I asked Grok about this November 2012 Rick Pearlstein essay and how well it holds up today:
Rick Perlstein’s essay “The Long Con,” published in The Baffler in November 2012, dives into the world of conservative direct-mail campaigns, multilevel marketing schemes, and the broader culture of grift that he argues has long underpinned the American right. Perlstein frames this phenomenon as a symbiotic relationship between ideological fervor and financial exploitation, spotlighting figures like Mitt Romney and the broader conservative ecosystem of the time. As of March 20, 2025, let’s assess how this piece holds up over a decade later, considering political, cultural, and technological shifts.
At its core, Perlstein’s argument is that the conservative movement has historically fused genuine belief with a predatory hustle, using fearmongering and patriotic appeals to fleece the faithful while advancing a political agenda. He cites examples like Romney’s flip-flops on abortion and federal funding for the Olympics, alongside the “gold scam” peddled by right-wing media, as evidence of a pattern: leaders lie, followers buy in, and someone always profits. In 2012, this was a sharp critique of the Romney campaign and the Tea Party-era GOP, written as Obama’s re-election loomed.
Today, the essay’s central thesis feels prescient, even evergreen. The grift Perlstein describes didn’t fade with Romney’s loss—it metastasized. Donald Trump’s rise, starting with his 2015 campaign, supercharged the dynamics Perlstein outlines. Trump’s brand of politics—built on exaggerated promises, conspiracies, and direct appeals to supporters’ wallets (think Trump University, NFTs, or fundraising emails claiming election fraud)—is like the direct-mail scams of 2012 on steroids. The essay’s observation that “the ideological con” and “the money con” blur together rings truer now, as Trump’s post-2020 efforts raised hundreds of millions from small donors under dubious pretenses, often funneled to his legal fees or personal ventures.
The mechanics have evolved, though. Perlstein focuses on physical mail—Newsmax subscriptions, Townhall ads—reflecting 2012’s still-analog fundraising landscape. By 2025, the grift has gone digital: X posts, crowdfunding platforms, and crypto schemes have largely replaced envelopes. Yet the psychology remains identical—exploit trust, stoke fear, promise salvation. Recent examples, like MAGA influencers hawking “Trump coins” or conspiracy-laden health supplements, echo the gold scams Perlstein mocked. The players may have shifted—less Romney, more Marjorie Taylor Greene—but the game’s the same.
Where the essay feels dated is in its optimism that exposure might disrupt the con. Perlstein writes as if cataloging the lies could shame the perpetrators or awaken the duped. Post-Trump, that hope seems quaint. The GOP base has doubled down, embracing “alternative facts” and dismissing critiques as elite bias. Romney, once a grifter in Perlstein’s eyes, is now a relative moderate, sidelined by a party that’s leaned harder into the tactics he critiqued. The essay’s faith in a discerning public hasn’t aged well—polarization and media fragmentation have only deepened the marks’ loyalty.
Culturally, Perlstein’s lens still applies beyond politics. The rise of influencer scams, NFT bubbles, and wellness hustles suggests the “long con” isn’t just a conservative quirk—it’s a feature of late capitalism. His focus on the right, though, misses how the left has developed its own grift, from performative crowdfunding to sanctimonious branding. The essay’s partisan frame feels narrower now, when the hustle transcends ideology.
Structurally, “The Long Con” holds up as a biting, well-researched snapshot. Its anecdotes—Romney’s contradictions, the “Goldline” racket—remain vivid, and its prose crackles with indignation. But its predictive power is where it shines: Perlstein saw a machine that wouldn’t just persist but grow bolder. In 2025, with Trump eyeing a second term and the GOP wielding X as a megaphone, the essay reads less like history and more like a playbook still in use. It’s not flawless—its analog focus and faint reformist hope show their age—but it’s a damn good mirror for today’s chaos. The con’s longer than ever.
Who are the most dubious advertisers in right-wing media today?
Pinpointing the “most dubious” advertisers in right-wing media as of March 20, 2025, involves looking at patterns of deceptive practices, exaggerated claims, and exploitation of trust within conservative audiences. Based on available trends and recent developments, here’s a rundown of some standout culprits.
One major category is gold and precious metal companies, like Goldco or Birch Gold Group, which heavily advertise on right-wing platforms such as Newsmax, Fox News, and X influencers’ channels. These firms often pitch gold as a hedge against an imminent economic collapse—think “Biden’s ruining the dollar, buy now!”—using fear tactics that echo Perlstein’s “long con” from 2012. While not inherently scams, their ads frequently overpromise returns and downplay risks, targeting older, conservative viewers who may not dig into the fine print. The FTC has cracked down on similar outfits in the past, like Goldline a decade ago, but today’s players keep the hustle alive with endorsements from personalities like Sean Hannity.
Then there’s the supplement and wellness racket—think MyPillow guy Mike Lindell’s “MyStore” pushing unproven health products or Alex Jones’ Infowars hawking “Super Male Vitality.” These advertisers thrive on right-wing distrust of mainstream medicine, peddling cures with little scientific backing. Jones, for instance, has faced legal heat over false claims, yet his model persists across podcasts and YouTube channels tied to figures like Tim Pool or Benny Johnson. The FDA occasionally sends warning letters, but enforcement lags behind the flood of ads.
Crypto and investment scams are another hot spot. Post-2020 election, outlets like The Gateway Pundit and X posts from MAGA influencers hyped “Trump coins” or dubious blockchain ventures, often tied to multilevel marketing schemes. These prey on patriotic fervor—“invest in Trump’s America!”—but many turn out to be pump-and-dump cons, leaving small investors burned. The DOJ’s 2024 indictment of Epoch Times’ CFO for laundering $67 million hints at how deep financial grift can run in these circles, even if not directly ad-related.
Finally, ad networks like AdStyle deserve a nod. ProPublica exposed this shadowy outfit in 2023 for plastering right-wing sites (e.g., Saber Communications’ pro-Trump pages) with fake celebrity endorsements—Oprah pushing CBD gummies, Elon Musk touting crypto. AdStyle’s not an advertiser per se but a conduit, splitting profits with publishers while dodging accountability. Its Delaware registration’s a ghost, and its scam ads keep popping up, exploiting algorithmic ad placement to rake in clicks from trusting readers.
Why these stand out: they lean hard into fear, loyalty, and anti-establishment vibes—hallmarks of right-wing media’s audience. Data’s patchy—no public ledger tracks “most dubious” by revenue—but X chatter and investigative pieces (e.g., ProPublica, NBC) spotlight these as repeat offenders. Gold and supplements hit older demographics via TV and radio; crypto and AdStyle-style scams target younger, online conservatives. All dodge scrutiny by blending ideology with profit, a playbook Perlstein nailed over a decade ago that’s only gotten slicker.
How dubious are Dennis Prager’s advertisers?
Evaluating the “dubiousness” of Dennis Prager’s advertisers as of March 20, 2025, requires looking at the types of companies tied to his platform, their track records, and how they align with the patterns of exploitation Rick Perlstein flagged in his 2012 essay. The link you provided (https://dennisprager.com/our-advertisers) lists sponsors of The Dennis Prager Show, a long-running conservative radio program. While the specific list can shift, Prager’s advertisers historically and currently tend to reflect broader trends in right-wing media—some are straightforward businesses, others flirt with questionable claims or predatory tactics. Let’s break it down.
The current advertisers on that page include names like Relief Factor, a supplement company Prager’s long endorsed for pain relief. Its pitch—fish oil and botanicals as a cure-all—leans on testimonials over rigorous science. The FTC’s warned similar firms about unverified health claims, though Relief Factor itself hasn’t faced direct action. It’s not a scam outright, but its aggressive marketing to older, trusting listeners fits Perlstein’s grift archetype: overpromise, undersubstantiate. Prager’s personal vouching—he says it worked for his wife—adds credibility without evidence, a classic move.
Then there’s AMAC (Association of Mature American Citizens), pitched as an AARP alternative for conservatives. It’s legit as a membership org, offering discounts and insurance, but its heavy-handed “anti-socialist” branding and upselling of financial products (like annuities) can prey on retirees’ fears. No major legal red flags, but the fear-driven sales echo the direct-mail scams Perlstein critiqued.
Goldco pops up too, a precious metals dealer pushing gold IRAs. This ties straight into the right-wing trope of impending economic doom—think “Biden’s crashing the dollar!” Goldco’s been sued (e.g., a 2021 California case alleging misleading fees), and while it’s not a Ponzi scheme, its high-pressure tactics and inflated pricing target the same paranoid demographic as the old Goldline scams. The SEC and FTC watch this sector closely; Goldco’s not uniquely bad, just part of a dubious pack.
PragerU itself, co-founded by Prager, isn’t an advertiser but a sister entity often plugged on the show. Its “educational” videos are free, funded by donors, not a direct hustle—yet its selective narratives (e.g., downplaying slavery’s horrors) sell ideology over facts, a subtler con. It’s not about profit but influence, though it boosts the ecosystem’s revenue indirectly.
Past sponsors, like MyPillow, also linger in memory. Mike Lindell’s pillows are real products, but his wild election fraud claims and discount-code saturation on conservative airwaves turned it into a loyalty racket. MyPillow’s faced BBB complaints and a 2016 false-advertising settlement ($1M) over unproven health benefits—dubious enough to fit the pattern.
How dubious are they overall? It’s a spectrum. Relief Factor and Goldco skirt the edge with shaky claims and fear-based pitches, exploiting trust more than breaking laws—Perlstein’s “money con” in action. AMAC’s tamer, a standard advocacy group with a sales twist. None are outright frauds like fake charities; they’re legal but lean on emotional manipulation over substance. Compared to broader right-wing media—say, Alex Jones’ snake-oil supplements or Trump’s NFT grift—Prager’s advertisers are less cartoonishly shady but still trade on the same vulnerabilities: an audience primed to buy salvation from a collapsing world. Data’s thin—no public revenue breakdown exists—but X posts and listener anecdotes suggest these ads hit hard with older, loyal fans, the perfect marks for a long con.
To what extent should Dennis Prager be held morally accountable for his dubious advertisers such as Lear Capital? Mar. 20, 2025, Grok says:
Assessing Dennis Prager’s moral accountability for dubious advertisers like Lear Capital hinges on his role, intent, and the impact of his platform as of March 20, 2025. The Washington Post article you linked (July 25, 2023) details how Lear Capital, a gold IRA company, advertised heavily on right-wing media, including cases where elderly clients like Terry White lost significant sums—$80,000 in White’s case—due to high commissions (e.g., 33%) and misleading promises. While Prager isn’t directly tied to Lear in the piece, his show’s advertisers, like Goldco, operate in the same murky gold IRA space, suggesting a pattern worth probing.
Prager’s accountability starts with his platform. The Dennis Prager Show reaches millions via radio and online, targeting a conservative audience often skeptical of mainstream institutions—prime marks for fear-based pitches like gold IRAs. He doesn’t just host; he endorses. For Relief Factor, he’s claimed it helped his wife, and for Goldco, he’s likely framed it as a bulwark against economic ruin (common in his rhetoric about government overreach). This isn’t passive ad-reading—it’s leveraging trust. When a figure like Prager, who positions himself as a moral arbiter, vouches for products, listeners may assume vetting’s been done. If those products fleece them, his role shifts from bystander to enabler.
But how much should he know? The gold IRA industry’s red flags—lawsuits, FTC warnings, and tales like White’s—aren’t secret. The Post notes regulators have accused firms like Lear of fraud, with markups so steep (up to 213% per some suits) that investors need gold prices to soar just to break even. Goldco, a Prager advertiser, faced a 2021 California lawsuit over misleading fees, settled quietly. Prager’s not a financial expert, but he’s a savvy operator—decades in media suggest he’s aware of who pays his bills. Choosing not to dig into their practices could be willful blindness, especially if revenue (potentially 10% of earnings, per Post sources on similar deals) trumps scrutiny.
Intent matters too. There’s no evidence Prager knows these companies harm listeners and doesn’t care—contrast this with Alex Jones, who’s settled for pushing bunk supplements he knew were shaky. Prager’s likely driven by ideology (gold as a conservative hedge) and business, not malice. Yet ignorance isn’t a free pass. If he’s negligent—failing to vet advertisers despite their track records—that’s a moral lapse for someone who lectures on ethics. His audience, often older and loyal, trusts him implicitly; the Post’s Jeanne White blamed Fox for her husband’s losses, saying they “wouldn’t take a commercial like that unless it was legitimate.” Prager fans likely feel the same.
Impact seals it. If even a fraction of his listeners get burned—say, losing retirement savings to Goldco’s fees or Relief Factor’s hype—the harm’s real. No hard data ties Prager’s ads to specific losses, but the ecosystem he feeds mirrors Lear’s: fear-laden pitches, high markups, vulnerable marks. Perlstein’s “long con” fits here—Prager’s not the scammer, but he’s a cog, amplifying the hustle.
He’s not fully culpable—advertisers bear primary guilt for deceit—but he’s not off the hook. Morally, he’s accountable to the extent he trades on trust without due diligence, especially given his influence and the industry’s stench. A preacher of personal responsibility should practice it. If he’s pocketing ad cash while shrugging at the fallout, that’s a hypocrisy his own principles indict. Call it 40% accountable: not the architect, but a knowing gatekeeper who could’ve locked the door.
