MORE UNIQUE PEOPLE

LISA MURKOWSKI IS UNIQUE

Lisa Murkowski says Alaska has “more unique people.” And she would know — because she’s one of them. Not just unique. More unique. Extra-special. A limited edition betrayal in an oilskin vest. The kind of politician who doesn’t just sell you out — she makes you feel bad for noticing. For months, she postured as the cautious centrist, the rational voice in a room full of frothing extremists. She told reporters she was “still reviewing the text.” She sighed into microphones. She shook her head solemnly, like someone who just saw the price of gas and isn’t mad, just disappointed. And then — right when it mattered most — she pulled the pin and handed Donald Trump the grenade.

She didn’t stand up for the country. She negotiated with its executioner. She didn’t throw her body in front of a catastrophic bill — she asked for a few modifications to make sure her own state got out alive. Her only real problem with the legislation was that it hurt everyone else. Alaska, on the other hand, made it out just fine — because she bartered the blood of millions for a few region-specific exemptions. That’s what made it palatable. That’s what let her sleep at night. That’s what she meant when she said the vote was hard — not because the bill was cruel, but because she had to secure enough for Alaska before she could stomach supporting it.

She said it plainly: “I advocated for my state’s interests. I will continue to do that and I will make no excuses.” And she didn’t. She made no apologies. She looked at a bill that strips healthcare from 17 million Americans, that wipes out food assistance for millions of families, that obliterates school lunches for 18 million kids, and she voted yes — because Alaska got a carveout. Because some whaling captains got a tax break. In the face of national suffering, she narrowed the lens, found her own reflection, and called it leadership.

And then, with her vote cast and the country reeling, she had the gall to release a statement saying, “Let’s not kid ourselves. This has been an awful process.” Awful, she says. As if she were some traumatized spectator rather than the senator who tipped the scale. As if she didn’t actively participate in the disaster she now pretends to lament. She called it “not good enough for the rest of our nation,” even as she handed it over for passage. And then came the most cowardly line of all:

“My sincere hope is that this is not the final product.”

Lady, you voted for it. You made it the product. This wasn’t a brainstorming session. This was the fucking Senate floor. This was the big one. And you didn’t just let it pass — you pushed it across the finish line.

Murkowski wants to have it both ways. She wants to be the pragmatic negotiator who saved Alaska from the worst of it, while shrugging off the fact that she condemned everyone else to the full weight of it. She wants credit for nuance, for “doing the hard thing,” but there’s nothing hard about selling out the vulnerable when you’re well-fed and well-insulated. There’s nothing brave about siding with the side that always wins. She didn’t resist. She didn’t hesitate. She just did what Republicans always do — but with a nicer coat and cleaner diction. She didn’t scream “America First,” but the outcome was the same: cruelty dressed up as competence, austerity in a fleece vest.

And that quote — that monstrous little string of words — deserves to be carved into her political obituary:

“A state that has more unique situations, more unique people, and it’s just different.”

More unique people. That’s what she said. That’s who she did this for. Not the country. Not the poor. Not the sick. Just the more unique. The people she deemed worthy of rescue. As if uniqueness justifies favoritism. As if some Americans deserve survival and others deserve silence. Lisa Murkowski didn’t vote to save the country. She voted to triage it — and Alaska got the bandaid.

She didn’t save the bill from becoming a disaster. She made sure Alaska wouldn’t drown in it. That’s not courage. That’s logistics. That’s a survivalist instinct wrapped in a press release. And now she stands before the press, murmuring about how she “hopes” the House makes changes. That’s it? That’s the plan? A Hail Mary to the House of Representatives while the wreckage of her decision spreads across the nation? She better be on her knees. She better be lighting candles. Because the only thing that can save her from political annihilation now is someone else amending the legislation she just voted to turn into law.

This wasn’t a lapse in judgment. This was the final form. The moderate mask fell off, and beneath it wasn’t a monster — just a deeply cynical technician of power who knew exactly what she was doing. She didn’t wrestle with the morality of this vote. She bartered with it. She weighed the odds, tallied the favors, carved out her fish guts and fuel credits, and signed off on a generational nightmare. And now she wants to pretend it’s complicated. It’s not. It’s simple. Lisa Murkowski saw the fire, saved her backyard, and let the rest of the neighborhood burn.

She is unique, all right.

Uniquely polished.

Uniquely cruel.

Uniquely unfit for the moment we’re in.

And unless this bill gets rewritten by the House and repackaged before it hits the President’s desk, she will be remembered — not as a moderate, not as a maverick, but as the one who could have stopped this and didn’t. As the one who knew exactly what this bill would do, and chose to vote for it anyway. As the senator who proved once and for all that in America, some people aren’t just special. They’re more unique. And the rest of us? We’re disposable.

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