How Trump’s 2024 Campaign Became a Bloody Cage Fight Just ask his incendiary spokesman, Steven Cheung. MICHAEL SOKOLOVEAPRIL 5, 2024In late February, after Donald Trump had nearly vanquished the entirety of the Republican primary field, his spokesman, Steven Cheung, took aim at the one opponent still standing. “Birdbrain, are you a liar or just plain stupid?” he tweeted. “Birdbrain” was, of course, Nikki Haley, the former governor of South Carolina and Trump’s ambassador to the United Nations, whose effrontery in not exiting the race made her a favored punching bag. But there were, and are, many other Cheung targets. “Chris Christie looks like a weak bitch,” he proclaimed after the former New Jersey governor expressed regret for endorsing Trump in 2016. Last month, Cheung posted on X a picture of Joe Biden standing at a podium. His caption, all uppercase: “HELP! MY DIAPER IS FULL!” Cheung’s last job before entering Trumpworld may partially explain his coarseness: He was director of communications and public affairs for the Ultimate Fighting Championship, a brutal mix of wrestling, kickboxing, and Brazilian jiu-jitsu. It would be tempting to dismiss him as just a foul-mouthed bully, a staffer Trump latched onto because more respectable operatives wanted nothing to do with him. But, dear readers, if there are any among you rooting for a second Trump term, I have good news for you—and for the rest, some not-so-good-news: Cheung is a pretty clever guy. His social media posts and public statements, unhinged as they may sound, are calculated to draw attention amid the clutter of the 24/7 news cycle and to project the machismo that satisfies his boss’s core supporters. He is disciplined and laser-focused on the mission: Elect Trump at all costs. Steven Cheung with lawyer Alina Habba and an unidentified member of Donald Trump’s entourage on June 13, 2023, outside a federal courthouse in Miami, where Trump was appearing in the criminal case involving his hoarding of classified documents. Alex Brandon/AP More broadly, he is part of a Trump campaign—specifically, a comms operation—that is less chaotic and leaky, and far more professional, than the ones in 2016 and 2020. “There’s a calmness that Cheung brings to the communications shop that was missing in the last campaign,” Bryan Lanza, a GOP operative who has worked for Trump, told me. “He’s secure. He’s not there because he’s chasing celebrity or wants to come out with a job on TV.” Politics has always been a rough sport, Lanza notes, but there used to be accepted terms of engagement, as in boxing, whose Marquess of Queensberry rules enforce at least a modicum of decency. “You’d never think of name-calling like that in the past. but this is the next evolution of staffers,” he says. “It’s an aggressive media style that is very cutting, very insulting. We are in a crass environment.” Cheung, 41, is a first-generation American, a child of Chinese parents who emigrated in their early 20s—though his mother was raised in Japan—and wound up owning restaurants and investing in other small businesses. Physically imposing, he is a little over 6 feet tall and rotund, with a large, oblong head he shaves clean. He could be the henchman of a Hollywood supervillain. “I don’t think I’d challenge him to an arm-wrestling contest,” Jason Miller, a senior Trump strategist, told me. Lanza likens Cheung’s stature to a bear on the hunt: “He may appear to move slow, but you can feel him coming toward you.” Cheung grew interested in politics as a young man when he began reading his hometown paper, the Sacramento Bee. His path into Trump’s orbit began with a series of campaign jobs after he graduated from California State University in Sacramento with a double major in political science and computer science. He interned for then-Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger and worked in communications for candidates in California, Texas, and Nevada, before hooking on to John McCain’s 2008 presidential campaign, where his title was administration assistant. A former high school football player, Cheung became a martial arts fan and dabbled in taekwondo and Muay Thai boxing. In 2013, he left politics to take a job with the UFC that represented a significant elevation in status. He was in charge of communications and worked closely with UFC president Dana White, a longtime Trump crony and big-time donor. At the organization’s Las Vegas headquarters, Cheung was regarded as a wordsmith. “He’s a sharp guy, and you could tell right away he was a good writer,” says Marc Ratner, the UFC’s vice president for regulatory affairs. The pugilistic language Cheung deploys on Trump’s behalf is unlikely to appeal to suburban white women, but it’s dead-center on the young-male UFC frequency. Ratner had joined the UFC after a long career in boxing, and Cheung considered him a mentor. “I knew he had aspirations to go further,” Ratner recalls. “Probably to do something in politics.” Indeed, as Republican candidates began coming forward to run in the 2016 presidential primaries, Cheung, eager to get back in the game, reached out to numerous campaigns. Some never bothered to get back to him. A couple offered volunteer positions. But to the Trump campaign, which had a hard time attracting seasoned professionals, Cheung’s past political work—and perhaps even more so his role with the UFC—made him an ideal hire. He and Miller, a veteran Republican operative, had never met but they had friends in common. “He emailed me out of the blue: I see where you’ve joined the Trump campaign and I want to join the team,” Miller recalls. “I saw his resume and then called him up, hired him over the phone, and told him to meet us at the convention in Cleveland. And I put him to work. He never left the War Room and was an integral part of our success in 2016.” (Cheung would not agree to be quoted in this story.) After Trump’s victory, Cheung followed him to Washington, but not, at first, in a central role. “He was a nobody. He did baby things. I never saw him giving ideas,” a White House aide from that time recalls. “He didn’t have an office in the West Wing. He was in the Executive Office Building across the street and he was one of those rapid-response guys. He sat in front of his computer all day long and sent out statements.” Yet over time, as high-level staffers shuffled in and quickly out of Trump’s communications team—Sean Spicer, Anthony Scaramucci, and Hope Hicks, among others—Cheung became the White House director of rapid response. He took on bigger tasks, including leading the comms team working on Senate confirmation of Neil Gorsuch to the Supreme Court. The former president is a more recent fan of the UFC. After Trump left office, he and Cheung attended bouts together in Las Vegas. As recently as March, Trump, with daughter Ivanka and her husband, Jared Kushner, in tow, attended a UFC event in Miami. The arena’s sound system blasted Kid Rock’s “American Bad Ass” and a crowd of 19,000 roared as the Jumbotron showed the former president walking to his ringside seat. The sensibility on display was one shared by Trump and Cheung—and also, importantly, by a political demographic Trump covets. Market research indicates that men constitute up to 90 percent of mixed martial arts fans and that Black and Hispanic men are substantially overrepresented. (According to a recent study, about 25 percent of African Americans and 22 percent of Hispanics identify as viewers, compared with 15 percent of white Americans.) Recent polling shows Trump gaining support with these groups, a nightmare scenario for Democrats. The pugilistic language Cheung deploys on Trump’s behalf is unlikely to appeal to suburban white women, but it’s dead-center on the young-male UFC frequency.
Broke dick press conference by @BidenHQ with only 59 people watching. pic.twitter.com/yAv5fHrRJ5
— Steven Cheung (@TheStevenCheung) April 1, 2024
It also hits home with the constituency of one that everyone in Trumpworld must stroke: Trump himself. The former president casts his entourage based on loyalty, but also appearance. The women in his inner circle tend to have long hair, often blonde, with the manicured appearance of Fox News anchors. Cheung fits a different one of Trump’s favored personas: the enforcer. His look, the UFC pedigree, and the language he uses all fit the part: Tangle with the boss, and you’ll get a knee in the head from Cheung. Cheung stayed on until the end of the Trump presidency, consulting for a few campaigns during the 2022 cycle before returning to the fold. He deepened his bond with Trump in the wake of his boss’s first federal indictment—the classified documents case. With further indictments looming, Trump convened a meeting of his top advisers at Mar-a-Lago. One by one, he asked them what they thought the impact would be. As it was recounted to me, the atmosphere in the room was grave. But when Cheung’s turn came, he told Trump he thought the indictments would give him a bump in the polls of five or six points—which it did—and Trump didn’t forget it.
Dumb and Dumber… and Dumbest. pic.twitter.com/SqgkT3MvNe
— Steven Cheung (@TheStevenCheung) March 28, 2024
In one way, at least, Cheung plays a traditional role in a wholly untraditional campaign. He’s a main point of contact for journalists covering Trump, responds to their questions, and can parcel out coveted access—a seat on the campaign plane, an invite to a Mar-a-Lago event. I interviewed several journalists who cover Trump, all of whom asked not to be quoted by name because they deal with Cheung on a regular basis. They all gave the spokesman relatively high marks. “This is the most functional version of a press operation, by far, that Trump has had,” one reporter told me. “The bar isn’t super high. But this is a normal operation where people stay in their lanes and do what they’re supposed to. For better or worse, they do not leak a lot of stuff.” “I’m pretty sure Steven Cheung knows the election wasn’t stolen, but he’s not going to ever say that. Which is worse? Believing the crazy stuff or knowing it’s wrong but messaging it anyway?” “In a world populated by liars, I am not aware that he’s ever knowingly lied to me,” says another. “There’s probably been a shading of facts, or spin, but that’s within the realm of what’s expected.” The critical coverage that sends conventional campaigns into damage-control mode is tolerated and even appreciated in Trumpworld, so long as it feeds the MAGA base. “The stories you used to think are going to be negative for them, or scandalous—like that Trump’s going to root out the deep state and fire thousands of civil servants or round up migrants and put them in camps on military bases—they don’t give two shits about,” another journalist told me. “They don’t push back, because these are messages they are happy to drive.” Cheung has never been married, and, according to colleagues, he is completely devoted to his work. He works long hours, texting with reporters as early as 6 a.m. and sometimes responding to their queries until past midnight. He is low drama even in fraught moments. “You might hear him quietly say, ‘Oh boy,’” Lanza says. “He closes his eyes, then 30 seconds later, he’s on it. That’s as animated as he gets.”Cheung’s behind-the-scenes interactions with the press corps may fall within normal boundaries, but the words he projects into the political universe certainly do not. In boxing, you can’t hit an opponent who has fallen to the mat. In the UFC, however, fighters routinely stand over a fallen foe and pummel them. This is one of Cheung’s specialties. Just before Super Tuesday, when it was clear Haley probably had no way forward, Cheung tweeted, “The Nikki Haley candidacy is just one giant masturbatory fantasy for Never Trumpers and Democrats.” He echoes Trump’s signature dialect of invective, sexual emasculation, and misogyny. “Baby girl, who hurt you,” he tweeted at Christina Pushaw, a spokeswoman for Ron DeSantis. “You sure seem obsessed with me. But I can’t blame ya.” The press struggles to characterize these statements. After he declared Christie a “weak bitch,” Politico published the quote, noting that Cheung “didn’t mince words”—which is one way of putting it. “When Trump was president, some of us dealt with the media in a somewhat traditional way,” recalls the former White House aide. “We dealt with fact patterns and tried to counter what we believed was inaccurate. This group is not trying to manage the press in any real way. They just send out these blistering, hilarious statements.” After historians noted that Trump had attached a Nazi trope—vermin—to his election lie, Cheung panned any critics as “snowflakes” with “Trump Derangement Syndrome.” “Cheung’s like a MAGA version of Jerry Seinfeld, where he says what other people would want to say,” he adds. “Comms people sometimes joke about statements they’d like to put out but never would. But what this guy does is actually put those statements out there. It’s insane.” Everything Cheung does is “performative,” claims a staffer for a rival GOP candidate who saw him in action on the campaign trail. He bashes the mainstream press, but then “he’s getting cappuccinos with them in the morning,” the staffer told me. “He wants Daddy to like him.” Cheung’s personal beliefs are hard to pinpoint. But after Trump took him in when other candidates would not, he became a disciple. “I don’t know that he’s a true believer in any particular Trump policy,” one of the journalists on the campaign trail told me. “When you’re Trump’s flack, you have to message a bunch of psychotic things. I’m pretty sure Steven Cheung knows the election wasn’t stolen, but he’s not going to ever say that. Which is worse? Believing the crazy stuff or knowing it’s wrong but messaging it anyway? I don’t know. It’s an existential question.” When Trump says something that is transparently ugly and hateful even by his own standards, it falls to Cheung to defend him. But in doing so, Cheung often ventures well beyond the borders of political spin and into the realm of absurdity. In early March, Trump warned that some migrants crossing the border are speaking “languages that nobody in this country has ever heard of.” When asked about this, Cheung replied, “There are migrants invading from countries that we know nothing about, which is the point.” That clearly wasn’t Trump’s point, and Cheung’s statement was ridiculous on its face. There aren’t any countries the US government knows nothing about—and we know a lot about those from which large numbers of migrants originate. This past Veterans Day, to offer another example, Trump pledged that he’d root out all the “communists, Marxists, fascists, and the radical left thugs that live like vermin within the confines of our country that lie and steal and cheat on elections.” When historians pointed out that the former president had attached a Nazi trope—vermin—to his election lie, Cheung panned any critics as “snowflakes” suffering from “Trump Derangement Syndrome,” adding that “their entire existence will be crushed when President Trump returns to the White House.” (He later clarified that he’d meant to say their “sad, miserable existence.”) After Trump was criticized for proclaiming that immigrants are “poisoning the blood” of America, Cheung insisted that this is “a normal phrase that is used in everyday life.” Spicer, Trump’s first press secretary, who keeps in touch with some of the current campaign staffers, described Cheung as being within “a small circle of trust,” one notch below senior advisers Susie Wiles, Chris LaCivita, and Jason Miller in the hierarchy. Cheung rarely does television appearances, and seems ill at ease on camera, so he is unlikely to be the face at the White House press podium during a second Trump administration. He would more likely play a senior communications role, setting strategy and tone—and would almost certainly run a tight ship. But history teaches that efficiency in the service of evil is not to be admired or celebrated. Once you start characterizing people as vermin, it is reasonable to question what you might do to them. The most pressing question about Cheung could be asked of anyone in Trump’s inner circle: What measures would he not defend? What would he not message? Does Cheung, whose parents assuredly did not poison the nation’s bloodstream, have any red lines? The professionalization of Trumpworld that Cheung personifies is a danger all its own. It masks what is otherwise entirely abnormal. Cheung may be a tolerably decent guy on a personal level, but he willingly, even gleefully, represents an indecent cause. And he’s good at it. He is, as one DC reporter put it to me, “the platonic ideal of a Trump spokesman.”
社会主义国家的意识形态不应该是接近民主党么。。但是我理解Asia的国家都是非移民国家，其实会偏向保守派。他之前也是work for McCian ,只是觉得他为MAGA工作有点像李莲英和慈溪。。知道无法平权所以只能用特权，或者说他们就根本不希望平权，不希望Asia American好，但是只要他有特权就行。
搞旅馆用偷渡过来的墨西哥人打扫卫生不给钱
用这个鸭蛋侠也是一贯的风格。
长的像头猪
你的意思是说鸭蛋侠便宜，可以拖欠工资？😅
“Birdbrain” was, of course, Nikki Haley, the former governor of South Carolina and Trump’s ambassador to the United Nations, whose effrontery in not exiting the race made her a favored punching bag. But there were, and are, many other Cheung targets. “Chris Christie looks like a weak bitch,” he proclaimed after the former New Jersey governor expressed regret for endorsing Trump in 2016. Last month, Cheung posted on X a picture of Joe Biden standing at a podium. His caption, all uppercase: “HELP! MY DIAPER IS FULL!”
Cheung’s last job before entering Trumpworld may partially explain his coarseness: He was director of communications and public affairs for the Ultimate Fighting Championship, a brutal mix of wrestling, kickboxing, and Brazilian jiu-jitsu. It would be tempting to dismiss him as just a foul-mouthed bully, a staffer Trump latched onto because more respectable operatives wanted nothing to do with him.
But, dear readers, if there are any among you rooting for a second Trump term, I have good news for you—and for the rest, some not-so-good-news: Cheung is a pretty clever guy. His social media posts and public statements, unhinged as they may sound, are calculated to draw attention amid the clutter of the 24/7 news cycle and to project the machismo that satisfies his boss’s core supporters. He is disciplined and laser-focused on the mission: Elect Trump at all costs.
More broadly, he is part of a Trump campaign—specifically, a comms operation—that is less chaotic and leaky, and far more professional, than the ones in 2016 and 2020. “There’s a calmness that Cheung brings to the communications shop that was missing in the last campaign,” Bryan Lanza, a GOP operative who has worked for Trump, told me. “He’s secure. He’s not there because he’s chasing celebrity or wants to come out with a job on TV.” Politics has always been a rough sport, Lanza notes, but there used to be accepted terms of engagement, as in boxing, whose Marquess of Queensberry rules enforce at least a modicum of decency. “You’d never think of name-calling like that in the past. but this is the next evolution of staffers,” he says. “It’s an aggressive media style that is very cutting, very insulting. We are in a crass environment.”
Cheung grew interested in politics as a young man when he began reading his hometown paper, the Sacramento Bee. His path into Trump’s orbit began with a series of campaign jobs after he graduated from California State University in Sacramento with a double major in political science and computer science. He interned for then-Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger and worked in communications for candidates in California, Texas, and Nevada, before hooking on to John McCain’s 2008 presidential campaign, where his title was administration assistant.
A former high school football player, Cheung became a martial arts fan and dabbled in taekwondo and Muay Thai boxing. In 2013, he left politics to take a job with the UFC that represented a significant elevation in status. He was in charge of communications and worked closely with UFC president Dana White, a longtime Trump crony and big-time donor. At the organization’s Las Vegas headquarters, Cheung was regarded as a wordsmith. “He’s a sharp guy, and you could tell right away he was a good writer,” says Marc Ratner, the UFC’s vice president for regulatory affairs.
The pugilistic language Cheung deploys on Trump’s behalf is unlikely to appeal to suburban white women, but it’s dead-center on the young-male UFC frequency.
Ratner had joined the UFC after a long career in boxing, and Cheung considered him a mentor. “I knew he had aspirations to go further,” Ratner recalls. “Probably to do something in politics.” Indeed, as Republican candidates began coming forward to run in the 2016 presidential primaries, Cheung, eager to get back in the game, reached out to numerous campaigns. Some never bothered to get back to him. A couple offered volunteer positions. But to the Trump campaign, which had a hard time attracting seasoned professionals, Cheung’s past political work—and perhaps even more so his role with the UFC—made him an ideal hire. He and Miller, a veteran Republican operative, had never met but they had friends in common. “He emailed me out of the blue: I see where you’ve joined the Trump campaign and I want to join the team,” Miller recalls. “I saw his resume and then called him up, hired him over the phone, and told him to meet us at the convention in Cleveland. And I put him to work. He never left the War Room and was an integral part of our success in 2016.” (Cheung would not agree to be quoted in this story.)
After Trump’s victory, Cheung followed him to Washington, but not, at first, in a central role. “He was a nobody. He did baby things. I never saw him giving ideas,” a White House aide from that time recalls. “He didn’t have an office in the West Wing. He was in the Executive Office Building across the street and he was one of those rapid-response guys. He sat in front of his computer all day long and sent out statements.”
Yet over time, as high-level staffers shuffled in and quickly out of Trump’s communications team—Sean Spicer, Anthony Scaramucci, and Hope Hicks, among others—Cheung became the White House director of rapid response. He took on bigger tasks, including leading the comms team working on Senate confirmation of Neil Gorsuch to the Supreme Court.
The former president is a more recent fan of the UFC. After Trump left office, he and Cheung attended bouts together in Las Vegas. As recently as March, Trump, with daughter Ivanka and her husband, Jared Kushner, in tow, attended a UFC event in Miami. The arena’s sound system blasted Kid Rock’s “American Bad Ass” and a crowd of 19,000 roared as the Jumbotron showed the former president walking to his ringside seat.
The sensibility on display was one shared by Trump and Cheung—and also, importantly, by a political demographic Trump covets. Market research indicates that men constitute up to 90 percent of mixed martial arts fans and that Black and Hispanic men are substantially overrepresented. (According to a recent study, about 25 percent of African Americans and 22 percent of Hispanics identify as viewers, compared with 15 percent of white Americans.)
Recent polling shows Trump gaining support with these groups, a nightmare scenario for Democrats. The pugilistic language Cheung deploys on Trump’s behalf is unlikely to appeal to suburban white women, but it’s dead-center on the young-male UFC frequency. It also hits home with the constituency of one that everyone in Trumpworld must stroke: Trump himself. The former president casts his entourage based on loyalty, but also appearance. The women in his inner circle tend to have long hair, often blonde, with the manicured appearance of Fox News anchors. Cheung fits a different one of Trump’s favored personas: the enforcer. His look, the UFC pedigree, and the language he uses all fit the part: Tangle with the boss, and you’ll get a knee in the head from Cheung.
As it was recounted to me, the atmosphere in the room was grave. But when Cheung’s turn came, he told Trump he thought the indictments would give him a bump in the polls of five or six points—which it did—and Trump didn’t forget it.
In one way, at least, Cheung plays a traditional role in a wholly untraditional campaign. He’s a main point of contact for journalists covering Trump, responds to their questions, and can parcel out coveted access—a seat on the campaign plane, an invite to a Mar-a-Lago event.
I interviewed several journalists who cover Trump, all of whom asked not to be quoted by name because they deal with Cheung on a regular basis. They all gave the spokesman relatively high marks. “This is the most functional version of a press operation, by far, that Trump has had,” one reporter told me. “The bar isn’t super high. But this is a normal operation where people stay in their lanes and do what they’re supposed to. For better or worse, they do not leak a lot of stuff.”
“I’m pretty sure Steven Cheung knows the election wasn’t stolen, but he’s not going to ever say that. Which is worse? Believing the crazy stuff or knowing it’s wrong but messaging it anyway?”
“In a world populated by liars, I am not aware that he’s ever knowingly lied to me,” says another. “There’s probably been a shading of facts, or spin, but that’s within the realm of what’s expected.”
The critical coverage that sends conventional campaigns into damage-control mode is tolerated and even appreciated in Trumpworld, so long as it feeds the MAGA base. “The stories you used to think are going to be negative for them, or scandalous—like that Trump’s going to root out the deep state and fire thousands of civil servants or round up migrants and put them in camps on military bases—they don’t give two shits about,” another journalist told me. “They don’t push back, because these are messages they are happy to drive.”
Cheung has never been married, and, according to colleagues, he is completely devoted to his work. He works long hours, texting with reporters as early as 6 a.m. and sometimes responding to their queries until past midnight. He is low drama even in fraught moments. “You might hear him quietly say, ‘Oh boy,’” Lanza says. “He closes his eyes, then 30 seconds later, he’s on it. That’s as animated as he gets.”
In boxing, you can’t hit an opponent who has fallen to the mat. In the UFC, however, fighters routinely stand over a fallen foe and pummel them. This is one of Cheung’s specialties. Just before Super Tuesday, when it was clear Haley probably had no way forward, Cheung tweeted, “The Nikki Haley candidacy is just one giant masturbatory fantasy for Never Trumpers and Democrats.”
He echoes Trump’s signature dialect of invective, sexual emasculation, and misogyny. “Baby girl, who hurt you,” he tweeted at Christina Pushaw, a spokeswoman for Ron DeSantis. “You sure seem obsessed with me. But I can’t blame ya.”
The press struggles to characterize these statements. After he declared Christie a “weak bitch,” Politico published the quote, noting that Cheung “didn’t mince words”—which is one way of putting it.
“When Trump was president, some of us dealt with the media in a somewhat traditional way,” recalls the former White House aide. “We dealt with fact patterns and tried to counter what we believed was inaccurate. This group is not trying to manage the press in any real way. They just send out these blistering, hilarious statements.”
After historians noted that Trump had attached a Nazi trope—vermin—to his election lie, Cheung panned any critics as “snowflakes” with “Trump Derangement Syndrome.”
“Cheung’s like a MAGA version of Jerry Seinfeld, where he says what other people would want to say,” he adds. “Comms people sometimes joke about statements they’d like to put out but never would. But what this guy does is actually put those statements out there. It’s insane.”
Everything Cheung does is “performative,” claims a staffer for a rival GOP candidate who saw him in action on the campaign trail. He bashes the mainstream press, but then “he’s getting cappuccinos with them in the morning,” the staffer told me. “He wants Daddy to like him.”
Cheung’s personal beliefs are hard to pinpoint. But after Trump took him in when other candidates would not, he became a disciple.
“I don’t know that he’s a true believer in any particular Trump policy,” one of the journalists on the campaign trail told me. “When you’re Trump’s flack, you have to message a bunch of psychotic things. I’m pretty sure Steven Cheung knows the election wasn’t stolen, but he’s not going to ever say that. Which is worse? Believing the crazy stuff or knowing it’s wrong but messaging it anyway? I don’t know. It’s an existential question.”
When Trump says something that is transparently ugly and hateful even by his own standards, it falls to Cheung to defend him. But in doing so, Cheung often ventures well beyond the borders of political spin and into the realm of absurdity. In early March, Trump warned that some migrants crossing the border are speaking “languages that nobody in this country has ever heard of.” When asked about this, Cheung replied, “There are migrants invading from countries that we know nothing about, which is the point.”
That clearly wasn’t Trump’s point, and Cheung’s statement was ridiculous on its face. There aren’t any countries the US government knows nothing about—and we know a lot about those from which large numbers of migrants originate.
This past Veterans Day, to offer another example, Trump pledged that he’d root out all the “communists, Marxists, fascists, and the radical left thugs that live like vermin within the confines of our country that lie and steal and cheat on elections.” When historians pointed out that the former president had attached a Nazi trope—vermin—to his election lie, Cheung panned any critics as “snowflakes” suffering from “Trump Derangement Syndrome,” adding that “their entire existence will be crushed when President Trump returns to the White House.” (He later clarified that he’d meant to say their “sad, miserable existence.”)
After Trump was criticized for proclaiming that immigrants are “poisoning the blood” of America, Cheung insisted that this is “a normal phrase that is used in everyday life.”
Spicer, Trump’s first press secretary, who keeps in touch with some of the current campaign staffers, described Cheung as being within “a small circle of trust,” one notch below senior advisers Susie Wiles, Chris LaCivita, and Jason Miller in the hierarchy. Cheung rarely does television appearances, and seems ill at ease on camera, so he is unlikely to be the face at the White House press podium during a second Trump administration. He would more likely play a senior communications role, setting strategy and tone—and would almost certainly run a tight ship. But history teaches that efficiency in the service of evil is not to be admired or celebrated. Once you start characterizing people as vermin, it is reasonable to question what you might do to them. The most pressing question about Cheung could be asked of anyone in Trump’s inner circle: What measures would he not defend? What would he not message? Does Cheung, whose parents assuredly did not poison the nation’s bloodstream, have any red lines?
The professionalization of Trumpworld that Cheung personifies is a danger all its own. It masks what is otherwise entirely abnormal. Cheung may be a tolerably decent guy on a personal level, but he willingly, even gleefully, represents an indecent cause. And he’s good at it. He is, as one DC reporter put it to me, “the platonic ideal of a Trump spokesman.”
信不信，trump会把它用完就扔掉的，trump扔掉的人太多了，不差这一个。
鸭蛋侠哈哈哈
越战后来的越南后裔是支持GOP的，南加一片蓝中就huntington beach和westminster两块红。
这你可能就低估他了，那么多中文的misinformation和网上微信群里活跃的川粉不是凭空产生的，上一届他也是White House Press Secretary的候选人之一。
有的狗被扔掉，有的狗就被烤了。。。
川普竞选发言人Steven Cheung
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这言论太恶心太低俗了，真正的low穿地心。
btw，川普骂大肚腩的时候他有没有心碎三秒钟？
真的，我其实是很讨厌那种拿体型外貌判人的，但川普这种外形歧视的话，拿来骂他自己的发言人才真的合适。
trump 不就是个bullier吗，垃圾们臭味💩想投，擦完屁股就扔
哈哈哈哈，上次那个贴，我说跟万斯比，川宝宝真的就是绝世美男
现在看到川宝宝自己的宝藏发言男孩，我改变想法了：跟这位发言人比，万斯才是绝世美男啊。。。
真的猪头肉。太可怕了。居然有人长得这么像猪。p都不敢这么p
哈哈哈哈
有了具体形象了
没看出来聪明
天，你不说它生于1982我还以为它是1892年的
🤣
哈哈哈哈哈哈哈就服你哈哈哈哈哈
trump连老墨的钱都坑？
为何侮辱猪
为虎作伥里的伥嘛，太典型了。无论最后结果是什么，这种人一辈子都如同猪八戒照镜子，里外不是人
越南古巴中国 大比例受过教育的是gop 共性就是社会主义国家 跟gop意识形态像
他到Hollywood 演反面角色可以本色出演 lol. 越南裔好像不少反华的。。
神马。。。美国营养太好了
社会主义国家的意识形态不应该是接近民主党么。。但是我理解Asia的国家都是非移民国家，其实会偏向保守派。他之前也是work for McCian ,只是觉得他为MAGA工作有点像李莲英和慈溪。。知道无法平权所以只能用特权，或者说他们就根本不希望平权，不希望Asia American好，但是只要他有特权就行。
说他60岁我都信
读完了，信息量很大。
Makes sense. 读了那篇你转的文章, 这人很clever, 没结婚，工作狂，可惜心术不正。