Run, MAGA, Run. You’ll Just Die Tired.

Eight terrible tips for Republicans trying to escape Trump.

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TO: MAGA Candidates
FROM: Rick Wilson
SUBJECT: Strategic Advice for the Closing Weeks
DATE: 6 OCT 26

It’s bad, right? Nothing is working. You’re feeling something you’ve rarely experienced in the last decade, and that’s fear. I’ll get to the bad news first: it’s worse than you think. The worse news?

You can run, but you’ll just die tired.

I know your consultants. I know what they’re telling you. I know how reasonable it sounds right now, in these dark and desperate hours.

You cannot escape him. His scent is too strong on you, after your decade of nuzzling against him, of begging him to allow you to touch the hem of his robe, rubbing yourselves against his foul lardsack. You spent a decade defining yourselves as his slaves, his minions, his eager acolytes.

The sugar high is fading now, isn’t it?

To name only a handful: Byron Donalds, who spent years auditioning to be Trump’s favorite Floridian, has scrubbed the old man off his campaign website. Mike Rogers has bravely discovered that the Iran war should end, seven months and one gas-price spike after the rest of Michigan figured it out. Greg Abbott, who redrew Texas’s congressional map because Trump asked him to, suddenly has a scheduling conflict the week Trump rallies in San Antonio.

Funny how that happens when the Times/Sienna poll has you down three to Gina Hinojosa. Fewer than 1% of your TV ads even mention his name.

Trump notices, by the way. The morning after the 2018 midterms, he stood in the White House and mocked the Republicans who’d kept him at arm’s length and lost, singling one out by name: “Mia Love gave me no love, but then she lost.” He’ll have a line ready for each of you, no matter how many times you voted for him and against your constituents.

Fear both confuses and clarifies.

The fear you’re feeling right now is also due to your laziness, born of the complacency from years of easy races. It wasn’t just that the GOP’s consultants were more bloody-minded than those across the aisle, though they were. It wasn’t just that you had a media infrastructure that pounded a single narrative into the febrile brains of your base, though you did. It wasn’t just the money, but the money sure helped. Redistricting helped a lot, but you thought the river stopped flowing once you’d demarked its boundaries. Whoops.

It wasn’t just Daddy Donald, though he helped in presidential years, turning out the unwashed and casually political.

Now, the old spells don’t work. The priests of your cult are shedding their robes, slipping out the back before the cops come. They’re giving you advice and making damn sure you’ve paid that October retainer.

I have eight Swiftian pieces of advice for you, none of which you’ll follow.

It’s fine. When the winnowing comes, I’d prefer it clean.

One: Lean in. All the way. Your own party chairman says embrace the president’s agenda, and you’ll win, and when has human-gopher hybrid Joe Gruters ever been wrong? Beg for a rally. Let him mangle your name in an event in a thinly populated airport hangar. During the rally, strip off that Jos Banks jacket, tear open your shirt, and display your full-chest tat of Donald Trump. You’ll lose, but you’ll lose in uniform, and he’ll blame you for it anyway.

Two: Blame the voters. Gas is up, groceries are up, the 401(k) looks like a crime scene? Tell them to stop being such soft, weak libtard bitches and cucks. Prices aren’t so bad. Real Americans don’t whine about food prices. They don’t bitch about losing jobs and houses when they can order a Trump memecoin and feel a rush of patriotic energy. Tell those skinny, blank-eyed commies loitering outside the food bank to grab the old bootstraps and pulllllll.

Three: Go full Nathan Jessep. Stand at the podium and tell these wimps, weirdos, and beardos that the Iran War is America’s greatest triumph since Normandy, and that you’ll spill an ocean of blood, preferably theirs, to ensure Bibi sleeps well at night. They want you on that wall. They need you on that wall. Well, more specifically, you need their sons and daughters on that wall.

Four: Talk to the ladies. Tell women voters it’s time to be quiet, piggy, and get back to dropping spawn and making sammiches. Then, while you’ve still got the mic, launch a rousing defense of the Cornell 7. Explain the finer points of New York consent law. Say “boys will be boys” and “Chi Phi” in the same breath. Watch every suburban woman in your district crawl over broken glass to vote. I mean, against you, but for a flicker of a moment you felt your first erection in years, didn’t you?

Five: Discover your conscience, retroactively. Pitch a book deal about your private doubts all along, voiced in conversations you can’t recall with people you won’t name. Tell the dummies in your district you had to cut their Medicare, but you felt bad for an entire 15 minutes after. Hint at a diary. The voters who never trusted you still won’t, and the ones who did will now hate you too!

Six: Go transcendent. Tell your voters it doesn’t matter how they vote, because the Singularity is coming. Soon you’ll be uploaded to the cloud with Peter Thiel and Elon, ascending to Machine godhood, and from your silicon throne in the Donald Trump Dataplex you will smite the unbelievers who voted against you. Lead with this at the last debate. Bring a slide deck.

Seven: Diversify your income. I’m not saying OnlyFans is an option for everyone. But some of you might consider a very niche offering. Somewhere out there is a man with a fetish for doughy submissives and closeted Republican congressmen, and he has disposable income. You’ve spent ten years on your knees for free. Monetize it!

Eight: Run. Not for office. Just run. Today. Drain the campaign account, cash in what’s left in the SuperPAC, buy a burner phone and go. Change your name, move to the Keys, sell boats. Get a job building data centers in West Texas. Move to Alaska and work on a fishing boat. The world is full of men who did exactly this after a bad cycle. Most of them look happier.

Because otherwise you get what you deserve: the rest of this month of Trump rallying in safe seats, spewing insanity while you hide in your district and try to pretend social media doesn’t exist. A month of him calling on Iran to nuke L.A. A month more of his zoo-monkey feces tossing every…single…day.

You’re praying the stink fades by November 3rd.

It won’t. You’ve got his scent all over you, and it doesn’t wash off.