The end of the Trump administration took place on a Saturday morning. It was this latest Pennsylvania vote dump that made his re-election a statistical impossibility. The President was, as he usually does, at his golf course when this happened. It was all a bit surreal, and it felt like it was happening in slow motion, like falling off a horse or getting into a car crash.
I knew a Biden victory was coming. We’ve all done it. The calculations made Trump’s victory nearly impossible. The writing was on the wall. Even Rupert Murdoch admitted it was over. He had used the blanket of New York Post to send that message to its figurehead – the headline read “Ready, Set, Joe,” along with a photo of a happy Joe Biden.
And if that wasn’t enough, Laura Ingraham had used her television program to very gently tell Trump that it was over. But until the race was called, I had this nagging feeling that something could still go wrong, like 2016 could theoretically happen again. I was worried that the networks would call him, or that Trump would cheat, or that something would go terribly wrong, maybe involving the Supreme Court or something. It was largely an anxiety and not a real concrete idea, but it weighed on me nonetheless.
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