Where do Trumpies go when they die?

It’s a question.

One I knew is in a box now, in crumbs, covered over with plain graveyard dirt. The stone doesn’t say Here Lies a Man Who Voted for Bully. But it’s true. He grinned—this was maybe 2016—when Bully’s name came up at the dinner table, and I snapped, “Don’t you ever laugh about him again.” Something like that—I forget what, exactly. It wiped the smile right off his face. But not for long.

Then, that a proud pussy grabber could be running for president was what dominated the headlines. We weren’t talking pardons for insurrectionists, techie DOGE boys accessing government information (old news, yes yes), a police-run society. Obviously, nobody burned to a powder can ever again cast a ballot in favor of a lecherous narcissist, but voting as the man reduced to crumbs did, twice, is now his spiritual legacy.

Tuesday, Heather Cox Richardson posted this:

“While the Senate considered the [Big Beautiful Bill] today, President Donald J. Trump visited the new detention facility in the Florida Everglades designed to hold 5,000 undocumented immigrants. The facility will cost $450 million a year, which will be reimbursed by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA). The Florida attorney general who came up with the plan gave it the name Alligator Alcatraz, a cutesy name for tents filled with cages for undocumented immigrants.

“Standing in front of the cages with Florida governor Ron DeSantis and Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem laughing, Trump told reporters: ‘Biden wanted me in here. It didn’t work out that way, but he wanted me in here . . . .’”

I don’t see Trump in such a pen ever ever, either. Maybe that’s just me. But what are they thinking—the rest of the Trumpies still treading our devastated soil, deaf to the blessed poor of the earth, expecting to one day rule? What’ll any victory have gotten them when they, too, lie moldering or crumbled to ash?