Worry less and do more

 We can learn much from the British.

"Four people were arrested Tuesday at British Prime Minister Rishi Sunak's estate in northern England, one of whom entered the property to defecate in Sunak's private lake as a form of political protest."

Yes, there's video, but it had to be censored to suit the delicate sensibilities of Elon Musk.  Which might be even more telling than the protest.

I refuse to panic about last night's debate except to point out that the format not only discouraged but actually prevented all fact-checking.  Kasie Hunt cut off Karoline Leavitt when she started to lie about Jake Tapper.  Jim Acosta silenced an anti-choice spokesmodel named Kristan Hawkins when she accused Joe Biden of "weaponizing" (one of their favorite words) federal agencies to make abortion a federal issue.  But Tapper and Dana Bash lacked both the mechanism and the will to say, "Mr. Trump, sir, you're full of shit."  The tight allocation of time for answers and responses made that impossible, and they would have had to say it at least fifty times.  It was up to Biden to point out that Trump has the "morals of an alley cat," which is the slogan I want on a mugshot mug.

Biden was referring to the ninety-second siege of Stormy Daniels, which Trump naturally denied, but it applied equally to every lie -- about immigrants, January 6, the environment, the economy, Biden himself, Trump's contempt for the military and his entire colostomy bag of a life.

Gavin Newsom put it best when he called the debate "significantly insignificant."  Americans support freedom of choice and higher taxes for the ridiculously rich.  They would prefer a Supreme Court where venality does not shape every decision.  They don't want people to die of the heat if it can still be avoided.  When they're told about Project 2025 they recoil in horror.  They don't think a felon should be mayor of East Japip, much less president.  The message has to be delivered every day.  The alternative is too bad to contemplate.

Joe hasn't given up.  Despite the cold he struggled with last night he's in Raleigh today, fact-checking Trump's lies the way he had no time to do last night.  (Jim Clyburn:  "It was strike one. You get three.")  Biden sounds a hundred times better now that he doesn't have to see or hear Trump.  I'm that way, too.

Today's Guardian is overrun by Chicken Littles demanding that Biden step down and even suggesting replacements.  (Gretchen Whitmer?  I didn't think she was even known about in the UK.  Most Americans couldn't place her.)  Meanwhile there's no reason to think the British are political geniuses.  Today's specimen is Sir Phillip Davies, the Tory who has represented part of Yorkshire for the last twenty years.  He has attracted the attention of the Gambling Commission for betting eight thousand pounds that he will lose his seat next week.  He probably will and he'll deserve to, but betting against yourself will get you booted from any sports team I know.  His wife is a Cabinet member named Esther McVey, Minister of State Without Portfolio, which sounds like she orders in the sandwiches.  Davies, who needs to turn in his knighthood, insists he's done nothing wrong.  They may not own a lake like Sunak but I doubt they're short of a bob.  What were they thinking with this bet?

Is there ever good news out of Texas?  Kinky Friedman died at 79, presumably from Parkinson's.  We still have his music and his novels, and he should have been governor of Texas, damn it.