Anchor Struck

We’re having perfect weather up here on the farm, with temperatures in the low 20’s (70’s F.) and a nice breeze to keep away the blackflies whose bite can draw blood. But with the heaviest of hearts I look south to the events of the last few days. Remember the image of a barely wounded Trump raising his fist as he was hustled offstage, because he’s going to ride it into the presidency. There’s no one the Dems can recruit to beat him now. Plus their chances to win back the House dim every day Biden remains obstinate.

And today’s dismissal of the classified documents case by Judge Cannon is about as egregious a judicial event as possible. I’ve blogged about the near sanctity of said documents, so we got a whole new world kinda thing on this one. It might be academic, though. Trump would have absolved himself of it as soon as he retook office.

The only glimmer of hope I can find right now is that a near-death experience like Trump just had can change a person dramatically. We’ll know from his acceptance speech at the GOP convention if he learned anything from it.

Failing that, I could move to a forest in Canada. Oh, wait . . .