SecreTrumpiat and the Midterm Stakes

The first leg of SecreTrumpiat's Triple Crown, the Republican Nomination Derby, was a crowded field with sixteen experienced rivals, where tight running lanes, quick decisions, pacing, and final sprint strategy spelled the difference between victory and defeat.  Adroitly passing each competitor one by one, SecreTrumpiat strategically positioned himself for the winning sprint at the final turn, taking the Republican crown, leaving lesser horses in the dust as he blew past the finish line in spectacular fashion, delighting his legion of everyday fans, though astonishing smug critics mired in embarrassed denial.

The Presidential Preakness was a tougher go, with a few missteps leaving him off the lead, with a more daunting distance to recoup.  But he hit the afterburners and flew past the smaller yet powerful field of Crooked Hillary, a hostile media, the entertainment industry, internet-providers, academia, and NeverTrump Turncoats, all hell-bent on his defeat, to capture the presidential prize going away as his vanquished foes slunk into the night in tearful disbelief and seething resentment.

Next up is the Triple Crown's third leg, the daunting 2018 Midterm Stakes, the lurking graveyard for unsuspecting first-termers not built for the long haul.  Caterwauling critics claim he got this far due only to lucky breaks, Russian collusion conspiracies, and underestimations of a complacent competition, but not so the midterms.  Here the field is ready; this time, he won't be so lucky.  SecreTrumpiat will finally receive his comeuppance.  The extra quarter-mile of endurance needed for victory will spell doom for the golden-maned stallion, his agenda, and his legacy.

Astute racehorse handicappers know better: not only is this rare thoroughbred equipped with blinding speed, running up staggering GDP, employment, and labor participation rates in astounding numbers in record time, but he's also built with indefatigable endurance.

With a vigor heretofore unseen, SecreTrumpiat bursts out the gate in a headlong sprint in the final Triple Crown race.  Throwing caution to the wind, he enthralls rally after rally, inspiring a grateful, ebullient Trump Nation in standing room only love-fests.  His leading-from-the-front gallop energizes the Trump faithful to a fever pitch, his running-on-his-record gap widening.  The gathered press is certain he'll run himself out, collapsing before the finish line, unable to maintain this unheard-of pace to victory.  They stare agape as his lead widens ever farther as he approaches the finish.  With each reaching, powerful lunge, each burst of energy, each expanding leap, his margin grows ever larger, the stadiums rock ever more loudly, his enthusiasm melds with his ecstatic base ever more intensely, sweeping all up into the final burst that will leave the dispirited, sniping Democrat field gasping in their own November dirt.

Will a 31-length victory materialize?  We'll see – but one thing's for sure: this is a racehorse one should be loath to bet against.  The more the Democrat media and their dear comrade politicians contemptuously snort and bray with their daily doses of contrived, manufactured crises, the greater will be the opposite and equal reaction of fair-minded people everywhere who, recoiling at the desperate hatefulness of the vindictive left, will vote to keep the reins of control of the House in the hands of Republicans and expand their control of the Senate as the blond thoroughbred's economy continues to rocket to ever-greater, perhaps historic, heights.

We're gonna need a bigger winner's circle.

The first leg of SecreTrumpiat's Triple Crown, the Republican Nomination Derby, was a crowded field with sixteen experienced rivals, where tight running lanes, quick decisions, pacing, and final sprint strategy spelled the difference between victory and defeat.  Adroitly passing each competitor one by one, SecreTrumpiat strategically positioned himself for the winning sprint at the final turn, taking the Republican crown, leaving lesser horses in the dust as he blew past the finish line in spectacular fashion, delighting his legion of everyday fans, though astonishing smug critics mired in embarrassed denial.

The Presidential Preakness was a tougher go, with a few missteps leaving him off the lead, with a more daunting distance to recoup.  But he hit the afterburners and flew past the smaller yet powerful field of Crooked Hillary, a hostile media, the entertainment industry, internet-providers, academia, and NeverTrump Turncoats, all hell-bent on his defeat, to capture the presidential prize going away as his vanquished foes slunk into the night in tearful disbelief and seething resentment.

Next up is the Triple Crown's third leg, the daunting 2018 Midterm Stakes, the lurking graveyard for unsuspecting first-termers not built for the long haul.  Caterwauling critics claim he got this far due only to lucky breaks, Russian collusion conspiracies, and underestimations of a complacent competition, but not so the midterms.  Here the field is ready; this time, he won't be so lucky.  SecreTrumpiat will finally receive his comeuppance.  The extra quarter-mile of endurance needed for victory will spell doom for the golden-maned stallion, his agenda, and his legacy.

Astute racehorse handicappers know better: not only is this rare thoroughbred equipped with blinding speed, running up staggering GDP, employment, and labor participation rates in astounding numbers in record time, but he's also built with indefatigable endurance.

With a vigor heretofore unseen, SecreTrumpiat bursts out the gate in a headlong sprint in the final Triple Crown race.  Throwing caution to the wind, he enthralls rally after rally, inspiring a grateful, ebullient Trump Nation in standing room only love-fests.  His leading-from-the-front gallop energizes the Trump faithful to a fever pitch, his running-on-his-record gap widening.  The gathered press is certain he'll run himself out, collapsing before the finish line, unable to maintain this unheard-of pace to victory.  They stare agape as his lead widens ever farther as he approaches the finish.  With each reaching, powerful lunge, each burst of energy, each expanding leap, his margin grows ever larger, the stadiums rock ever more loudly, his enthusiasm melds with his ecstatic base ever more intensely, sweeping all up into the final burst that will leave the dispirited, sniping Democrat field gasping in their own November dirt.

Will a 31-length victory materialize?  We'll see – but one thing's for sure: this is a racehorse one should be loath to bet against.  The more the Democrat media and their dear comrade politicians contemptuously snort and bray with their daily doses of contrived, manufactured crises, the greater will be the opposite and equal reaction of fair-minded people everywhere who, recoiling at the desperate hatefulness of the vindictive left, will vote to keep the reins of control of the House in the hands of Republicans and expand their control of the Senate as the blond thoroughbred's economy continues to rocket to ever-greater, perhaps historic, heights.

We're gonna need a bigger winner's circle.