It’s a confession
Jo Carducci breaking down the MAGA mindset.
That was always Trump’s singular skill. He didn’t teach them hate. He gave them the greenlight. He told them the filth in their hearts wasn’t shameful. It was sacred.
Trump didn’t change them. He clarified them.
But for the base, it was never about power. It was about volume. They didn’t want policy. They wanted a megaphone. They wanted to scream slurs and call it speech. To be proudly, publicly repulsive and never face a single goddamn consequence.
That’s what Trump gave them. He gave them the nerve.
He stared into the hollowed-out husks where character should have lived and told them their corruption was courage. That their misogyny was tradition. That their racism was realism. That their bigotry was bravery. That their most feral instincts were just patriotism with a facelift. And they swallowed it like gospel.
It was a reveal. They’d always been like this. They just needed someone to tell them it was safe to say it out loud.
They used to whisper those thoughts. Now they scream them in public and call it “owning the libs,” like cruelty is a credential.
This isn’t a transformation. It’s a confession.
They don’t want forgiveness yet. But they will. Because the consequences are coming. And when they do, these people will beg for redemption without remorse. They’ll want a rebrand without reckoning. But history doesn’t owe them clarity. And we don’t owe them a fucking thing.
They weren’t duped. They weren’t dragged. They weren’t dazed.
They were eager. They were laughing. They were loud. They were grotesque.
And that’s how they’ll be remembered.
This should be disqualifying. The end of every show, every grift, every seat at every table. Because standards still fucking matter. Because shame is a civic duty. Because we don’t owe moral bottom-feeders a platform, a paycheck, or a place in public life.
Let them grovel. Let them whimper about fairness. Let them watch people’s eyes shift away in silence, watch doors close without explanation, watch their invitations dry up and their handshakes disappear. Let them feel what it is to be unwelcome. To be radioactive. To be finally, fucking irrelevant.
We see them. We know them. This is who they are. This is who they’ve always been. And I don’t give a single, solitary fuck if they stay that way until the day they die.
They belong in the fucking shadows, gagged by their own disgrace, stripped of power, pissing themselves in the dark.
And that is exactly where they will stay.