"I am asking Congress to amend this bill and increase the ridiculously low $600 to $2,000."
Thus spake zany Donald Trump, who has tunneled his way into covid relief legislation at the 11th second, having long squandered his political influence in exchange for whining incessantly about how this cruel world hates him.
True to unsavory form, having also bemoaned that "it’s called the Covid relief bill, but it has almost nothing to do with Covid," he insisted that business lunches and dinners and booze be made fully tax deductible in the legislation not for two years, but indefinitely. (Most of his objections related not to the covid bill, but the attached government spending bill; as usual, he hasn't a clue as to what he's talking about.)
Nevertheless, Democratic leaders reacted to Trump's reversal of absentee landlordship with a mixture of elation and a dram of visualization. Pelosi: "At last, the President has agreed to $2,000 — Democrats are ready to bring this to the Floor this week by unanimous consent. Let’s do it!" Schumer: "We’re glad to pass more aid Americans need. Maybe Trump can finally make himself useful and get Republicans not to block it again."
Meanwhile, Trump has thrust Republicans into the ninth circle of political hell. No matter which way they turn, a large segment of the base will be unmercifully pissed. If they back Trump, then their assurances of fiscal frugality will tank; if they oppose him, well, you know.
Notwithstanding the delightfulness of all this Republican infighting, the totality of urgent relief legislation is now in doubt. And that alone ain't so delightful.