TRUMP ON VERGE OF NEW CAMPAIGN TACTIC: MELANIA NUDE - 9.19.24

forty nine. How about vote for Trump and order Millenia's book and get two free nude photos of her. That's where we are, or almost where we are. Ex prosecutor vice president swapped in for the retiring president versus insane proto Nazi racist would be dictator adjudicated sex offender with the nude model first lady and her step sons, who

are both appearing with it. Oklahoma religious crackpot who has called the vice president a quote lying whore and their dad's campaign is about the scary illegal black people eating cats, but the grotesque, misogynist Russian produced sexual memes are about the vice president. As a movie, it would be hilarious if the title hadn't been taken. You could call it doctor Strangelove.

by three point three. Okay, okay, My final offer vote for Trump in Pennsylvania, and you can take a photo with the first lady. And that's as far as I go. The Trump people remain utterly mystified by what is happening. Like all Republicans ever since Newt Gingrich crawled out of the primordial slime. They live by one mantra and one mantra. Only if it is evil and it worked, do more of it. If it's evil and it didn't work, do twice as much of it. They cannot figure this out.

Crazy won them the White House in twenty sixteen. Crazy almost won them a coup in twenty twenty. So why is Crazy losing and losing a little bit more every week? To her? Naturally, the response is the evil once worked, but it hasn't been working, so we won't stop it, and we won't double it. We have to do three times as much of it as we did previously. I mean Axios. Far right reactionary axios headlined all this last night, the no shame strategy. The interior headline Vance's zero shame strategy.

It's also Vance's zero truth strategy. This whole thing, this whole thing about the cats and the migrants in Springfield, Ohio, the whole Riizon detra of JV. Vance's stochastic terrorist attack on the residents of his own state. This has now been revealed to originate from two lies. The first lie was from the woman who posted to Facebook about somebody's friends, neighbors, aunts, uncles, condoms, salesman seeing somebody eat a cat. The woman's name was

Erica Lee. She has at least expressed remorse. Vance's campaign knew this was not true. It had called the Springfield City Hall on the ninth of this month and was told by people there that it was not true, and that did not stop them. It didn't even slow them down. The second lie, revealed yesterday, turns out to have been by the woman in Springfield who told the police her cat, Miss Sassey, had been taken and killed. Maybe that's the story Vance keeps using as a fallback. Oh there's a

police report. My constituents insist there is a missing cat. The woman is named Anna Kilgore, and guess what her cat is alive? Sweet Sassy Melasses, the cat, Miss Sassey, is alive. The Wall Street Journal did something that Trump and Vance and their fellow scumbags would never do. They fact checked Vance's story and kill Gore's story and Miss

Sasse's story. I quote. A Vance spokesperson on Tuesday provided The Wall Street Journal with a police report in which a resident had claimed her pet might have been taken by Haitian neighbors. But when a reporter went to Anna Kilgore's house Tuesday evening, she said her cat, Miss Sassey, which went missing in late August, had actually returned a

few days later, found safe in her own basement. Kil Gore, wearing a Trump shirt and hat, said she apologized to her in Haitian neighbors with the help of her daughter and a mobile phone translation app. And again, as stupid as all that sounds, at least she did that. At least she made some effort to put one pinch of

the toothpaste back into the tube. Vance Vance got up on a stage and insisted not only that he has multiple reports from his constituents, but that the legal immigrants, virtually everybody Republican or Democrat is generously welcomed into Springfield, Ohio acknowledge that they have improved Springfield, Ohio. Vance got up there yesterday insisted they are not legally here and that it's just a legal trick played by the Vice

president and he's going to keep calling them illegal. JD. Vance is a menace to the peace and safety of the citizens of this country. He is a liar. He is an amoral son of a bitch. And guess what if we start kicking people out of America, if we start saying, oh, you think you're here legally, We've decided you're not here legally. If we start deporting them, we need to make sure Trump is first and JD. Vance is second, or maybe it should be the other way round,

because Trump can't run as fast as Vance can. For all the hyperbole here, it is essential to remember at all times that Trump is the psychotic in this equation. Vance is the one pretending to be psychotic, deliberately, exploitatively, reprehensively. CNN reported yesterday that right after the twenty twelve election, Vance then still at Yale law wrote a seemingly heartfelt rebuke of people like the JD. Vance of twenty twenty four.

Vance twenty twenty twelve attacked the GOP platform on migrants and minorities, calling it quote openly hostile to non whites and alienating to blacks, Latinos, the youth. He wrote this on a non partisan blog run by one of his former teachers, and four years later, as he cynically mapped out this path to political horedom we see him living today, he decided it needed to be erased. He asked his ex professor to delete it. Well, there's deleted, and then

there's deleted. It is still on the Internet archive. I quote JD. Vance twenty twelve. A significant part of Republican immigration policy centers on the possibility of deporting twelve million people or self deporting them. Think about it. We conservatives rightly mistrust the government to efficiently administer business loans and regulate our food supply, Yet we allegedly believe that it can deport millions of unregistered aliens. The notion fails to

pass the laugh test. The same can be said for too much of the party's platform. That is exactly what Vance without a second thought for truth or humanity, or how much we laugh at him or who he used to be when he was still a human being. That is exactly what jd. Vance is pushing on America right now. It is even if he and Trump go down in record breaking flames, indescribably damaging to this country, he should

be ashamed of it. Remember the practicalities here too, which I've been hammering since twenty sixteen, and I've never asked anybody to delete the record of mass deportations require mass concentration camps, and mass concentration camps require this nation to move just one small step away from ethnic cleansing. The Vice President underscored the point yesterday while talking to the Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute. Quote, massive raids, massive detention camps.

What are they talking about? She said, as the room understandably went silent coverage of her speech. It was married to an ipso's poll indicating fifty four percent of the country at least somewhat supports apprehending and removing undocumented immigrants. How about the net pole asking if America supports death camps for them, because that as Kamala Harris rightly implies

is the inevitable trumpion outcome. And JD. Van's is still out there every day selling lying about what he was once ashamed of, and he should be ashamed of it still. But I assume he asked his old propht to delete his conscience for him as well. The overall picture can used to verify something I guessed weeks ago. The Trump campaign will just get darker and darker, and many of its leaders will abandon hope of an electoral victory and focus entirely on forcing a contingent election in the House

of Representatives or another coup attempt. We're both. This is a dangerous cult full of stupid, failed people looking for somebody else to blame. When they were told yesterday at advance event that the FED had cut interest rates, they booed because in their echo chamber, any economic improvement now, including economic improvement for themselves, is bad news for Trump. It is madness. And no. Lemmings do not actually follow each other blindly off of cliffs, but metaphorically, Trump thugs

do follow each other blindly off of cliffs. For my next guess, the next flashpoint is going to be a really difficult one. Those two charges against the guy at the Trump golf club, the weapons possessions violations that may be it. The Department of Justice may not have any other legal action to take against him, although clearly it wants more. It is combing his life to look for something else to charge him with, as is the state

of Florida. But as the Wall Street Journal put it, quote, additional charges would present challenges for prosecutors, since law enforcement officials have said Routh never fired a shot or had Trump in his line of sight before a Secret Service agent spotted his rifle poking through the golf course fence

and open fire, sending him fleeing. If you've noticed, even places like the Wall Street Journal and Fox are backing away from referring to this event at the golf course as a quote assassination attempt unquote, still had that term on its front page last night, in mice type at the bottom. Given less prominent play than Woje leaving ESPN,

the journal has adopted quote apparent assassination attempt unquote. What happens when the cult figures out that the suspect is facing like six years in jail for a crime they consider worse than the crucifixion. Well, I'm just going to guess that at that point they send out dvance to claim that the man is also an undocumented immigrant. Also of interest here the response to this from the former

Trump critic and fired CNN anchor Chris Cuomo. He phoned Trump to apologize to him because I don't know, I stopped understanding anything he was doing. Five years ago, Chris Cuomo used to think the correct journalistic answer to how to have CNN cover the implosion of his brother's tenure as governor of New York was to just ignore the story every night. Now he's apologizing to Trump for I don't know. That's next, then, an all new edition of Countdown.

times has this happened to you? How many times have you flashed back to the day when somebody came over to the apartment building you were living in and lit it on fire, the story of Hey, why is the light through yonder window breaking so much brighter than usual? Next in Things I Promised not to tell they let my building on fire. First, there are still more new

idiots to talk about. The daily roundup of the miss Grants, morons and Dunning Krueger effects specimens who constitute today's worst persons in the world, or, as the number three here would say it, whoo the bronze worse.

are you nuts? Maria. It's Maria's theory that the world's media is being manipulated by you ready, Alejandro majorcis the head of Homeland Security. No, no, seriously, I mean, even even as a conspiracy theory, even in the conspiracy theory world. Seriously, the one time I would ever say this sentence. You sure you don't mean George sorows where Joe Biden or

at least like Aaron Rodgers or somebody. Bartiromo's theory is that the head of Homeland Security is manipulating the country to stop talking about the guy who had the gun at Trump's golf course. Once again, they take that same strategy out, and that is change the conversation. She said, the timing of the p Diddy arrest, Please, they must have had the p Diddy arrest on the shelf, waiting to take it off the shelf for when they needed it.

And yesterday, boy, oh boy, did they need it. Because the questions were spiking everywhere as far as how it is possibility that another assassination attempt happened, that another would be assassin was within a couple of hundred yards of Trump. What questions were spiking? Trump plays golf every day at the same three courses. He walks slowly when he walks, and he likes having people film him play golf as if he were good at it. And his golf course, the one in Florida, the main one he uses next

to Mari a lago. It abuts public streets. He has been warned endlessly while in office and out not to do this, but he does it anyway. The only questions that are spiking here are how is Trump this stupid? Not from Awa. As we are all asking these questions, boom, they take P Diddy in and now we're all talking about that. I saw right through it as soon as it happened. Ah okay, I got it now, so uh sorry, I'm who's P Diddy? The rapper guy with the sex

trafficking thing? Who is not R Kelly? I got it right? Ah okay? Was that this week? Maria? The only thing you saw right through his reality and into your own little fantasy, paranoid world. The runner up worser the University of South Carolina. I'll just read this intact from the South Carolina Daily Gazette, the nonprofit news site in that

state Columbia. A social media message circulating among the University of South Carolina alumni is criticizing the state's largest university system for allowing the student event featuring a pair of controversial far right political provocateurs, including the founder of the Proud Boys. In response, a college spokesman said, allowing the

event as a matter of free speech. The September event, sponsored by the USC chapter of Uncensored America, bills itself as a roast of Vice President Harris with roast masters Milo Ianapolis and Gavin mckinness. It's Gavin mckinness from the Proud Boys. Proud is a brand name. They don't have anything to be proud about. The event's title uses a crude spelling of the Democratic presidential nominee name, which the

sc Daily Gazette is intentionally not repeating. Unquote, the newspaper The Guardian is quoting a South Carolina student name Nick Stewart is saying, as someone who normally has a lot of school pride, this ordeal has made me feel ashamed of being a student at USC. Well, yeah, look, it's South Carolina, so our expectations for you doing the right

thing were next to nothing. But Jesus suffering f you're actually hosting this on campus, an attack on a vice president of the United States and making a sexual joke about her. In the title of the thing with these two idiots, mckinnis but our winner worse than all this the worst Chris Cuomo I was explaining this. In fact, Chris Cuomo's name came up during it to a media reporter the other day. There are those of us who suffer from being on TV, radio, podcast disorder. It's a

minor personality disorder. And if you recognize you have it, and that it's not quite one hundred percent healthy, you're coping with it. You're not dangerous, You're not harming anybody.

I mean, you know, you might humiliate yourself now and again, But if you get fired from CNN for not understanding that there are rules about journalism and nepotism, and you think you were right and so you must remain on TV, you have the disease that says you must be on TV to such a degree that you're willing to accept a job on the nick at night of TV news called News Nation. This is no longer a minor disorder,

it's no longer coping and you should seek help. Then if you decide that what happened to Trump on Sunday, what didn't happen to Trump on Sunday has never happened to any politician before, even though your own father and your own brother were governors, and you choose to call Trump to apologize for something, and then you go on the air and talk about calling Trump for twenty minutes. I'm afraid, Chris Cuomo, you are in the tertiary stages of this disease.

in the Bronx off Fordham Road. Full time. We live there until October nineteen sixty, then roughly one day a week in another apartment, the one my grandparents lived, same block until like my folks, my grandparents, it's moved out of the Bronx to the suburbs round about when I was seven. I did not get my own apartment in New York City until nineteen eighty, which seems so long ago that if you ask me now, was it still called New Amsterdam, then I'd have to stop and think

about my answer. Anyway, I was there the other day, a block away from my apartment. Could look right into the window and at just the right angle to see it. So I stood and stared and took some pictures with my phone, and I shook my head and I went into full flashback mode, and I saw the flames and the glow and the blackened lobby. Because one night somebody threw a Malata fn cocktail into the building in which

I had my first New York City apartment. The address was it is two hundred and forty East fifty fifth Street, Apartment ten F. It was two doors west of Second Avenue, south side of the street. It was the center apartment on the streets side of the building, and I was directly above the front entrance and above the only thing of note in the whole place, a full fledged, old

fashioned New York City apartment building canopy. You could get out of a cab and a rain storm and under that canopy in like a second and a half and pretty much not get wet. No doorman, no amenities, rather dubious, live in super but it had that canopy. I moved in on June seventeenth, nineteen eighty. It was a big studio apartment. The view was of a big video warehouse across the street, though if you leaned out the westernmost window you could see the City Corps Center, which was

always an impressive sight on a foggy night. The neighborhood and the building were safe and quiet, at least they thought they were safe. It was a fifteen minute walk from my first job and then a twenty five minute walk from my second job, and when I first rented there, it was are you ready four hundred and eighty three dollars a month, which sounds unbelievable except that was about

a third of my salary. And I think when I moved out in nineteen eighty four the rent had gone up to five hundred and ten dollars a month, And that low price might have had something to do with the fact that one night somebody threw them all a top cocktail into the building. You know how, once you've been in any place for any length of time, you get used to the physics of it, the feel of it. Not just someplace you live, any place you spend a lot of time in an office, a classroom, a theater,

or an apartment. You know what it sounds like. You know what it feels like in the summer, or how it feels differently in the winter. You know what it looks like, the building, noise, the smells, if it's too hot, if it's too cold, and especially, and think about this for a second, especially what the light looks like at

every hour of the day. I don't know if there was a day when I could have said this is what the light looks like in Apartment ten f two forty East fifty fifth Street during a snowstorm, or what the light looks like coming in through the shades at eight in the morning or eight at night. But it probably didn't take long. June nineteen eighty was when I

moved in. I bet I knew the various lights of the place by September, so by New Years of nineteen eighty three, I knew it all instinctively, exactly reflexingly, boringly. I would go to my bed in the southeast corner

of my studio apartment. I'd get in sleeping north south, but with my head at the south end, and as I lay on my back, I could look out the windows and see the faint orangey glow from a couple of street lights that shone through the four windows that opened to on either side of a kind of small picture window in the middle. The light would be brightest from the window on the farthest right, which was the one closest to Second Avenue and the closest to one

of those street lights. So on Sunday, January ninth, nineteen eighty three, as that night turned into Monday, January tenth, nineteen eighty three, I hit the sack around midnight because I actually had one of those rare nine to five jobs in television as a field reporter for CNN. I shut off the light on my nightstand. I laid down on my back. I stared out my right hand window, and immediately I thought, boy, the light is slightly more

orange than it should be. What the hell's wrong? I'm guessing it was no more than five or ten percent different from usual. But as I've gone to such lengths to point out, if you see the same light through the same window in all conceivable conditions almost every night for more than two years, five or ten percent difference is a lot, I think. I lay there trying to figure it out for a minute or so when I

realized it was now ten or fifteen percent different. Cleverly, I got up and went to the window and rolled up the shade and looked down to that canopy ten floors below, and I must say, to my credit, I quickly discerned that the canopy was on on fire. I reacted as almost everybody does, matter of factly, thinking, maybe even saying out loud, hey, the canopy is on fire.

And then registering the fact that the fire had already burned through the building end of that canopy, and it was moving quickly outwards towards the street, suggesting again, I must say, I figured this out for myself, suggesting that there was probably a fire in the lobby. I put a robe on over my pajamas, I put on some shoes. I grabbed my wallet and my keys, and I ventured into the hallway. No smell of smoke, which I took

again intelligently, is a good sign. Two elevators were staring me in the face, but I knew better than to try them. I was, after all, the grandson of a firefighter. So I opened the stairwell and then I smelled the smoke. Faint, but it was there. I went down two floors, and every step I took the smell got a little stronger. I went back up. I went back into my apartment. I did not really know what I was going to do.

Needless to say, ten floors is not jumpable. Also, there was no outdoor fire escape like in many of the New York City older apartment buildings. And even if I went down the elevator or the stairs or the side of the damned building. I would wind up right in the middle of the fire. For a few seconds, I really didn't know what to do next. Me, the grandson of the man who was not only a firefighter, but

who drove the hook and ladder irony also fire. That's when the sound of the fire engines broke me out of self absorption and cheered me, I must say considerably. They parked right near where that convenient canopy used to be, but was now pretty much a charred hunk of the metal framing in a little burned fabric. I'm sure you've seen a fire. Maybe you've seen firefighters arrive at one and get going with their amazing speed, But there is something different in seeing it from the vantage point of

being above the fire. First there is an extraordinary amount of water, then a lot of smoke, then an almost unstoppable instinct to say cool. And then you go and check the stairwell again and joyfully inhale the smell of stuff that had been on fire but was now no longer on fire and just inundated with water. Hallelujah. I waited until after they left before I decided to go

back to my bed. I did not feel the need to add to whatever loud chaos was going on in the lobby or what have been the lobby, nor to get any details about the fire other than the key one, which was it's out. But in the morning, since I had to go to work anyway, I saw the elevator door open onto the little linoleum covered landing in the lobby, and saw that everything else but it in the lobby was jet black. They were still hosing some of it down.

They were already pulling up burned carpet, installing new windows and doors, and carting away what was left of the canopy. And it was evident that as thorough a job as had been done there, nothing else in the building had burned. Nothing. In the days and weeks to come, the other residents, knowing I worked in news, clued me in on the rumors and asked me to check them out. There was a dispute, somebody said, involving the owner. There was something

about a woman. No, there was nothing about a woman. But all of them, every story, every rumor, included the obvious. That was no boating accident. Somebody had thrown a milo toof cocktail into or against our front door, and then there was the best of the stories, born out or at least lent plausibility by the rapidity with which the firefighters arrived, which thinking back on it was no more than three or four minutes after I first saw the

extra orange glow. The best rumor was that the fire department had been called by somebody before anybody in the building had called. The implication was somebody called in a fire and then started the fire. For forty years plus I have been unable to find the truth. The fire, doing superficial but ultimately not serious damage did not make the New York newspapers. Hell that year, I took a subway to work in the morning and there was a

guy sprawled over three seats. And when I went home that night, I happened to get on the exact same train car and there was the exact same guy sprawled over the exact same three seats because he was dead. And that didn't make the New York newspapers of nineteen eighty three either. We old timey New Yorkers, we lived on the edge. Baby. All I know is that within weeks a doorman was hired. His name was Jane and

he had a strong Irish accent. And he was still there as of two thousand and two, and then the building suddenly went co op. All of us renters were suddenly offered the chance to buy our apartments. But I didn't want to take out a loan, and I expected to be moving to Boston in the near future, and I kept thinking about that Molotov cocktail. So I turned down that apartment at the price of are you lying down thirty six five hundred dollars. Turned it down because, yeah,

there was the fire and the loan and Boston. But ultimately I turned it down, even just to keep as a storage unit. I turned that apartment down because when it comes to investments, I'm a moron. I've done all the damage I can do here. Thank you for listening. We're now back to five episodes a week, posting nightly just after midnight Eastern. Once again there is a Monday countdown.

I was just thinking as I read that, if you said to me in nineteen eighty, you know you'll still be doing this when you're sixty five, only you'll be doing a podcast. I wouldn't have had any idea what you were talking about. Of churs. I was pretty dim then. I probably wouldn't have had any idea what you were talking about, no matter what you brought up. Brian Ray and John Phillip Shanelle, the musical directors, have Countdown, arranged, produced,

and performed most of our music. Mister Shanelle handled the orchestration and the keyboards. Mister Ray was on the guitars, bass and drums, and it was produced by Tko Brothers. Our satirical and fifthy musical comments are by the best

baseball stadium organist ever, Nancy Faust. The sports music is the Olderman theme from ESPN two, written by Mitch Warren Davis courtesy of ESPN Inc. Other music arranged and performed by the group No Horns Allowed and out here today is my friend Tony Kornheiser in honor of the retirement of WOJ. Good Luck Adrian. Everything else was pretty much

my fault. That's countdown for this the forty eighth day until the twenty twenty fourth presidential election, the one and forty sixth day since convicted felon domestic jay terrorists first attempted coup against the democratically elected government in the United States. Use the election, use the mental health system, use presidential immunity if you have to to keep him from doing it again while we still can. The next scheduled countdown

is tomorrow. Bulletins as the news requires till the next one on Keith Olderman good Morning, good afternoon, good night, and good luck. Countdown with Keith Olderman is a production of iHeart Radio. For more podcasts from iHeartRadio, visit the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.