On The West Wing, they wrote Toby saving Social Security with words. Words typed in a room with snacks. It was fiction, and still they punished him for trying. Fictional trying. Even that was too much.

Real life gave them Obama, all cool teeth and earnest brows. He stood at the edge of action, peered in, and shook his head. The Republicans won’t let me, he said. Like a boy pointing to the other children when the jar of cookies lies broken on the floor. He gave speeches that lifted and floated like helium, and when they popped, there was no sound. Only a sigh.

He could’ve fought. He could’ve twisted arms. He could’ve spilled blood on the floor of the House like the old bulls did. But he preferred to look noble in surrender. They all did. That was the trick. Look exhausted by principle. Look wounded by partisanship. Cry about process. Show charts. Invite David Brooks to dinner. Be tragic. Be thwarted. But never, never win. Never do.

To do is vulgar. It’s Republican. It’s Trumpian. It suggests belief in reality. Better to commission studies. Better to say “we’re working on it.” Better to float in a sea of workgroups and blue-ribbon panels. Better to be intelligent than effective. Better to mourn than to fight.

The people cheered. They always do. They like the look of effort without the sting of change. They want to feel like something is being done, without the disruption of something being done. They want Sorkin dialogue and morning light. They want the illusion of governing, like a diorama behind glass.

But there’s no food in the diorama. No shelter. No hope. Just well-lit cardboard men talking forever about how hard it all is. And then going home.

The country, meanwhile, gets older. Hungrier. Meaner. And no one saves anything. Especially not Social Security.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5759466&forum_id=2...id.#49164014)

He stared down Khrushchev and blinked. Berlin split. Cuba armed. Missiles in the backyard. He got hustled in Vienna and came home like a prom king who just learned the Nerd was sleeping with his date. He puffed up and sent boys to die on a beach at the Bay of Pigs (no air support, no plan, just vibes), and when it fell apart, he shrugged like a man too good for details.

Everything fell apart. Laos. Congo. Vietnam crept in like mildew. But none of it mattered, because he looked like a man who tried. He sounded like a man who tried. He had Hair. So much Hair. Like the republic itself had found a new wig of youth and flicked it back, proud and virile and ready to strut.

He understood the trick before Obama refined it: history is for losers, but image is for the gods. The camera will not ask follow-ups. It does not audit results. It sanctifies the trying. He was the first president who governed like a cologne ad.

And the Democrats learned. Don’t win. Look like you tried to win. Don’t fix anything. Appear on a stage next to someone saying they might. Use the words “pragmatic,” “incremental,” “nuanced.” Always look slightly in pain, as if burdened by the weight of complexity.

Kennedy’s face told the story. A man haunted by responsibility. A man who wanted to do the right thing, but couldn't, for reasons too profound to explain. His enemies were always invisible, structural, historic, intractable. His fans called that wisdom. His critics called it cowardice. But it played well on camera, and that was all that mattered.

So they made him the template. Noble failure with a square jaw. The prototype of the liberal icon: lose beautifully, eloquently, handsomely. Blame Congress. Blame fate. Blame history. Blame the republican caucus. And always—ALWAYS—keep your Hair perfect.

And in the end, Kennedy failed in the greatest, most cinematic way of all: He failed to stay alive. A martyr without the bother of governing. No reelection, no LBJ bloat, no quagmire with his name on it. Just the flash of a motorcade, the pink dress, the blood on the boulevard, and cut to black. A death so stylish, so abrupt, it erased the record. The Bay of Pigs? Gone. Vienna? Forgotten. Vietnam? Not his problem. He became pure symbol; eternal youth in a three-button suit, a sepia ideal, a man forever about to do something great but never having to prove it. That’s the dream. That’s the Democratic fantasy. To try just hard enough to look noble and then be cut down before results arrive. The modern liberal politician chases that silhouette like a ghost. Slim. Glossy. Tragic. A man undone by the world before he had to fix it. That's the legacy. That's the blueprint. Not action. Not result. But aestheticized futility, sealed in amber by a bullet.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5759466&forum_id=2...id.#49164029)

https://res.cloudinary.com/aenetworks/image/upload/c_fill,ar_2,w_3840,h_1920,g_auto/dpr_auto/f_auto/q_auto:eco/v1/GettyImages-615299484-e1700496207253?_a=BAVAZGDX0

https://external-preview.redd.it/05mo1pRtGQVsOM66LA684hikjnYcMU3DEt3WIm3Bfro.jpg?width=1080&crop=smart&auto=webp&s=6470b6fec43ba820d7536368e938fc294b58b901

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5759466&forum_id=2...id.#49164036)

otoh, this is the same critique the far right has of Conservatism Inc - that they are a dedicated 'controlled opposition' party that does nothing.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5759466&forum_id=2...id.#49164069)

Deserves a lot of attention.

It’s instantly archaic though because “Democrat” and “Republican” are dead words.

There is little continuity between MAGA and Republicans. Democrats, of the west wing variety, don’t really exist any more either.

Hard to articulate what is emerging as “two parties”, but it’s probably best lumped by race and racial alliances. You also have to factor sex. White women and feminine males lumping in with another race. Non white men joining up with whites in the name of masculinity.

I could see a Nick Fuentes type leading “the left” by the mid 30s, and some Nikki Haley spawn leading the “right”. Whites voting hard “Dem”, and Jews etc voting “right”.

Idk, suffice to say it’s all changing. We will be certified olds talking about “democrats” like we are Gettysburg veterans or something, just gibbering incomprehensible shit

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5759466&forum_id=2...id.#49164124)

This was written by a human, probably someone with:

Strong writing chops (possibly journalistic or essayist background)

Deep political and cultural awareness

A practiced, confident voice

There’s real human emotion and cynicism here. The kind that AI can mimic, but rarely with this consistency and punch

If you’re trying to determine authorship (e.g., wondering if someone passed off AI writing as their own or vice versa), you could:

Run a tool like GPTZero or Originality.ai for probability analysis.

Check for online publication via a phrase search — it could be a published essay or op-ed

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5759466&forum_id=2...id.#49164160)