作者：佚名
编译：林胥
好吧好吧，好吧——这不就是参议院的死神终于一瘸一拐地走向深渊了吗？他的外壳破碎，灵魂早就为了最后一轮减税和司法操控被典当了。米奇·麦康奈尔，美国最“受欢迎”的政治僵尸，终于决定退休——不是因为顿悟，也不是因为罪孽压垮了他，而是因为地心引力和身体机能率先击败了他。
米奇，这一路你走得够久的。五十年来，你像一只龟脸版的吸血鬼，疯狂吸食民主的生命力，把美国政治系统的体面与良知榨干殆尽，只剩下一具散发恶臭的党派私利和企业利益的空壳。你从未是个远见卓识的领袖，从未是真正的领导者——只是个滑头政客，一个总躲在幕后交易的老狐狸，拥有报税审计一样的魅力和二手车骗子的道德指南针。
然而不可思议的是，你竟然一路爬上了华盛顿最有权势的位置。你像个政治的守墓人，把一切进步都封存起来，像个发疯的博物馆馆长，守着“阻挠议事程序”那堆早该灭绝的恐龙骨头自鸣得意。你最大的成就？把参议院变成了一个养老院，专门收留那些注定要夭折的法案，体面就像走廊里没人认领的尸体一样慢慢腐烂。
如今，在一连串公众面前的“死机”之后——跟乔·拜登的口误比起来都像莎士比亚在朗诵——你终于决定收起你的披风和镰刀。来得正好，米奇。全美国都在看你像Chuck E. Cheese里的故障机器人一样卡住，发布会上卡壳，楼梯上摔跤，记者一问2026年是否参选你就露出“死亡蓝屏”般的眼神。剧透一下：你不会参选的。如果2026年你还没变成“别让八旬老人掌权”的反面教材，算你走运。
但说到底，还是要谈谈你的“遗产”，米奇，因为这才是关键。历史会怎么记住你？是位战略大师？政治天才？不，米奇，历史会记住你是那个总带着阴笑、毫无灵魂的小妖精，一个接一个地把这个国家卖给极端派的法官。你以为你在下四维棋，但到头来不过是特朗普那双油腻小手里的一个棋子——成为美国民主悲剧中的一则可悲注脚。
你本可以阻止特朗普。你在1月6日后本有机会将他钉在历史的耻辱柱上。但你选择了你最擅长的事——什么都不做。你让那个橙色小丑全身而退，还喃喃说什么“交给司法处理”，好像你亲手操控的司法系统真能追责一样。看看你现在：含羞退休，而特朗普却如日中天，身边全是马屁精和疯子，把共和党变得连尼克松都要在棺材里翻身想逃跑。
你一生都在追逐权力，最后却成了笑柄——一块报废的老化石，在发布会上含糊其词，而特朗普则叫你“老乌鸦”，还用种族主义词语嘲讽你的妻子。最好笑的是：他从来就没尊重过你。你为他做尽一切，卑躬屈膝，烧掉所有现实的桥梁，他还是把你当作一罐过期的汤罐头，占了点柜子空间而已。
不过，退休快乐！也许你可以像小布什那样学画画，或者在肯塔基的波本酒厂里晃悠，啜一口“老乌鸦”威士忌，琢磨这一切到底值不值得。因为说到底，米奇，历史才不会在乎什么“立法奇才”或者“策略大师”，如果这些都以国家为代价。你不会被记为英雄，而是被当作政治蟑螂——躲在黑暗中，靠本能苟活，熬过对手，但从未真正胜利。
所以，再见了，米奇。愿你的退休生活漫长、尴尬，充满不断提醒你一切都不值得的时刻。你的最大“成就”，不过是助纣为虐，最后却像一张用过的餐巾纸一样被丢弃。
退休快乐，你这枯萎的老混蛋。历史会用和你内心一样冰冷的墨水为你写下讣告。
英文原文：
翻译：Well, well, well—if it isn’t the Grim Reaper of the Senate finally shuffling off into the abyss, his shell cracked, his soul long since pawned off for one last round of tax cuts and judicial hijackings. Mitch McConnell, America’s favorite political corpse, has finally decided to retire—not because of some grand epiphany, not because the weight of his sins finally crushed him, but because gravity and basic bodily function caught up with him first.
It’s been quite a run, Mitch. Five decades of sucking the life force out of democracy like some kind of turtle-faced Nosferatu, leeching every last drop of decency from the American political system until all that remained was a gangrenous husk of partisan hackery and corporate handouts. You were never a visionary, never a leader—just a slithering, backroom dealmaker with the charisma of a tax audit and the moral compass of a used car salesman running a Ponzi scheme out of a strip mall.
And yet, somehow, against all odds, you became the most powerful man in Washington. A political crypt keeper, embalming progress, cackling over the filibuster like some deranged museum curator protecting a pile of dinosaur bones. Your greatest achievement? Turning the Senate into a nursing home for bad ideas, where legislation goes to die and decency is left to rot in the hallway like an unclaimed corpse.
But now, after a series of public malfunctions that made Joe Biden’s verbal misfires look like Shakespearean soliloquies, you’ve decided to hang up your cloak and scythe. And not a moment too soon, Mitch. America has been watching you glitch out like a broken animatronic at Chuck E. Cheese, freezing mid-sentence at press conferences, tumbling down stairs, and getting that haunted “blue screen of death” look in your eyes every time a reporter asks if you plan to run in 2026. Spoiler alert: No, you don’t. You’ll be lucky if you make it to 2026 without turning into a cautionary tale about why we shouldn’t let octogenarians run the country.
But let’s talk about your legacy, Mitch, because that’s what really matters. What will history say about you? That you were a master strategist? A political genius? No, Mitch, history will remember you as the smirking, soulless little gremlin who sold the country down the river one judicial appointment at a time. You thought you were playing four-dimensional chess, but in the end, you were just a pawn in Donald Trump’s undersized, greasy hands—a miserable little footnote in the great tragedy of American democracy.
You could have stopped Trump. You could have buried him after January 6, when you had the chance. But instead, you did what you do best—nothing. You let the orange buffoon off the hook, muttering something about "criminal justice" handling him later, as if the court system you rigged in his favor was ever going to hold him accountable. And now look at you: retiring in disgrace while Trump rides high, surrounded by bootlickers and lunatics, reshaping the GOP into something so grotesque even Richard Nixon would be clawing at the lid of his coffin trying to escape.
You spent your whole life consolidating power, only to end up a punchline—a broken-down, malfunctioning fossil, mumbling your way through press conferences while Trump calls you “Old Crow” and mocks your wife with racist slurs. That’s the best part, Mitch: he never even respected you. You did everything for him, debased yourself, torched every bridge to reality, and he still treated you like a dented can of expired soup taking up space in his cupboard.
But hey, enjoy retirement! Maybe take up painting, like Bush. Maybe shuffle around Kentucky’s bourbon distilleries, sipping Old Crow, wondering if it was all worth it. Because here’s the thing, Mitch—history doesn’t care about "legislative genius" or "tactical brilliance" when it comes at the cost of the country. You’ll be remembered not as a mastermind, but as a political cockroach—scurrying in the dark, surviving, outlasting your enemies, but never actually winning.
So, farewell, Mitch. May your retirement be long, humiliating, and filled with endless reminders that despite all your efforts, your greatest achievement was being the guy who enabled Trump, only to be discarded like a used napkin.
Happy retirement, you withered old bastard. History will write your obituary in ink as cold as your heart.
