The Republican National Committee is holding its closed-door winter meeting in Las Vegas next week and, while many thought the biggest news would be the preemptive coronation of Baby Huey, that agenda item has been tabled.
Opening up a lot of time for Bitching from the Base.
Politico reports this morning of grumblings from state and local ‘Pub officials deeply dissatisfied with the RNC’s delivery of resources to actually get voters to the polls. One telling quote: “Where are the tools? Where are all the little things that the left is doing but we don’t?”
Even more schadenfreudelicious, the bitching is egged on by none other than Charlie Kirk and his Turning Point circus, who rented the joint next door to the hotel where Ronna Romney McDaniel and company will hold their shindig next week.
The title of Monday’s summit was itself a clear knock on the RNC. A prevailing theme among attendees of the “Restoring National Confidence” gathering, which was open to local chairs and GOP leaders from the most consequential counties, was that the actual RNC wasn’t doing enough to train and support the grassroots.
“They’re a bunch of losers. They know it. The grassroots knows it. The donors know it,” Kirk said in an interview. “They lost in ’18. They lost in ’20. They lost in 2022. We have tried to reach out to them many times, and I’m not going to put up with another culture of losing.”
McDaniel, re-elected as RNC chair only last year, has become persona non grata among the rank and file of her own party, and Kirk isn’t the only former-fringer trying to hype his own schtick by bashing her. Laura Loomer predicted to Mike Lindell and Steve Bannon that the chairwoman will face a “grass roots ambush” at next week’s meeting.
These lashings-out will no doubt have little effect on the party in this primary season. Baby Huey will continue winning primaries. Eventually, he’ll give Ronna permission to declare him Presumptive, and we can all look forward to the Three Days Hate in Milwaukee.
But, for now, I am basking in the warm, fuzzy feeling of seeing my foes yapping and nipping at each other like a kennel of caffeinated chihuahuas.
Heck, it’s five o’clock somewhere. Pour me another.
