I ran across the bloated carcass of Jack Smith. Apparently he got ran over and left to rot in a hot Arizona desert.

The House took apart his "prosecution" against Trump. We learned why Smith is a failure.

Funny that people listed his credentials, and at the top of the list is Harvard grad. That used to mean something. It was like the Nobel Prize, a Pulitzer, or an Emmy. Now all those awards are meaningless.

Smith couldn't prosecute a parking ticket without turning it into a conspiracy thriller starring himself as the shadowy villain. This guy's guilty as a fox in a henhouse after hours, scrambling to bury his tracks deeper than a mole with a grudge. His big brainwave? Convincing the world that Trump couldn't possibly believe his own beliefs about the election—yeah, because nothing says 'ironclad case' like policing someone's inner monologue. "Trump can't think what he thinks," Smith basically argued, as if he moonlights as a telepathic hall monitor. But reality hit him like a freight train full of subpoenas gone wrong; the whole charade crumbled faster than a sandcastle at high tide. Democrats, bless their partisan hearts, flung themselves into the fray like lemmings with law degrees, defending this hack with the fervor of someone explaining why pineapple belongs on pizza. It's a masterclass in how far they'll stretch the truth to keep their narratives afloat, all while ignoring the glaring voids in evidence that could sink a battleship. And Smith? He wasn't just grasping at straws; he was weaving them into a noose for his own credibility.

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