Yesterday I wrote that Chris Christie is no more--an assessment that seemed to me neither premature nor cavalier, especially given that few were happier about Christie's immense troubles than his fellow GOPers. (Maggie Haberman's reporting was representative:"[N]otable was the dearth of Republicans who rose to Christie’s defense.")
I saw no way for Christie to survive this mess, which was and increasingly is, in one way or another, of his own making. The scandal's lid had finally come off. Yet finality is now months and perhaps years away, for the worms have only begun to squirm out of the can. And more frantically squirm they will, as prosecutors close in--and cut evidentiary deals. Only the biggest worm has something to really worry about.
Such was my belief yesterday, as it is today. Christie is doomed. Prodigious scandals that proceed through rolling disclosure (which is what makes them prodigious) terminate in political obituaries. That inevitability seemed manifest enough prior to Christie's schizophrenic, even-more-questions-raising press conference yesterday, and his altogether inadequate performance only rendered magnificently vivid what was pretty much already clear: He's hiding stuff.
Ah, but the worms await on prescripted pages of history.
Is it irresponsible of me to so definitively speculate? I ask because what has struck me as infinitely odd since Christie's troubles-adding presser is the commentariat's generous doubt--it's outright gaping wonder at Christie's future. Will he survive this, does it fatally endanger his presidential prospects, can he overcome this mounting scandal of yet-indescribable proportions? My only answer can be: Well hell I can't absolutely know, but it seems either superfluous journalistic etiquette or just dunderheaded naivete to even ask. Reason; see: history.
I confess, again, that I'm flying by the seat of my empirical pants here. But Christie's elaborately linked chain of implausible executive ignorance, his virtually friendless political environment, the gathering of prosecutorial arm-twisters and ratting-out worm-squirmers, the past drips of disclosure and other almost guaranteed disclosures to come--all are conspiring in a tale of ultimate comeuppance.
Am I wrong to just say so--to pass on what seems to be a quite popular parlor game of dainty observance?