Why would a bank would prefer collateral in DWAC over collateral in, say, some of his actual properties. DWAC will collapse if Trump isn't elected? I doubt that he will be allowed to post Lies (aka Truths) if convicted. But should he fail, Mar-a-Lago's got to be worth something. And although his properties are greatly leverage, they have some residual value.
The beauty of a DWAC is that foreign entities will legally be able to transfer money to Trump by pushing up its stock price.
Let's assume Trump gets all those shares and then stockholders vote to grant a waiver for him to sell shares.
I'm not sure what legal limits he has to declare sales in advance. Assuming no limit once he gets a waiver, I don't know what set of buyers exist to buy $500M of that stock. He'll have to flood the market and the price will crash or drip feed shares over a long period in the hopes that public reporting will not tank the price when people figure out how much money Truth Social is losing.
I'm not sure this is going to help him all that much because selling isn't going to be easy. Plus no underwriter will secure a loan with those shares. There's no indication that they have any underlying value.
Here is a good write up on what Trump gets if Truth Social goes public. One of the largest issues Trump will have is that as a public company, he will not be able to rule it like he has his private companies. He will be required to follow proper Governance and Compliance of a public company which he will chafe under as he has when he has been involved in other public companies. https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2024/mar/21/donald-trump-wealth-to-rise-by-more-than-3bn-if-shareholders-back-plan
I must confess that gave that evil slime some of my heard-earned cash, however grudgingly. And it kills me that it could help him escape justice. My 2 cousins from afar came to spend a week with us, and my wife, without my knowledge, booked us a weekend at Trump's casino in Atlantic City. I complained: "Of all the casinos in AC you had to pick the one owned by that evil slime!!!" But it was too late to change the reservation, so I went along. That was 1994. Didn't think about it much again until 2015, but pretty much every day since. And yes, I know that he, with the help of countless equally despicable helpers, siphons off even more indirectly from just about everyone (no, I never watched "The Apprentice"). But it would be all worth it if his insatiable greed lands him in jail for the rest of his life.
You should take up the offer. You will possibly make enough out of it to take your better half out for a good dinner with a nice bottle of wine. All on Trump.
The Triad is a total treat today. I don't think I'll ever get my head around the concept, however far-fetched, that trump's name is worth $2 billy or whatever.
First, let me explain that I am the kind of dog person who carries several poop bags with him when my dog and I go to the park so I can pick up not only my dog's poop, but the poop left by other dog owners who have forgotten their bags or just had to leave in a hurry.
With that being said, here is my story:
One early morning last March, I was with my chocolate lab, Cooper, in a nearby park that includes a walk along a canal that runs from an inland lake into Tampa Bay. It is a beautiful pathway, and I have loved taking my dogs there for the past thirty years. It's the kind of walk where you can see an osprey swoop down and carry away a fish in its claws.
Cooper came from the Florida Lab Rescue organization, and I had adopted him two months earlier in the first week of January 2023, when he was at the ripe old age of eleven (chocolate labs have an average lifespan of 10-12 years). He has severe arthritis in his rear legs and hips, and several other health issues that require four different medications daily (in addition to the usual monthly flea and tick and heartworm medications). The meds are not cheap, but I want to give Cooper the best last year or so of his life, which had included some pretty sad stuff (he had been handed off by four other previous human "caregivers" before he was finally given to the FL Lab Rescue). Cooper cannot walk very far without taking a break, so we walk in short spurts, and then he lies down to rest for a few minutes.
Anyway, it had been a year or so since I had walked this path with my previous two dogs, little mixed breed brothers, one of whom had lived nineteen years. Now, on this beautiful March morning in Tampa Bay along the canal at the park, Cooper and I stopped for a moment for him to rest on the grass between the canal and the paved pathway (bicyclists and joggers also go there), when an elderly person with a standard poodle came walking towards me on the paved path.
"Good morning!" I said in my usual, friendly, greeting-a-stranger voice.
"You know, we pick up our dog's shit in this park," the person said to me in a gravelly voice. I thought the person was a short man, and not fully sure why he hadn't simply greeted me back with a similar "good morning." He was wearing a MAGA cap, a jacket with red, white, and blue American flag designs, and jeans.
I was somewhat confused because Cooper had already had his bowel movement (he's great about following a "Go potty" command), and I had duly picked it up and placed the bag in one of the receptacles for just such a purpose.
"Yes, I agree, sir!" I said, somewhat confused at the belligerent tone, and confused why he sounded so accusatory.
"Well, I saw your dog shit before, and you just walked away and left it."
I confess, I was really confused and not sure what this person was talking about. At the same time, Cooper made his usual struggle to stand up and was ready to greet the poodle in a canine friendly manner.
"No, sir," I said, "that's not true," and proceeded to repeat the process of picking up and disposing of Cooper's previous elimination in the pail a short way down the path.
"I saw your dog shit and you left it," the short person repeated. "And I am not a 'Sir,'" was said menacingly, and she took off her cap to show me she had a haircut, short, yes, but a haircut meant to be the short haircut most likely a woman would have done.
"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am," I said. Embarrassed, yes, of course, but now more confused than ever.
"We pick up after our dogs in this park," she said roughly once again.
I wanted to just turn away from this person, but the injustice had already begun to gnaw at me. I was going to stand my ground (this is Florida) on the issue of picking up my dog's feces and correctly placing them in the garbage pail.
"I picked up my dog's poop and placed the bag in the garbage pail back there." I pointed to the pail that was a few minutes' walk back along the path.
"No, you didn't, I saw you leave without picking anything up," she said, more accusatory than before.
Now, I must admit she had found one of my weaknesses: the button that triggers my anger when I am falsely accused; so, unfortunately, I confess that my own voice might have lost some of its friendly, greeting-a-stranger cordiality.
"Well, let's go back there, and we'll see just what you're talking about. Because I know I picked up my dog's poop and put it in the garbage pail."
"I'm not going to walk all the way back there," she replied, as if what I was asking was a task that would have taken half the morning instead of five minutes.
Meanwhile, Cooper was standing quietly, eager to get closer to greet the poodle, and not sure why my voice was being raised to a higher decibel than he had ever heard it before. The poodle, likewise, was standing peacefully and looking longingly at Cooper.
"Evidence!" I exclaimed. "Evidence! If you're going to accuse me of something, then show me the evidence that you're talking about."
She scoffed at my unreasonable request and simply repeated, "I'm not going to walk all the way back there."
My head was spinning. I couldn't figure out why this odd person was accusing me of something I hadn't done, and yet was refusing to go back to prove her point, and thus, to shove my face (so to speak) into the evidence.
Then, something very odd happened.
She looked at me suspiciously and said, "Where do you live?"
Where do I live? Where do I live? What does that have to do with anything, I thought
"I live ...." I was going to tell her the name of the subdivision and street, but then stopped. The question had absolutely nothing to do with what she had originally accused me of. This was a public park, a park my property taxes had helped to maintain for the past thirty years. I had no reason to justify my right to be walking my dog along this canal on this beautiful March morning in the Tampa Bay suburbs, along this path that bikers and joggers from around the county came to enjoy.
"You're not allowed to be here," she went on. "This is private property. It belongs to the ...., " and she pointed behind her to the prefab home development that was built along the canal. Prefabricated homes that I always worried about whenever we had a hurricane warning, because I knew they would be first to be destroyed in any kind of severe wind or flooding.
She was crazy, it was clear by that point, a crazy MAGA (Making Americans Go Apeshit) lady who had had some mistaken perception from a distance of Cooper pooping, when his rear was probably bent downward because of his hip and rear leg arthritis. Or perhaps she had seen someone else...?
But my switch had been flipped. No logical explanations mattered. I had been accused by someone who was then unwilling to show the evidence that would support the accusation.
"You're a liar!" I shouted at her. "You're a liar!"
She turned around and flipped the bird at me as she walked away. Her walk was a stilted, stiff gait that caused me to immediately regret my outburst.
A few minutes later, she stopped to talk to a group of three other younger women with little dogs a football field distance down the path. I could see the conversation going on for some time. I should have just asked Cooper to get up and start walking homeward at that point, but my curiosity had been aroused now, and I thought perhaps the women would come by and ask me what had happened.
There's more to tell here about what happened next as the three women with their little dogs came walking back towards Cooper and me. But suffice it to say they ran by us in a hurry as if I had had an AR-15 tucked under my jacket, before I could even ask them what they had heard.
Why would a bank would prefer collateral in DWAC over collateral in, say, some of his actual properties. DWAC will collapse if Trump isn't elected? I doubt that he will be allowed to post Lies (aka Truths) if convicted. But should he fail, Mar-a-Lago's got to be worth something. And although his properties are greatly leverage, they have some residual value.
The beauty of a DWAC is that foreign entities will legally be able to transfer money to Trump by pushing up its stock price.
Let's assume Trump gets all those shares and then stockholders vote to grant a waiver for him to sell shares.
I'm not sure what legal limits he has to declare sales in advance. Assuming no limit once he gets a waiver, I don't know what set of buyers exist to buy $500M of that stock. He'll have to flood the market and the price will crash or drip feed shares over a long period in the hopes that public reporting will not tank the price when people figure out how much money Truth Social is losing.
I'm not sure this is going to help him all that much because selling isn't going to be easy. Plus no underwriter will secure a loan with those shares. There's no indication that they have any underlying value.
I disagree that the court will bail him out. But we’ll see. It would be a terrible precedent for the rule of law.
Here is a good write up on what Trump gets if Truth Social goes public. One of the largest issues Trump will have is that as a public company, he will not be able to rule it like he has his private companies. He will be required to follow proper Governance and Compliance of a public company which he will chafe under as he has when he has been involved in other public companies. https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2024/mar/21/donald-trump-wealth-to-rise-by-more-than-3bn-if-shareholders-back-plan
I must confess that gave that evil slime some of my heard-earned cash, however grudgingly. And it kills me that it could help him escape justice. My 2 cousins from afar came to spend a week with us, and my wife, without my knowledge, booked us a weekend at Trump's casino in Atlantic City. I complained: "Of all the casinos in AC you had to pick the one owned by that evil slime!!!" But it was too late to change the reservation, so I went along. That was 1994. Didn't think about it much again until 2015, but pretty much every day since. And yes, I know that he, with the help of countless equally despicable helpers, siphons off even more indirectly from just about everyone (no, I never watched "The Apprentice"). But it would be all worth it if his insatiable greed lands him in jail for the rest of his life.
You should take up the offer. You will possibly make enough out of it to take your better half out for a good dinner with a nice bottle of wine. All on Trump.
The Triad is a total treat today. I don't think I'll ever get my head around the concept, however far-fetched, that trump's name is worth $2 billy or whatever.
Crikey, people are stoopid.
Perfection.
<take my money gif>
what a situation. Keep us posted on what happens with the vote
Oh my gosh! Despite the grim ending, I laughed so much along the way it was worth it! Thanks…I needed this!
The worst thing is that he pays the fine? BTW, shout out to Hannah Yoest for her wonderful graphics work.
if I had the "scratch," I'd do the same!
Loved this JVL - thanks!!
I had a feeling that a judge somewhere would give Trump some kind of way out. This story reinforces that feeling. Sigh.
I just don't get it.
Why hasn't Biden and his deep state allies launched an attack on Trumps going public by forcing the SEC to refuse to approve the acquisition?
First, let me explain that I am the kind of dog person who carries several poop bags with him when my dog and I go to the park so I can pick up not only my dog's poop, but the poop left by other dog owners who have forgotten their bags or just had to leave in a hurry.
With that being said, here is my story:
One early morning last March, I was with my chocolate lab, Cooper, in a nearby park that includes a walk along a canal that runs from an inland lake into Tampa Bay. It is a beautiful pathway, and I have loved taking my dogs there for the past thirty years. It's the kind of walk where you can see an osprey swoop down and carry away a fish in its claws.
Cooper came from the Florida Lab Rescue organization, and I had adopted him two months earlier in the first week of January 2023, when he was at the ripe old age of eleven (chocolate labs have an average lifespan of 10-12 years). He has severe arthritis in his rear legs and hips, and several other health issues that require four different medications daily (in addition to the usual monthly flea and tick and heartworm medications). The meds are not cheap, but I want to give Cooper the best last year or so of his life, which had included some pretty sad stuff (he had been handed off by four other previous human "caregivers" before he was finally given to the FL Lab Rescue). Cooper cannot walk very far without taking a break, so we walk in short spurts, and then he lies down to rest for a few minutes.
Anyway, it had been a year or so since I had walked this path with my previous two dogs, little mixed breed brothers, one of whom had lived nineteen years. Now, on this beautiful March morning in Tampa Bay along the canal at the park, Cooper and I stopped for a moment for him to rest on the grass between the canal and the paved pathway (bicyclists and joggers also go there), when an elderly person with a standard poodle came walking towards me on the paved path.
"Good morning!" I said in my usual, friendly, greeting-a-stranger voice.
"You know, we pick up our dog's shit in this park," the person said to me in a gravelly voice. I thought the person was a short man, and not fully sure why he hadn't simply greeted me back with a similar "good morning." He was wearing a MAGA cap, a jacket with red, white, and blue American flag designs, and jeans.
I was somewhat confused because Cooper had already had his bowel movement (he's great about following a "Go potty" command), and I had duly picked it up and placed the bag in one of the receptacles for just such a purpose.
"Yes, I agree, sir!" I said, somewhat confused at the belligerent tone, and confused why he sounded so accusatory.
"Well, I saw your dog shit before, and you just walked away and left it."
I confess, I was really confused and not sure what this person was talking about. At the same time, Cooper made his usual struggle to stand up and was ready to greet the poodle in a canine friendly manner.
"No, sir," I said, "that's not true," and proceeded to repeat the process of picking up and disposing of Cooper's previous elimination in the pail a short way down the path.
"I saw your dog shit and you left it," the short person repeated. "And I am not a 'Sir,'" was said menacingly, and she took off her cap to show me she had a haircut, short, yes, but a haircut meant to be the short haircut most likely a woman would have done.
"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am," I said. Embarrassed, yes, of course, but now more confused than ever.
"We pick up after our dogs in this park," she said roughly once again.
I wanted to just turn away from this person, but the injustice had already begun to gnaw at me. I was going to stand my ground (this is Florida) on the issue of picking up my dog's feces and correctly placing them in the garbage pail.
"I picked up my dog's poop and placed the bag in the garbage pail back there." I pointed to the pail that was a few minutes' walk back along the path.
"No, you didn't, I saw you leave without picking anything up," she said, more accusatory than before.
Now, I must admit she had found one of my weaknesses: the button that triggers my anger when I am falsely accused; so, unfortunately, I confess that my own voice might have lost some of its friendly, greeting-a-stranger cordiality.
"Well, let's go back there, and we'll see just what you're talking about. Because I know I picked up my dog's poop and put it in the garbage pail."
"I'm not going to walk all the way back there," she replied, as if what I was asking was a task that would have taken half the morning instead of five minutes.
Meanwhile, Cooper was standing quietly, eager to get closer to greet the poodle, and not sure why my voice was being raised to a higher decibel than he had ever heard it before. The poodle, likewise, was standing peacefully and looking longingly at Cooper.
"Evidence!" I exclaimed. "Evidence! If you're going to accuse me of something, then show me the evidence that you're talking about."
She scoffed at my unreasonable request and simply repeated, "I'm not going to walk all the way back there."
My head was spinning. I couldn't figure out why this odd person was accusing me of something I hadn't done, and yet was refusing to go back to prove her point, and thus, to shove my face (so to speak) into the evidence.
Then, something very odd happened.
She looked at me suspiciously and said, "Where do you live?"
Where do I live? Where do I live? What does that have to do with anything, I thought
"I live ...." I was going to tell her the name of the subdivision and street, but then stopped. The question had absolutely nothing to do with what she had originally accused me of. This was a public park, a park my property taxes had helped to maintain for the past thirty years. I had no reason to justify my right to be walking my dog along this canal on this beautiful March morning in the Tampa Bay suburbs, along this path that bikers and joggers from around the county came to enjoy.
"You're not allowed to be here," she went on. "This is private property. It belongs to the ...., " and she pointed behind her to the prefab home development that was built along the canal. Prefabricated homes that I always worried about whenever we had a hurricane warning, because I knew they would be first to be destroyed in any kind of severe wind or flooding.
She was crazy, it was clear by that point, a crazy MAGA (Making Americans Go Apeshit) lady who had had some mistaken perception from a distance of Cooper pooping, when his rear was probably bent downward because of his hip and rear leg arthritis. Or perhaps she had seen someone else...?
But my switch had been flipped. No logical explanations mattered. I had been accused by someone who was then unwilling to show the evidence that would support the accusation.
"You're a liar!" I shouted at her. "You're a liar!"
She turned around and flipped the bird at me as she walked away. Her walk was a stilted, stiff gait that caused me to immediately regret my outburst.
A few minutes later, she stopped to talk to a group of three other younger women with little dogs a football field distance down the path. I could see the conversation going on for some time. I should have just asked Cooper to get up and start walking homeward at that point, but my curiosity had been aroused now, and I thought perhaps the women would come by and ask me what had happened.
There's more to tell here about what happened next as the three women with their little dogs came walking back towards Cooper and me. But suffice it to say they ran by us in a hurry as if I had had an AR-15 tucked under my jacket, before I could even ask them what they had heard.
"Have a good day," I said to them as they ran by.