How to Test Negative for Stupid: And Why Washington Never Will

“Today it stands as a monument to the resilience of the United States of America […] Which, I guess, is why I don’t work there.”

In this passage, the author employs juxtaposition to create an ironic contrast between the idealized symbol of the Capitol Building and the reality of his work in an adjacent building. The first clause adopts a reverent tone, which the second immediately undercuts with self-deprecating humor. This rhetorical device separates the American ideal from the political process, a key element of Kennedy’s populist critique of Washington.

“A senator speaking to an empty chamber is the perfect metaphor for Washington.”

This quote uses a direct metaphor to critique the performative and insular nature of politics. By highlighting the absence of a genuine audience, the author suggests that much of the Senate’s work is not authentic deliberation but content created for media consumption. This observation highlights The Insularity of Political and Media Elites,  portraying Washington politicians as disconnected from ordinary people’s concerns.

“The rules read like they were put together by a heroin addict with a socket wrench.”

After quoting a convoluted Senate rule, the author uses a simile to demystify a complex subject. The analogy translates bureaucratic absurdity into a visceral, easily understood image of chaos and incompetence. This stylistic choice is central to his political identity, positioning him as an outsider who rejects the arcane traditions of the Senate in favor of Candor as Political Strategy.

“That doesn’t change whether I’m in Washington or back in America—here in Louisiana.”

Through this statement, the author creates an explicit dichotomy between “Washington” and “America,” positioning the capital as an entity separate from the rest of the nation. By identifying his home state of Louisiana as “America,” he establishes his populist credentials as a representative of the latter. This rhetorical framing is foundational to Kennedy’s indictment of The Insularity of Political and Media Elites, casting political battles as a conflict between a ruling class and the “real” America.

“I learned that sometimes weakness invites the wolves. Peace through weakness hardly ever works.”

Reflecting on a high school confrontation, the author presents the incident as a formative experience, using the metaphor “weakness invites the wolves” to distill a lesson into a stark aphorism. This moment serves as an origin story for his confrontational political style, framing it as a necessary defense against predatory forces. By grounding this philosophy in a personal narrative, he justifies a non-conciliatory approach to political conflict.

“At some point, I heard about the Rhodes Scholarship. I’d been doing well in school, so I figured I’d apply. It was a free ride to Oxford […] I didn’t win.”

This passage detailing his failure to win a prestigious scholarship serves to humanize the author and temper a narrative of uninterrupted success. By admitting he “didn’t win,” he constructs a persona of relatable fallibility, distinguishing himself from the elite figures he criticizes. This detail reinforces his outsider identity, suggesting his achievements are the result of persistence rather than membership in a privileged class.

“I would describe the atmosphere as a circus without a tent. It was a cross between the game room in a mental hospital and a prison riot.”

This quote describes the author’s first days in a new administration. Through a series of hyperbolic metaphors, the author establishes the chaotic nature of state government, framing it as an environment to be navigated and reformed. The imagery of a “circus without a tent” or a “prison riot” exemplifies the plain-spoken rhetorical style central to the theme of Candor As Political Strategy.

“I voted no because he gave me money to do it.”

Spoken by a State Senator, this line is a blunt admission of bribery that exposes the author’s political naivete early in his career. The statement’s directness serves to characterize the normalized corruption of Louisiana politics, which the author positions himself against. The narrator’s subsequent uncertainty about whether the senator was joking introduces a tone of cynical ambiguity, suggesting that in this political world, corruption and dark humor are nearly indistinguishable.

“But sometimes, in politics as in life, there are lines, there are limits, beyond which your behavior is not acceptable, and you yourself have to decide what they are. I’m a C. S. Lewis man, but Sartre had a point: What you do is what you believe and everything else is just cottage cheese.”

Reflecting on a decision to refuse an ethically dubious deal, the author defines his political code. He juxtaposes intellectual references to the writer and Christian apologist C.S. Lewis and the existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre) with a colloquial idiom (“cottage cheese”) to translate a moral argument into accessible terms. This stylistic choice reinforces his populist persona by grounding abstract principles in everyday language, presenting his ethical stance as both considered and unpretentious.

“If you’re going to be a bear, be a grizzly. […] It also helps if they think you’re a little crazy.”

This quote articulates Kennedy’s management philosophy. The animal metaphor (“be a grizzly”) establishes a principle of projecting overwhelming strength to command respect. The author presents a calculated persona of unpredictability (“a little crazy”) as a strategic tool for governance, showcasing an approach that values intimidation and decisiveness over consensus.

“And every principal should be a cross between Socrates and Dirty Harry.”

In summarizing his views on education reform, the author uses antithesis, pairing a classical philosopher with a vigilante film character. This rhetorical device distills a complex policy position—the need for intellectual rigor combined with uncompromising discipline—into a concise, culturally resonant aphorism. This combination is characteristic of a communication style designed to be accessible, aligning with the theme of Candor as Political Strategy.

“I remember saying to myself, There’s only one way to stop this—confront Senator Meathead and hit him so hard that he might get better, but he’ll never get well (figuratively speaking).”

This passage of internal monologue reveals the author’s strategic approach to political conflict, framing it as a direct confrontation where overwhelming force is necessary to neutralize a threat. The violent metaphor, immediately qualified with “(figuratively speaking),” demonstrates a self-aware rhetorical style that employs aggressive imagery for effect while maintaining plausible deniability.

“In truth, party membership never meant that much to me. My ideas didn’t change when I became a Republican in 2007. If anything, the parties had shifted, and I was simply giving a name to a turn that had occurred a long time ago.”

This statement frames the author’s party switch as a matter of external political realignment rather than a personal ideological shift. By asserting that his “ideas didn’t change,” he casts himself as a consistent, principled actor in contrast to ideologically fluid political parties. This narrative choice reinforces his populist identity, positioning him as an individual loyal to a set of core beliefs rather than to a party structure.

“Then, when it was my turn to respond, I did not call him David or Mr. Duke. Instead I said, ‘Federal prisoner number 12345—678 is wrong, and here’s why.’”

During a televised debate, the author employs a rhetorical strategy that redefines his opponent not by his name but a made-up federal prisoner number. This linguistic choice is an act of deliberate depersonalization, intended to strip his opponent of his public persona and frame him exclusively by his criminal history. This tactic exemplifies the theme of Candor As Political Strategy, where a direct verbal assault is used to control the narrative.

“Trump won, in my opinion, because he understood something simple but profound: Washington is not America. And most people in America loathe Washington.”

The author uses antithesis (“Washington is not America”) to establish a central dichotomy that underpins The Insularity of Political and Media Elites as a theme. This aphoristic statement simplifies a complex political phenomenon into a conflict between an isolated ruling class and the authentic citizenry. The direct, declarative sentences present this populist framework as a self-evident truth.

“My experience has been that many members of the media think that Trump is a threat to democracy, so he must be stopped at any cost, even if it means destroying democracy.”

This sentence employs paradox—the idea of destroying something to save it—to critique what the author portrays as ideological zealotry within the media. The statement casts journalists not as objective observers but as partisan actors whose methods contradict their stated principles. This framing reinforces the narrative of a biased elite class working against a populist movement.

“‘Fifty billion dollars?’ he said. ‘We’re about to give away fifty billion dollars? Kennedy, I’ll conduct the auction myself. Let me take it from here.’”

This quote, presented as direct dialogue from President Trump, serves to characterize him as a decisive, anti-bureaucratic executive. The anecdote functions as a narrative example of the author’s preferred governing style, in which direct, personal intervention cuts through established processes to achieve a populist goal. The story illustrates a shared political ideology focused on disrupting institutional norms for what is presented as the public’s financial benefit.

“‘Senator Kennedy has to go now,’ said the aide, speaking firmly and giving me a stare that could singe eyebrows.”

In this scene, the author uses narrative detail—physical action and direct dialogue—to portray White House aides as restrictive handlers of President Biden. The aide’s assertive intervention contrasts with the president’s conversation, creating a scene that functions as an anecdote for the author’s argument about presidential autonomy. The line “a stare that could singe eyebrows” uses hyperbole to emphasize the tension and the staff’s perceived control.

“‘I don’t know whether to call you “Professor” or “Comrade,”’ I told her. Turbulence ensued.”

During a confirmation hearing, the author deploys a loaded rhetorical question that offers a false binary. The choice between “Professor” and “Comrade” uses connotation to link the academic work of Saule Omarosa—President Biden’s nominee for comptroller of the currency—to her Soviet past, framing her as a radical figure. This provocative phrasing is a political tactic designed to generate controversy and distill a policy debate into an ideological confrontation, which the author notes with the sentence, “Turbulence ensued.”

“‘Pull his nomination, Mr. President,’ I said. ‘Put him out of his misery.’ And he did.”

This exchange with President Trump regarding federal district court nominee Matthew Petersen is presented to demonstrate a non-partisan application of standards. The author’s blunt advice uses a colloquial idiom (“Put him out of his misery”) to frame the withdrawal as both a political necessity and an act of mercy. This moment serves as evidence for the author’s claim to be an equal-opportunity interrogator, supporting an argument for institutional competence over party loyalty.

“Governing with appetite and ambition instead of knowledge and wisdom is immoral and, in the long run, dangerous. People tend to forget that in this town, the president rents. He doesn’t own. Whether it’s four years or eight years down the line, eventually the shoe is going to end up on the other foot, and that foot is going to want to give someone a swift kick in the ass.”

In this chapter, the author uses aphoristic statements to argue against political retribution. The metaphor of the president as a renter rather than an owner serves to diminish the absolute power of the office and emphasize its temporary nature. The colloquial conclusion about a “swift kick in the ass” exemplifies the author’s plain-spoken style, translating a warning about institutional norms into a visceral image.

“Find out who the bad guys are—the bad women too—and get rid of them. Find out who the good people are and lift them up. But do it on the basis of facts and evidence and fairness, because the temptation of some people is going to be to say, ‘Look, two wrongs don’t make a right, but they do make it even.’ Resist that temptation. Help us restore legitimacy to the Department of Justice.”

This quote employs parallel structure (“Find out who…”) to emphasize a balanced approach to reform. The author juxtaposes the moralistic language of “bad guys” and “good people” with the legalistic principles of “facts and evidence and fairness.” This passage articulates The Importance of Prosecutorial Independence, framing the central challenge for a new administration as a choice between principled reform and vengeful score-settling.

“All our judiciary has, as an equal branch of government, is its legitimacy. It doesn’t have an army. Don’t ever say you’re not going to follow the order of a court. You may not agree with it. But that’s my advice. And I think you ought to take it.”

Delivered as advice to nominees, this statement uses a declarative and authoritative tone to underscore a core principle of American governance. The author establishes the judiciary’s vulnerability—its lack of enforcement power (“It doesn’t have an army”)—to argue that its authority rests solely on public acceptance of its legitimacy. The direct command (“Don’t ever say…”) functions as a stark warning against eroding the rule of law for political ends.