I’ve been a member of an email chain gang for a year or so. The other emailers are, like me, older guys with a little time on their hands. And, like me, they love to discuss (read: argue about) politics. The basic drill is that someone emails an interesting or provocative link to a story from, say, The Washington Post or Vice or The Daily Beast, and the commenting and kvetching ensues.
Everyone in the group is relatively progressive. Nobody likes Trump, and everyone’s biggest fear is that he’s going to snare the GOP nomination and somehow stumble his way back into the presidency. You wouldn’t think six or seven guys on the same side could find that many things to argue about. You would be wrong. For example, a couple of the gentlemen are dead-certain that Trump will win the nomination. They see no way for anybody else in the GOP to take it away from him and they savor being the no-nonsense, realpolitik adults in the room. “Trump will be the nominee,” they say. Period.
Others in the group aren’t so sure. They speculate that the publicity surrounding Trump’s numerous legal difficulties will grow, and as evidence against him becomes more specific and more damning, it will become increasingly difficult for him to waltz to the nomination. The “maybe not Trump” contingent also likes to point out that Trump’s mental acuity appears to be waning of late and that his 90-minute rambles are losing their zip. How, they ask, do you win the presidency with no policy proposals, and with a campaign based on a platform of “it’s not fair”?
Then there are those who raise the possibility that Trump might encounter a major health issue. He and Biden are both of an age when they should think twice before ordering a multi-year magazine subscription. Or buying green bananas. How, they ask, can anyone state with certainty that these two geezers will be the nominees?
Finally, there’s my old friend, “Kevin,” the Sir Lancelot of the group, who delights in swashing the buckles and tugging the short-hairs of the realpolitikers with ire-provoking predictions. His favorite lately is that Trump will at some point realize the jig is up, that Jack Smith and/or Fani Willis have him dead to rights, and that all his lawyers and supplicants have flipped and will provide detailed evidence of his schemes to subvert the 2020 election and conceal top secret documents. According to Kevin’s theory, Trump will then see no way to bullshit himself out of his self-created mess and, confronting the likelihood of prison time or losing his fortune or both, will decide to fly off in his private jet … to Oman. Or as Kevin likes to write: “Trump will become the Werewolf of Oman.”
No doubt it’s a phrase that has a ring to it, but why Oman? According to Kevin, it’s because of a June 30th New York Times story that centers around a multibillion dollar Trump business deal with the government of Oman. From the Times article: “The Omani government is providing the land for the development, is investing heavily in the infrastructure to support it, and will get a cut of the profits in the long run. …
“Mr. Trump was brought into the deal by a Saudi real estate firm, Dar Al Arkan, which is closely intertwined with the Saudi government. While in office, Mr. Trump developed a tight relationship with Saudi leaders. Since leaving office, he has worked with Saudi Arabia’s sovereign wealth fund to host the LIV golf tour and Trump’s son-in-law Jared Kushner received a $2 billion infusion from the Saudi fund for his investment venture. Under its terms, the Trump Organization will not put up any money for the development, but will help design a Trump-branded hotel, golf course and golf club, and will be paid to manage them for up to 30 years, among other revenue.”
Quite the tempting retirement option, you must admit. Trump spends his final years in Mar-a-Oman, golfing, schmoozing, and sending out social media posts about how he was hounded from the country he loves by “crooked Joe Biden and thug Jack Smith and racist Fani Willis.” No foreign policy decisions or immigration messes or economic headaches. Just mid-day tee-times and endless sunshine. Sing it with me, now … “Ahhh-ooooo, Werewolf of Oman.”
