There’s a wonderfully bleak rule of revolutionary politics I’ve shared with you before: eventually, the people who build the guillotine find that their own necks fit perfectly into the National Razor.
Maximilien Robespierre learned this in July 1794 when his head plopped into a wicker basket. As Trump flounders, rots before our eyes, and his legacy becomes one of abject failure and destruction, MAGA is learning it now.
MAGA is devouring itself in an entirely predictable pattern of revolutionary excess; results are going to be both hilarious, bloody, and like all things Trump, spectacularly ugly. For them, I mean. For the rest of us, it’s going to be delicious.
