The Cult of the Big Beautiful Bill

Cults demand much of their followers. They demand the surrender of agency, of independent thought, of morality. They demand loyalty unto ruin: financial, mental, personal, sometimes even sexual. They shatter bonds of decency and reality alike.

And Donald J. Trump, that orange messiah of American decline, has assembled a cult that would make L. Ron Hubbard blush. It’s not politics. It’s not ideology. It’s obedience, wrapped in a cheap red hat and steeped in the stagnant fumes of authoritarianism. And this week, with the passage of the so-called “Big Beautiful Bill,” we saw it for what it truly is: cultlike uniformity disguised as politics.

This should’ve felt tragic. But frankly, I’m thrilled.

As one of the original Never Trumpers — charter member, front-row seat — I’ve long since burned away the last flecks of hope that the GOP would find its way back from the wilderness. I used to believe in the things the party claimed to stand for: limited government, personal freedom, fiscal restraint. I used to believe, laughably, that there was a moral spine hiding somewhere between tax cuts and flag pins.

But watching the final death throes of independence in the Republican Senate and House didn’t make me sad. It made me giddy. Lisa Murkowski, in a moment that perfectly encapsulated the shambling fraud her party has become, voted for the bill after receiving a bribe from leadership … then turned around and begged the House not to pass it.

That’s not strategy. That’s panic in sensible shoes.

This wasn’t politics. This was political Heaven’s Gate, except the Kool-Aid was Monster Energy, the matching sneakers were Temu knockoffs, and the comet was Donald Trump’s tax plan, streaking straight into the economic sun...