Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry
There are actually three inevitable realities: death, taxes and the immovable object commonly known as Donald Trump's fan base bringing him the Republican nomination.
Not the bluster of Vivek Ramaswamy, the insults of Chris Christie, the tough guy turned tame Ron DeSantis, not the slings and arrows of the other wannabes have dented Donald's armor. And now Ms. Haley is the last standing, as sure to fail in her undertaking as the 1962 Mets quest to reach the World Series.
Mr. Trump's rabid faithful turned off their brains sometime during the first season of The Apprentice. "You're fired" putting the power of life and death into the small hands of their hero. And the worse he has acted since then, the more they adore him. Not his birther fictions, his grab 'em by the pussy, his dalliances with bad men around the globe, not his attacks on the foundational document of our democracy, his belligerence and bellicosity towards those institutions that protect the citizens of this nation or those within his own party who have the unmitigated audacity to attack his judgment and his character, not his indictments, his guilt on sexual assault charges, not his lies that inhabit virtually every one of his conversations, not his all for one and that one is me mantra, none of this changed the opinion of those who find no line in the sand that Mr. Trump can't cross. Love means Donald Trump never having to say he's sorry.
New Hampshire is Nikki Haley's Waterloo, her Little Big Horn. Here is where her candidacy dies. And here is where the fight we are waiting for begins.
It may not be the Ali-Frazier rematch, not two gladiators at maximum strength exchanging blows, but round one of Biden- Trump redux is just a New Hampshire victory of the orange man away.
Death, taxes and 45 vs 46. Inevitable.