In a development that sent shockwaves through the fever swamps of American political discourse, the so-called ‘weaponisation’ fund – that glorious slush pile of grievance cash – has officially been expended. The news came through the fog of a thousand tweetstorms, delivered by a solemn-faced official who looked as though he'd just discovered his gin had been watered down with tap water. The fund, created with the solemn purpose of defending the sainted Trump from the jackboots of the Deep State, has been drained dry. Republicans are, reportedly, ‘fighting back’ with renewed vigour, though the precise nature of this vigour remains as elusive as a sober thought at Mar-a-Lago.
Let us pause for a moment to savour the sheer irony. The fund, which was supposed to be a bulwark against the weaponisation of government, has itself been weaponised as a fundraising tool, a perpetual motion machine of outrage. It is the political equivalent of a dog chasing its own tail, except the dog is wearing a red tie, and the tail is wrapped in a flag. The money, we are told, has been ‘exhausted’ – a word that conjures images of a weary traveller who has spent his last groat on a bad pun. But fear not! For the Republican response has been swift and decisive: they have announced a new fund, presumably with blackjack and hookers, to continue the fight.
The end of this particular slush pile is being hailed as a victory by the very people who created it. It is a classic move: declare victory and then ask for more money to secure the victory. It is the same logic that leads a man to buy a second round of drinks to celebrate finishing the first. The headlines scream, ‘Republicans fight back!’, but a closer look reveals a party that has become a parody of itself, a hall of mirrors where every reflection is just another fundraiser.
Meanwhile, the man at the centre of this maelstrom, the orange-cheeked avatar of American id, is reportedly ‘thrilled’ – which is his way of saying he hasn’t been indicted in at least 72 hours. His legal bills, a bottomless pit of expense, have been partly defrayed by this fund, but the well has run dry. Now the faithful must reach deeper into their pockets, or perhaps sell a few more Trump-branded NFTs (non-fungible tokens, or, as they are known in the trade, ‘virtual nothing’).
The irony is so thick you could cut it with a cartoon knife. The weaponisation fund, born of a belief that the government is out to get one man, has proved that the only thing being weaponised with any success is credulity. The Republican response is a masterclass in circular logic: we need money to fight the weaponisation of government, but the weaponisation of government is a fundraising tool. It is the snake eating its own tail, except the snake is wearing a cowboy hat.
And yet, the faithful cheer. They cheer because they must believe that the end of one fund is just the beginning of another. They cheer because the alternative is too terrible to contemplate: that the whole thing is a farce, a grift, a magnificent con. But as the great philosopher P.T. Barnum once said (or perhaps it was Donald Trump in a rare moment of clarity), ‘There’s a sucker born every minute.’ And in this circus, the clowns are running the show.
So let us raise a glass of lukewarm gin to the death of the weaponisation fund. It served its purpose: it kept the outrage machine humming, the legal wolves at bay, and the grifters in business. And now, like a phoenix from the ashes of its own bank account, the fight continues. Because in American politics, the only thing worse than being weaponised is being ignored.
