The Inner Monologue

The party that governs by grievance.

There’s a curious phenomenon in American politics today: a political party that proudly brands itself as the home of strength, toughness, and decisive leadership — yet simultaneously claims to be utterly powerless. According to its own members, Republicans control everything and nothing at the same time. They are the unstoppable force that is somehow stopped by the immovable object of Democratic emails, student protests, and late-night talk shows.

It’s an ideological Schrödinger’s cat: a strongman party trapped in a box of its own victimhood, both powerful and persecuted until you open Fox News and find out which it is today.

A Party That Rules and Complains About It

At various times in recent history, Republicans have held the presidency, both chambers of Congress, the Supreme Court, and a majority of state legislatures. In a traditional democracy, this would constitute what scholars call “a governing majority.” But in modern Republican rhetoric, it’s merely a holding pattern — a waiting room where the real villains, those shadowy Democrats, somehow control everything from behind the curtain.

When Republicans win, they claim the system works. When they lose, it’s rigged. And when they win but fail to accomplish anything? That, too, is the Democrats’ fault. Apparently, no matter who occupies the Oval Office, the true seat of power is Nancy Pelosi’s ghost whispering into the ear of every bureaucrat.

One might almost admire the strategy: it’s a perfect loop. You can promise to dismantle the system while blaming the system when you fail. No need to govern; governing risks results. Far safer to posture as the eternally besieged hero — in charge, but never responsible.

The Strongman Who Can’t Lift a Pen

It’s an extraordinary image: the “strongman” leader who bellows about total authority one minute and laments being obstructed by imaginary forces the next. The contradiction is breathtaking — a general who commands the army but can’t get his boots tied because of “deep state interference.”

Every autocrat in training dreams of such a deal. They get the aesthetic of power without the burden of results. They get to threaten, rage, and promise retribution while their supporters nod sympathetically and say, “Well, of course he can’t fix it — the Democrats won’t let him.”

It’s as if the party that chants ‘Don’t tread on me’ simultaneously believes it’s being stomped on by everyone from librarians to baristas.

They claim the mantle of Reagan while playing the victim like Eeyore.

Join the Real Strongman Party: The Democrats

So maybe it’s time for Republicans to make the logical move. If they really want to back the true strongman party — the one that, according to their own mythology, secretly controls everything — they should just become Democrats.

Think about it. The Democrats are apparently capable of controlling every election, manipulating the media, indoctrinating schools, commanding the Justice Department, steering Wall Street, and — depending on which podcast you listen to — orchestrating international conspiracies from the comfort of a Capitol Hill wine bar.

If Republicans genuinely believe that, then why not defect to the winning team? After all, if Democrats can puppeteer the entire global order while struggling to pass a budget, that’s an impressive level of omnipotent incompetence. Clearly, that’s the real strongman party.

If you’re going to worship power, at least worship the party that your side already swears has all of it.

The Power of Persecution

But of course, the contradiction is the point. The modern conservative movement in America no longer runs on accomplishment — it runs on resentment. The currency of grievance buys more votes than the coin of governance.

It’s not about fixing problems; it’s about performing oppression. It’s about convincing supporters that every election is a cosmic battle between good and evil, where the noble few are always one court case away from annihilation.

You can’t deliver healthcare reform, infrastructure renewal, or economic fairness when your entire brand depends on staying angry that you haven’t yet.

And so, Republicans have perfected a strange magic trick: governing from the throne of victimhood. They hold the scepter but insist they’re the peasants. They control the levers of power but swear the machine is rigged against them. It’s the political equivalent of complaining that you can’t win Monopoly even though you own the board, the bank, and half the hotels.

The Theater of the Powerless

To understand how this contradiction thrives, you have to see modern politics as theater, not governance. A strongman’s power isn’t measured in what he accomplishes, but in how he performs his suffering.

When he rails against the media, the courts, or the “deep state,” he’s not describing reality — he’s constructing it. His base doesn’t want to see him fix the system; they want to see him fight it forever. The show must go on, because the plot depends on perpetual victimization.

This is why, paradoxically, Republicans are at their strongest when they’re out of power. They can rage without responsibility. They can promise revolutions that will never come. Once they’re in charge, the theater collapses into governance — and governance requires work. It requires compromise, policy, and the dull machinery of actual leadership.

Much easier to stand on the Capitol steps and shout that the Democrats won’t let you do anything, even while your own party controls the gavel, the schedule, and the signature line.

Performative Weakness as Political Strength

The deeper irony is that performative weakness has become a kind of power. There’s a perverse strength in convincing millions of people that you are both their champion and their fellow victim.

The narrative is intoxicating: “We’re the real Americans, besieged by elites who hate us.” It bonds followers through shared grievance. It converts complexity into moral simplicity. It replaces policy with passion, and replaces accountability with applause.

No need to explain why the deficit ballooned or healthcare collapsed or bridges are falling apart. Just point to a liberal somewhere and say, “They did this.” And if they didn’t, say they would have, and that’s good enough.

It’s not politics anymore — it’s grievance liturgy. A ritual of blame dressed in the language of salvation.

When Strength Is Only a Slogan

For all their talk of toughness, modern Republicans have become the party of complaint. They accuse others of weakness while fetishizing their own victimhood. They brand themselves as “strong” the way an energy drink brands itself as “extreme.” It’s all packaging.

A strongman who blames everything on invisible enemies isn’t strong — he’s a magician caught in his own trick. A party that insists it’s powerless while holding power isn’t leading — it’s performing.

And the audience keeps buying tickets.

The Final Irony

In the end, the most authoritarian thing a leader can do isn’t to seize power — it’s to convince the people that he never truly had it. Because once they believe that, they will forgive him for everything. Every failure becomes sabotage, every defeat becomes proof of persecution, and every abuse of power becomes self-defense.

That’s not strength. That’s surrender disguised as swagger.

So perhaps the truly strong thing for Republicans to do would be to admit they already have the power they keep demanding. But then they’d have to use it — and nothing terrifies a performance politician more than having to deliver something real.

Until then, the party of the strongman will keep acting like the party of the victim. And the only thing stronger than their leader’s hand will be their excuse for why it’s tied behind his back.