Traditionally, presidential candidates pick a V.P. who offers “balance.” Kennedy, a son of Massachusetts, tapped a southerner. Reagan, a former governor of California, picked a moderate from the Northeast. John McCain, a war hero, chose a walking joke respected by nobody. If Mister Rogers had run for president, Rambo might have made a good veep; Marilyn Manson could have picked one of the Wiggles. A running mate typically sweetens the president’s sour—or vice versa—to make the offering more palatable.
So whom will Trump pick? If he follows the “me, except the opposite” logic, one plausible—and widely rumored—option is South Carolina senator Tim Scott.
Trump’s campaign—like everything Trump-related—is weird. It’s less of a political campaign and more of a Daenerys Targaryen–esque rampage of vengeance. Back in December, Trump posted a word cloud about himself with words such as “revenge” and “dictatorship” featured in big, red letters. His speeches are screeds against his enemies in the style of a 1980s pro wrestler. Trump’s base enjoys his promises of heads on (metaphorical, hopefully) spikes. But Trump struggles with voters—especially suburban women—who aren’t connecting with his message of conquest, vengeance, and drinking mead from the skulls of his vanquished foes.
Tim Scott offers a contrast. Scott’s persona is basically: “Ned Flanders with less edge.” His messaging skews optimistic. He talks a lot about his faith. His campaign launch was so sunny that it made the Age of Aquarius scene from Hair look like a Russian funeral. Scott’s image probably benefited from spending much of the primary standing next to the charisma-free chunk of basalt known as Ron DeSantis and the sentient beam of pure obnoxiousness that calls itself Vivek Ramaswamy. But the fact remains: purely in terms of vibe, Scott resonates in a different way than Trump.
Trump struggles with voters—especially suburban women—who aren’t connecting with his message of conquest, vengeance, and drinking mead from the skulls of his vanquished foes.
And then there’s sex. Scott doesn’t have it, or at least he didn’t have it for a long time. When Scott first ran for office in South Carolina, at the age of 29, his virginity was part of his sales pitch. After reports that he was involved with a local lingerie entrepreneur, the 46-year-old senator implied in an interview that his virginity was no longer intact. Scott didn’t trumpet the change; there was no press conference in which he opened with the words “Bro, you won’t believe what happened last night.” To this day, Scott extols the benefits of abstinence.
Scott may have actually appeared too abstinent for Republican primary voters. One of the stranger “scandals” of the primaries began with the observation that Scott, who is now 58, is not married. America’s only unmarried president was James Buchanan, and he was a Democrat. To state the obvious: You can’t be gay and win the Republican nomination. You also can’t appear to maybe be gay; Republicans want a presidential candidate who is straighter than a can of Miller High Life wearing cargo shorts. Scott’s bachelordom was a liability.
He didn’t exactly squelch whispers about his sexual orientation when he announced that he had a girlfriend, but, no, the press couldn’t meet her. This seemed suspect; Scott did everything short of saying, “She goes to a different school and her parents are really strict so she can’t come to parties.” Last November, he produced the alleged girlfriend: confirmed human being Mindy Noce. A whirlwind two months later, the pair got engaged. Questions about Scott’s relationship status appear to be answered, though responses to his engagement were a mix of “Mazel tov!” and “He must really want to be vice president.”
One thing is certain: the press has spent far more time discussing the whereabouts of Tim Scott’s member than is typical. It’s possible that Scott is now butch enough for the Republican Party and tame enough for female swing voters. Which would be notable, because—as you may have heard—Trump has had issues with women. He was recently found guilty of sexual abuse, a fact that is shockingly easy to forget; if Millard Fillmore had assaulted a woman, then we would all remember one thing about Millard Fillmore. But Trump scandals are like Abba hits: there are so many that it’s easy to overlook even some of the big ones.
Also, Scott is Black; if you thought this would be the first article about Tim Scott to not mention his race, then I’m sorry to disappoint. Trump appears to be gaining Black voters, but in the same way that the Detroit Pistons improved by winning three games last month. Trump probably won’t win a lot of Black votes, barring a Scrooge-like conversion in which he stops describing majority-Black cities as “hellholes.” But having a Black running mate might help.
Questions about Scott’s relationship status appear to be answered, though responses to his engagement were a mix of “Mazel tov!” and “He must really want to be vice president.”
It would seem, then, that Scott could balance Trump in several ways. Trump is a tempest; Scott is sunny. Trump is white; Scott is Black. Trump has pursued sex like a horny teenager in an 80s slobs-versus-snobs comedy; Scott has … not done that. If a running mate is meant to be a human toupée that hides a candidate’s most obvious flaws, then Scott might be a more convincing rug than most.
At least, that would be true until you consider the paradox that a Tim Scott vice-presidential run would present. Scott portrays himself as an optimist who believes in America’s promise. Why, then, would he further the goals of a relentlessly gloomy, backward-looking campaign? He’s presented his views on sex as a matter of deep conviction, but Trump has egregiously violated those beliefs. There are limits to how much a person can rebrand; if longtime vegan Morrissey became the spokesperson for Omaha Steaks, you couldn’t blame people for seeing him as an opportunist.
Tim Scott can’t be Trump’s running mate and still be Tim Scott. At least, he can’t be the Tim Scott that he’s presented to the public. He would rightly be seen as selfish, cynical, and nihilistic. And if that’s true, then he really wouldn’t balance Trump at all.
Jeff Maurer was senior writer at Last Week Tonight with John Oliver and writes the I Might Be Wrong newsletter on Substack