By Taylor Lewis
It’s a grand ol’ do for the Grand Old Party.
Republicans are experiencing something the cranky con-coalition, in its storied 170 years, has never seen, heard, or felt: popularity. The much-derided pachyderm is no longer the butt of every late-night-TV zinger, the sphincter-tight antagonist in every teencomedy movie, the bumbling, drunkard padre in every 5 PM cable sitcom.
He—and, yes, it’s a he, Georgia’s thunderous Marjorie Taylor Greene notwithstanding—is no longer a surly mossback. Mr. Republican is a sharp-shaven blade with a cooing fandom, the Pedro Pascal of politics.
Ha! Only yanking your chain, unfooled reader! Crotchety, Dockers-donned dads will continue to be pin cushions for our cultural taste-makers. The archetypal red-voter, with a belching Ford pickup, a stout, aquamarine-eyeshadowed wife, and an outdated sense of propriety, will remain at the bottom of the mockable hierarchy, somewhere above pedophiles but a hair under crypto-queer Nazis.
But plot twist! Speed-bag status no longer hinders the Republican Party. Nor does it repel normie voters, who live benign existences filled with soul-sweeping monotony like grocery shopping at Walmart and getting the Toyota’s oil changed at Jiffy Lube.
The New York Times (you know it’s serious) reports that Democrats are tormented by a “voter registration crisis.” Despite its firm grasp on the mediating value-shapers of American life—academia, entertainment, media, Wall Street, Silicon Valley—the burro band is tripping over its uncloven hooves trying to catch up to its counterparts in registration.
The Times on the Dems’ travails: “Of the 30 states that track voter registration by political party, Democrats lost ground to Republicans in every single one between the 2020 and 2024 elections—and often by a lot.” The “a lot” has to be an exaggeration. After all, the left has such hooky civic gimmicks like “Kamala is brat,” Dark Brandon, shitposter Gavin, and the silver-tongued uranist who spent $7 billion on a couple of dozen EV charging stations and has zero black support. The great American mass must be queuing to join the party like it was a McDonald’s giving out adult Happy Meals with Ozempic shots as the toy.
The Times isn’t lib-massaging its message for once. Democrats really are facing a membership deficit—an ironic twist for a party prefixed with commoners. The number-crunch: “Democrats lost about 2.1 million registered voters between the 2020 and 2024 elections… Republicans gained 2.4 million.” Somewhere along a dusty, pockmarked backroad deep in Lancaster County, Pa., Scott Pressler does a happy jig.
That about sews it up then, it follows. A four-million-card-carrying lead? May as well just screenprint the “J.D. Vance – 48th president” t-shirts now. Apologies to all African children—no “Newsom 2028” sweater for Christmas. Those Harris/Walz crewnecks will have to last a few more years!
Not since Saddam Hussein was ferreted out of his soil bolt hole have Republicans stood at such a high meridian. Much Moët is fizzing at the Capitol Hill Club, bourbon tumblers are clinking at Butterworth’s, Steve Bannon is sitting shirtless in his townhouse happily guzzling mineral water. Yet they’d all be in error to sit snug on their laurels, chuckling at Trump’s Truth Social posts between quaffs of top-shelf spirits.
Being a registered party puller isn’t determinative of a single vote. Americans are finicky choosers. The Bolshevik from Burlington, senator Bernie Sanders, captured our consumption ethic when he decried our 23 choices of pit deodorant. Some days we feel like sticking our sweat glands with Old Spice’s Citron, other days Axe’s Phoenix gets the glide, and on rare days, only Dove’s Garden Tea Party with aromatic notes of honeysuckle and gardenia can cleanse our heaving hidrosis. And that goes for men. American women have aisle after aisle after aisle of bottled shampoo that, despite varying labels, all smell like putrescent strawberries.
An embarrassment of riches is a foreign concept to us Yankee capitalists. To be spoiled for choice is our birthright. And while our Pong-like party system hasn’t kept pace with all the Oreo flavors on offer, most voters still appreciate the option for punching the chad of discontent. In practice, giving form to dissent means pulling a party swap, which is a more common practice than pundits believe. Donald Trump’s winning over minorities, including half of Hispanic men, evidenced that no voter is set in stone. Minds change, whims vary, preferences lurch to and fro on gripes as trivial and particular as Hillary Clinton existing.
Democrats molting membership doesn’t doom the party to decades in the wilderness. The White House shifted partisan control three times in eight years; Congress just as many, if not more accounting for both chambers.
The Russophile literary critic Gary Saul Morson wrote that “[t]here can never be such a science, of war or anything else concerned with human beings. Contingency and surprise can never be eliminated.”
The cri de cœur of every third-party spoiler has more than a mite of truth to it: votes are earned, never deserved.
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