Town Hall Becomes A Political Bloodbath

They strut in like Trump, pitch his garbage fantasy bill, and gaslight the crowd. But the town halls are boiling over, and voters are done playing along.

Guest article by Michael Cohen. Click his name and follow him on Substack today.

Republican Congressman Mike Flood gets booed Monday at his town hall

Let me paint you a picture.

You’re a Republican lawmaker. You’ve memorized the talking points, pressed your suit, and stepped out of your blacked-out SUV with all the pomp of a man who thinks he’s in control. You walk into your town hall meeting, chest puffed like a dollar-store Mussolini, ready to “sell the vision” of Trump’s “One Big Beautiful Bill.” You expect applause. Instead, you get booed.

Enter Representative Mike Flood in Lincoln, Nebraska, looking like he just walked off the set of a Fox Nation infomercial. He’s here to do what the NRCC memo told him: “Push back on Democrat fearmongering” and sell Trump’s massive domestic agenda like it’s a ShamWow. But wait… there’s more.

Now here’s the rub: he's not Trump. Not even close. And the voters know it.

Flood gets hit with chants of “tax the rich” before he’s even warmed up his delusions. He opens his mouth to defend this bloated monstrosity of a bill, swearing on all that is holy and Heritage Foundation-approved that it’s going to “spark the economy” and “protect SNAP and Medicaid.” The audience is unmoved. They know the game. The bill’s not beautiful. It’s brutal.

And that's the problem.

These Republicans walk into these rooms thinking they can cosplay as Trump—swagger in, bulldoze over facts, toss out three-word slogans, and walk away with soundbites. But they’re not him. Trump has a cult. The rest of them are just trying to survive it.

Flood, to his credit—or his masochism—actually showed up. Most of his colleagues are ducking constituents altogether, opting instead for pre-scripted Zoom calls and exclusive fundraising brunches. But Flood rolled into Lincoln like he was the hero in a spaghetti western, forgetting that the townspeople are armed with receipts, rage, and the memory of every program the GOP just gutted.

And what does he offer them? More promises, fewer specifics, and the same tired refrain: "This is what Americans voted for."

No, Congressman. Americans didn’t vote for a Medicaid mirage, SNAP slashes, and a $450 million alligator-infested immigrant prison concentration camp in Florida. They voted for change. They voted against the chaos. What they got was a government budget bill that reads like a ransom note to the working class.

It’s arrogance on full display. The arrogance to believe that if Trump can do it—lie, distract, deflect, and dominate the room—so can they. But Trump’s not reading from a memo. Trump is the memo. These guys are just footnotes, and bad ones at that.

Flood, sweating through his MAGA-lite routine, tells the crowd the bill helps “farmers and ranchers.” One Marine veteran shoots back, “How can you support a bill that erodes the very services that people like me and my family rely on?” Boom. Mic drop. Because this isn’t policy; it’s punishment dressed up as patriotism.

And then there’s the Epstein question. The file that just won’t go away.

Yes, even here, in the amber fields of Nebraska, the specter of Jeffrey Epstein looms. Someone asks, “Why are you covering up the Epstein files?” Flood's aide reads it aloud like it’s a question about potholes, and the crowd erupts. Flood insists he’ll back a resolution to release the files and depose Ghislaine Maxwell, but let’s be honest: if your answer on Epstein doesn’t include phrases like “full transparency” and “criminal accountability,” you’re losing the room.

And while we’re on the topic—Trump. Yes, the man who started this mess, hinted he might pardon Maxwell in exchange for testimony. Let that sink in. The president of the United States—again—might pardon the convicted enabler of a pedophile ring. And GOP leaders like Flood wonder why they are getting booed.

This is not democracy. This is performance art. Town halls have become stages for political cosplay, where Republicans strut around in Trump’s ill-fitting armor, promising salvation while slashing support. And when voters call out the con, they’re met with indifference—or worse, condescension.

Take Flood’s smug response to being called a fascist: “Fascists don’t hold town halls.” Really? That’s your bar? As long as there’s a mic and folding chairs, we’re in the clear?

The people in that room weren’t radicals. They were angry citizens, demanding answers for the cuts that are hitting their kids, their clinics, their pantries, and their communities. But instead of addressing the pain, Flood and his ilk just regurgitate the same Trumpist rhetoric: “It’s all good. This is what the country wants.”

No. What the country wants is leadership, not lemmings.

The arrogance isn’t just in how they vote. It’s in how they pretend not to see the consequences of their votes. It’s in the smugness of their smiles as they tell a broke veteran or a desperate mom that everything’s fine. That the pain they’re feeling is somehow patriotic.

So here’s the takeaway: these Republican leaders think they’re Trump. But they’re not. They don’t have the charisma, the cult, or the cover. What they do have is a reckoning coming, one town hall at a time. One upcoming midterm lost seat after another.

Because the people? They’re not buying the bill. And they’re sure as hell not buying the bullshit.

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