Listen up, America. The truth’s about to drop, and I don’t sugarcoat.
This latest political fairy tale floating through the echo chambers of cable news and Twitter tantrums? That Donald J. Trump — yes, the real estate mogul turned White House brawler — pardoned his way through $1.3 billion in government debt like it was Monopoly money, erasing the receipts for 24 of his lucky chosen in one fell swoop. The messenger? Liz Oyer, former chief of the Justice Department’s Office of the Pardon Attorney and now the designated torchbearer for mass fiscal outrage.
Let’s be clear: $1.3 billion in fines and restitution shouted into headlines hits harder than an Elon Musk tweet on crypto. But here’s the deal — before we storm the gates and start printing pitchforks, let’s pull the curtain back and peek at the machinery.
According to Oyer, nestled inside those 24 pardon packages were offenders who had been slapped with towering financial penalties by the government — penalties that allegedly dissolved like cotton candy when the pardon ink dried. But here’s the golden nugget they hope you overlook: Presidential pardons in the United States of America play with limits. A pardon can forgive a conviction — sure — but a debt? A court-ordered restitution? That’s a whole different dance.
Restitution goes to victims. It’s money owed by offenders to their victims, not the government piggy bank. Fines? They’re government revenue, yes, but there’s no automatic process that says “Pardon = POOF, debts gone.” There’s a reason we have courts, the Treasury Department, and about six forests’ worth of paperwork in Washington. The president can issue a pardon, but he doesn’t have a legislative wand that makes monetary judgments disintegrate on command.
So where’s the meat in the stew? Oyer claims the administrative processes either waived, ignored, or effectively undercut the collection of over a billion dollars. That’s a big league accusation — a hot dog wrapped in scandal relish. But supporting documentation? Government memos? Legal confirmations that these debts were officially “wiped out”? Nada. Zilch. All we’ve got is vibes, suspicion, and some heavy political seasoning.
And folks, let’s not pretend this is some newly discovered tool in the presidential toolbox. Presidents love a good pardon. Clinton pardoned his own brother. Obama commuted sentences in his sleep. Bush rolled out clemency like church pamphlets at a revival. But none of them — not one — was accused of vaporizing a billion-dollar debt cloud over a weekend brunch.
Now let’s entertain the alternate angle — and yes, there always is one in this crooked theater we call politics. Were these “debts” actually collectable? Or were they fantasy figures, slapped onto white-collar villains who haven’t had a real bank balance since 1997? Because let’s face it — slapping a $780 million judgment onto a bankrupt con man is like giving parking tickets to a ghost. Sure it feels good, but you’re not getting a dime.
So was it a bold abuse of power by Trump? Or a glorified Vegas light show over debts that were never going to touch the Federal Reserve? Depends on which camp you’re tailgating with. One side screams kleptocracy; the other calls it just another Tuesday in the pardon jungle.
But here’s the play I see: This isn’t just a question about Trump’s pardons. This is a pre-game scrimmage for 2024. It’s red meat thrown to the anti-Trump base, a headline-grabbing way to reframe him not just as reckless, but as the Debt Slayer, wielding his pardon pen like a gold-plated chainsaw.
And I’ll say it now: If Oyer’s claims have substance, show us the trail. Bring the receipts, not just the outrage. Because in the political arena, accusations without evidence are like diet soda — they feel exciting but leave no flavor.
Until then, file this one under “Speculative Fireball.” It may light up the night sky — but don’t warm your hands on it yet.
The game’s on, and I play to win.
– Mr. 47
