enigmatic as the Cheshire Cat's. He prowls the political landscape, a lone wolf in sheep's clothing, masking his predatory instincts with the charm of a carnival barker. DeSantis, with his Floridian swagger, is less a candidate and more a force of nature, a tempest wrapped in a tailored suit, weaving through the cornfields with a calculated grace that's both mesmerizing and mildly terrifying. His campaign is a strange brew of southern charm and political machinations, a spectacle straight out of a Gonzo nightmare where the protagonist wields power with the subtlety of a sledgehammer and the finesse of a ballet dancer, leaving the voters spellbound and slightly bewildered in his wake.

"None of this matters," echoes through the Iowa fields, as Donald Trump, shadowed by 90 indictments for corruption, sweeps into the caucus with the inevitability of a storm he himself might have conjured. This is no mere campaign; it's a juggernaut, a theatrical masterstroke, with Trump at the helm, steering toward a Supreme Court he helped shape. His presence looms large over the state, a leviathan of political spectacle, turning the caucus into a footnote in his saga. Here's Trump, the grand illusionist, turning indictments into badges of honor, rallies into circuses, with the brazen flair of a showman who knows the script too well. Trump has already won and we all know it, his path to victory a foregone conclusion in a play where he's both the director and the star.

As the last echoes of the caucus fade into Iowa's frigid night, what remains is less a predictor of political victory and more a tableau of American democracy in its most unvarnished form. This carnivalesque dance of ambition and disillusionment is less about the outcome, which history has shown to be as unpredictable as the Iowa weather, and more about the spectacle itself. Remember, it was here in 2016 that Cruz triumphed over Trump, with Rubio nipping at their heels – a result that hardly foretold the eventual tumultuous journey to the White House. Thus, the real drama and perhaps the more telling battles unfold later, on Super Tuesday, where the nation's pulse is truly felt.

Yet, the Iowa caucus, for all its quirks and follies, remains a microcosm of a nation perpetually in search of its soul amidst the political theater. Here, in these cornfields and backyards, America’s narrative is penned not just by the would-be leaders but by the very people who, year after year, play their part in this grand, chaotic ritual. And as the circus packs up, leaving only footprints and beer cans in the snow, we're left to ponder: Amidst this endless chase for power and glory, who are the real puppeteers and who are the puppets in this grand American show? In the spectacle of Iowa, the answers are as fleeting as the winter wind, reminding us that the path to power is often less about a single moment and more about the enduring, unpredictable journey of democracy

[Aussie]

Well....fark me!

Welcome back Mattus!

I'll read that some more tomorrow!

[DrMattus]

In a move that surprises no one, Trump turns his cannons on his wingman.

https://truthsocial.com/@realDonaldTrum ... 6114915236

"Vivek started his campaign as a great supporter, “the best President in generations,” etc. Unfortunately, now all he does is disguise his support in the form of deceitful campaign tricks. Very sly, but a vote for Vivek is a vote for the “other side” — don’t get duped by this. Vote for “TRUMP,” don’t waste your vote! Vivek is not MAGA. The Biden Indictments against his Political Opponent will never be allowed in this Country, they are already beginning to fall! MAGA!!!"

Here Ramaswamy, once basking in Trump's incandescent favor, is now yet another a corpse in being stomped under the jackboot on the campaign trail. Trump, in his relentless pursuit of dominance, casts aside Ramaswamy like a cold war bride on her 40th birthday. It’s not just a betrayal; it's a strategic detonation, a way to rid himself of the cloying scent of failure now clinging to Ramaswamy. In the high-octane world of Trumpian politics, where allies are as expendable as yesterday's headlines, Ramaswamy finds himself the latest casualty in Trump's ever-twisting saga, a subplot in a narrative that respects no script but its own.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e35BU1eB_5k

[DrMattus]

Hank had barely turned the hose on when the Associated Press called it. Only 2% of precincts reporting and Trump has earned himself an absolute majority. The interest in second place only relevant to the candidates and their immediate family. The GOP are loading theirs eggs by the truckload into a man indicted under RICO and insurrection acts. This is beginning to look like the beginnings of a coup.

[Aussie]

Hank had barely turned the hose on when the Associated Press called it. Only 2% of precincts reporting and Trump has earned himself an absolute majority. The interest in second place only relevant to the candidates and their immediate family. The GOP are loading theirs eggs by the truckload into a man indicted under RICO and insurrection acts. This is beginning to look like the beginnings of a coup.

That thought has crossed my mind several times. If Humpty Trumpty were to somehow win in November, what else can the USA do? It will be the laughing stock of the Planet, an awful nightmarish joke. Humpty will pardon himself and all those he 'loves' and gave comfort to while the righteous USA just yawns at his criminal activity?

What self respecting Citizen would tolerate a felon being POTUS, a Caligulan Rex idiot who deliberately kept state secrets in his gilt dunny and attempted to suborne an election???

Well, I suppose it has to be said. He alone overturned Roe -v- Wade and made the Nile run wine.

[DrMattus]

In the desolate winter wasteland of New Hampshire, where the unforgiving mantra “Live Free or Die” echoes like a battle cry through the scorched air, a monstrous clash unfolded that shook the very earth. Donald Trump, an orange-hued leviathan, a fusion of Godzilla’s might and King Kong’s brute force, lumbers across Fury Road, chrome-adorned teeth bared and expecting to trample his adversaries with the ease of a titan. Yet, the battle did not unfold as the script of power had foretold. Against him, Nikki Haley emerged, not as a towering behemoth, but a scrappy, agile chupacabra, darting and striking with unexpected ferocity. She claimed a substantial 43.6% against Trump's 54.8% – a score that sent shockwaves through the onlookers, for it was not the earth-shattering victory that had been prophesied for the orange titan.

The air was thick with tension, the stench of vulnerability unexpectedly emanating from Trump, a revelation as startling as a bolt of lightning in a clear sky. What could explain this backwards step? Had the Democrats and independents, like rogue warriors, had infiltrated the Republican primary to push the anyone-but-trump agenda? If so, their intervention in this desolate battleground was a masterstroke, turning what should have been a triumphant march into a battle for survival. The GOP arena, once a cacophony of clashing ambitions, now lay eerily subdued, with erstwhile contenders Ramaswamy and DeSantis withdrawing like vanquished foes, possibly seeking refuge in the shadow of Trump's tottering throne. This fight, unfolding in a landscape of despair and defiance, was a stark reminder that even in a world of giants and monsters, the unexpected can strike with the ferocity of a chupacabra, challenging the might of the mightiest. New Hampshire’s battle was not just a contest of power; it was a seismic shift, revealing that even a colossus like Trump could be wounded in a world where survival is the only law. In the misty distance Biden hovers like Mothra. Those bite inflicted on Trumps flank by Haley's rodent incisors look nasty. I wonder if they will become infected...

[DrMattus]

DALL-E: In the kaiju style of monster battles. A giant but badly wounded orange goliath lumbers down a road. At his feet lies the carcass of a gator and a defeated Vishnu. The goliath's mouth and teeth are adorned with dripping chrome paint and he is ready for battle. He faces a scrappy and defiant female Chupacabra. In the far distance, partially shrouded by mist, looms a giant moth creature watching them face off.

[DrMattus]

Memphis, Tennessee - Despatch from the eye of the storm – October 2024

The smell hits you first. A thick musk of barbecue smoke, stale beer, and sweat-stained desperation, rising off the crumbling streets like the soul of the South itself, cooked and charred to the bone. Memphis is still alive, but just barely. It’s a town half-sunk into its own mythology—like some bloated riverboat captain, belly-deep in bourbon, swaying between ancient glories and the promise of a sweet, hellish oblivion. You can taste it in the air.

I’ve dragged myself here to witness the American experiment hobble through yet another presidential election. And make no mistake: it’s limping. The country is in freefall, and I have a front-row seat to watch the flames climb higher. The 2024 campaign trail has been nothing short of a bar fight between rabid coyotes, but Memphis, with its ghosts of music and revolution, feels like a fitting backdrop for the chaos. This city is a wounded animal, fighting to live, but bleeding out in the process—much like the nation itself.

Beale Street is still here, not much changed since I last clawed my way through the Blues joints decades ago, though now the neon feels more like a sad parody of itself. The honky-tonk dives are filled with slack-jawed tourists who’ve been sold the myth of Memphis’ past, but if you listen closely between the strumming of cheap guitars, you can hear the groan of the American dream cracking under the weight of its own grotesque realities.

The 2024 election is inescapable. You can feel the tension in every bar, every street corner, every grim stare from the locals. This isn’t the Memphis of Dr. King’s last stand or Elvis’ gilded kingdom. This is a city where the hope of change died a long time ago. If the American heartland was the country’s moral compass, Memphis might well be the place where we lost our way.

People are angry. Rightfully so. The candidates are monstrous distortions, caricatures of themselves. On one side, a bloated empire in a business suit—no longer even pretending to be for the people, but for the survival of the machine. On the other side, a hollow shell of reform, promising just enough to stay relevant but too broken to follow through. They both speak in the hollow tongues of a system rotting from within, while the crowds gather and shout, desperate for some kind of meaning. It’s not clear anymore what they’re fighting for, only that the fight itself has become the only thing that matters.

The locals, the real Memphians—the ones who’ve been here long enough to see the city rise and fall more times than a cat has lives—aren’t even paying attention. They’re too busy just trying to survive. In the north of the city, where poverty strangles whole neighborhoods like kudzu, the election is just another game being played by rich men who won’t ever set foot here. Out there, it’s not about red or blue, it’s about green. Cold, hard cash, the only color that matters. And none of it is trickling down.

The rallies are wild, though. At one, a man in a Confederate flag jacket threw a half-empty beer can at a guy with an anti-fascist banner. Fists flew, and the crowd surged with a kind of grim, cathartic violence—an expression of something deeper than party politics. This is about survival now. Red state, blue state, it doesn’t matter. We’re beyond that. This is an all-out brawl for what’s left of the soul of America, and no one knows what’s on the other side of it.

I caught a glimpse of the candidates on the news, delivering speeches with all the sincerity of a mortician reading last rites. Their handlers would have you believe this election is the most important in American history. But here, in Memphis, it feels like just another Tuesday, another round in a never-ending bender that’s gone on far too long. The only difference now is that more people are starting to realize the hangover might kill us all.

The Mississippi River is anorexic and brown, like the veins of a dying hooker. It moves slow, and yet, somehow, it keeps moving. That’s Memphis. That’s America in 2024. The question is: how much longer can it hold on?

I need a drink. Maybe two. God help us all.

Dr Mattus

[Black Orchid]

Hi Mattus. Memphis has been in decay for decades and, yes, God help us all.

Aussie has left the building and we are trying to recover.

[DrMattus]

Memphis, Tennessee – Despatch from the Eye of the Storm – October 2024

Sweet Jesus, my head swims like a mole caught in a swimmer box, throbs like a drum kit being mauled by a pack of rabid hyenas. My body, some wretched husk, abandoned in the name of Chivas and blind, furious hope. Somewhere between the shots of cuervo and the fried catastrophe they call hot chicken, I watched a miracle unfold in Nashville. And I don’t use that word lightly, because most miracles these days are marketing schemes cooked up by tech billionaires or the goddamn church. But this—this was real.

Vanderbilt beat Alabama.

No, that’s not the mescalin talking. That happened. I saw it. I lived it. The mighty Crimson Tide—those demigods of college football, stacked with mutants bred in laboratories—taken down by a bunch of college kids who probably can’t find their way out of a Waffle House parking lot after midnight. Not since Hannibal has a war machine been smashed by misfits who somehow managed to defy the laws of reality—and common sense—all in the name of glorious chaos.

The fans didn’t wait for permission. No, they did what any self-respecting lunatic would do—they tore down the goddamn goalposts. Ripped ‘em out of the ground like a herd of deranged cattle, horns locked, charging down Broadway with steel beams on their shoulders. And me? I stumbled along behind them, barely able to keep my legs moving, watching in a sort of bleary, bourbon-fueled awe. They were on a mission, the kind of mission only a city that’s been waiting for something—anything—worth giving a damn about could understand.

They dragged those goalposts straight through the pulsing heart of Nashville, past the blaring neon and honky-tonk dives, past throngs of bewildered bachelorettes with rhinestone boots and tits hiked up around their ears. Down to the Cumberland they went, screaming like banshees. And then, with a deafening roar that rattled the last shreds of my sanity, they heaved the damn things into the water. It was primal—pure, unhinged joy. A savage howl into the void. And for one fleeting moment, I dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still some hope for this broken-down beast of a country.

It’s not the election or the speeches or any of the other circus acts trying to convince us that someone’s going to save the day. No, that’s all bullshit, and we all know it, even if we’re too tired or too numb to admit it. But these kids? These wild-eyed and swaggering sailors throwing goalposts in the river? They don’t give a damn about any of that. They don’t want to be saved—they want to burn down the whole thing and dance in the ashes.

I crawled out of Nashville, bloodshot and stinking of everything that city pours down your throat, with a flicker of something almost resembling optimism. Not the cheap, pre-packaged kind they hawk on the news with politicians and puppies. No, this was the real stuff—hope scraped out of chaos, wrung from the bones of unfiltered madness. You could smell it in the air—last night’s bourbon, piss, and the stale sweat of victory. And you could see it, too—the high-water mark of American glory, faint but undeniable. Maybe this country isn’t dead yet. Maybe the pulse is still there, weak and fading, but persistent—like the last beat of a heart that refuses to quit.

It’s Sunday night now, and I’m back in Memphis, staring down the barrel of another goddamn week. The election madness is still swirling in the air like a bad stench, but after what I saw in Nashville, I’m not so sure it matters. Because if there’s any future worth salvaging, it’s not going to come from the polished suites on tv. It will come from the mad ones — the wild kids who still have the guts to rip something down and throw it into the river just because they can.

I need aspirin. And a shower. And maybe some food, though the thought of it makes my stomach churn. But through the fog of this hangover, there’s a glimmer of something that feels suspiciously like hope. Or maybe it’s just the aftereffects of the drugs. Hard to say. Either way, it’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

God help us all.