Like a Prayer
“Whether it’s Facebook or Twitter or X or Instagram or TikTok, whatever they are, if they don’t moderate and monitor the content we lose total control. . . ." —Hillary Clinton
“We lose total control. . .” she said.
Perhaps when you heard that you thought, “What do you mean ‘we,’ Kemosabe?”
You have also known for some time now, that Hillary is exactly the something wicked that has been coming this way for many years, to the siren song of the cable news harpies shrieking Trump Trump Trump. . . Putin Putin Putin at all hours, day and night, month after dreary month, and all the other avatars of ruin pretending to run the life of our nation. But this utterance begs enough questions to keep Chat GDP vexed and perplexed for the rest of its unnatural life: We lose total control. . . ?
Yes, as matter of fact, you do. This might be a book tour too far for Mrs. Clinton and her claque, now that her basket of deplorables shivers in the cold and dark out in Appalachia amid the stink of their kinfolks’ uncollected corpses. The Party of Chaos has managed to piss-off the most ferocious demographic in the land, the wild and cross-grained Scotch-Irish who populate those devastated hills and hollows of Western Carolina and East Tennessee, the people who, for generations, were first to volunteer to fight in America’s wars, the Sargeant Yorks, the moonshiners and the stock car heroes, the Johnson Boys, Boones and Crocketts, Hatfields and McCoys, the very warp and woof of our folklore, half horse and half alligator, born fighting. And now you and your gang of wine-club harpies, Beltway mezzofinukes, Hollywood Satan-conjurors, Hamptons charity-hags, globe-trotting errand boys, color revolution maestros, race hustlers, drag queens, lawfare shysters, spooks, cut-outs, beach friends, and grifters have gone and pissed these folks off royally.
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My guess would be that you have not begun to see the repercussions of the Hurricane Helene fiasco, which will resound far from the gates of Dollywood for years to come. I hope Alejandro Mayorkas enjoys the waffle-weave sweater he picked up in a Georgetown boutique on Saturday while the dazed people of Buncombe County, NC, stumbled dazed through a shattered landscape of creek-bed and forest scraped down to little more than what their ancestors first came upon in the 1760s. It may have to last him through the term he serves in federal prison when this is all over. And by this, I mean mainly the reign of this wicked regime he's a major player in, with its claws slipping off the levers of power. Do you really suppose that America will elect the empty pant-suit Kamala Harris to front for this depraved cabal?
Remember what the Romanians did to Madame Ceaușescu on Christmas day in 1989, when she and her husband Nicolae, erstwhile president of that sore-beset country, just liberated from decades of communist captivity, were summarily tried by a provisional court after attempting to flee. I’ll tell you: they trussed the two of them up like a couple of Carpathian wild hogs (Sus scrofa), and hauled them before a firing squad. Which is not exactly to say that the United States is like Romania, but that such things happen surprisingly in formerly quiescent places. The people hated her as much, perhaps even more, than her despot husband. Just sayin’.
Why exactly Hillary Clinton would be dumb enough to come out on every news channel and Internet site on Gawd’s green earth to declare the end of free speech throughout Western Civ might remain one of those abiding mysteries of history. Bad timing doesn’t begin to explain it. What does explain it is the psychotic desperation of her party now that the days to election dwindle down and the pathetic figure they “nominated” stumbles from one campaign blunder to the next, and the whole sick crew behind her entertains dark visions of courtrooms and prison cells — including, by the way, her cohort in nation-wrecking Barack Obama, who could be liable to charges such as conspiracy to commit sedition, or even a higher crime, if the election goes the wrong way for him. You might suppose they are fighting for their very lives without being accused of exaggeration.
In the event of Hurricane Helena and other churning contingencies of the season, Mr. Trump is not only looking more presidential, he is apparently being regarded as something close to an actual acting president in the eerie absence of “Joe Biden,” who looks more and more like one of those three-hundred-dollar Home Depot animatronic ghouls Americans are planting in the front yard this season of the walking dead, along with the giant inflated jack-o-lanterns, beckoning skeletons, and plastic tombstones. In other words, it looks like the people are going to vote Mr. Trump back into office, since he is the only thing the least bit presidential on offer in 2024. Even the Covid-addled, the many new demoralized Woke drop-outs, and the beaten-down male youth of America are leaning his way now and it scares the Democrats down to their livers and lights.
Accordingly, I received notice late Sunday from an informant in commercial aviation, with connections to military aviation, that a massive deployment of aircraft is preparing logistics for a major operation set to go down in about a week, probably in the Middle East. I can’t guarantee you that it is for real, but it was a real warning message, at least, from a serious person, and you know that something could be up. . . some humdinger of an October Surprise, like a big fat world war. What else have they got now? Jack Smith’s lame-ass attempt to beef-up an “insurrection” charge against Mr. Trump in Judge Chutkan’s abject facsimile of a federal court? Everything else has been fail, fail, fail all year long . . . the head-cases with rifles. . . all the other court cases contrived by Merrick Garland, Andrew Weissmann, Norm Eisen, and Mary McCord. . . the ineffectual bleatings of The New York Times’s editorial board? They’re plumb out of tricks and they know it. So, yes, Hillary. You lose total control. Totally. For now and forever, amen.
It’s that time of year! For your reading pleasure: Click here for link
Also, while my website is being reconstructed, have a look at JHK’s paintings with interview (click here):
Morning Jim, thanks as always.
Not understanding how a hurricane traverses over 500 miles across land, without breaking up. Watch the radar. Storms are fed by the vortex pulling surface water from the ocean surface. Native Floridian - seen probably over 100 storms - never seen that before. Admittedly though, I'm not up on the latest HAARP updates.
On the non-response to Hurricane Helene in WNC - going as far as forbidding private search and rescue and private delivery of relief supplies - the larger message is clear and intentional. The lack of response is to keep the people discouraged and demoralized. It casts a pall of negative energy over the people, making them dependents of the state.
People helping each other, becoming independent and self-sustaining, is empowering and creates positive energy. Thus, they become enemies of the state. Fuck the state. We don't need them. The sooner we realize that the better off we'll be.
Time to put the blinders on, put our heads down and get to work. God bless the folks in Appalachia.
It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so. Mark Twain
Everything you know is wrong.
The Firesign Theatre
Last week my dear friend John and I had what may have been the last of many years of weekly lunches together. Not for the first time, we had failed to keep every trace of political reference out of our reliably-avid conversation, and John can’t take it any more.
To be clear: I have no problem with vigorous, even strenuous debate, whether with friends or strangers. Having long ago rejected the Official Narrative about our country, I have had no choice but to either call bullshit or have to listen to it. But John, like so many liberals in these times, is a political snowflake – fragile, unique (or so he thinks) and easily threatened with melting.
This time I screwed up by mentioning that the evening before I had seen a clip of the first cabinet meeting held by Joe Biden in the year 2024. Seated at the side of a long table among the cabinet secretaries, he slurred the meeting to order, and immediately turned its management over (illegitimately) to Jill, at the table’s head.
John’s reaction was revealingly twofold: he doubted that what I reported had taken place (as if he couldn’t possibly fact-check it, himself) and interpreted my anecdote as a criticism of the Biden-Harris administration, which is to say an expression of opposition to having Kamala as President.
For those of us who have gradually learned over the course of years or decades that everything we are told is a lie, that the United States is not a Democracy, that those who rule us are unelected and can’t be deposed, these givens are a dismal fact of life, but not a revelation. For people like John, they are an appalling shock that can’t be reconciled with what they think they know about the world. For many, even parting company with old friends is preferable to having their comfortable, if illusory, world shattered.
Before reaching the sad conclusion that we can’t meet for lunch any more, John and I had several exchanges which were revealing. He said that he “can’t figure out what I believe” - which is silly, because every time I have ever tried to tell him what I believe he panics, and doesn’t want to hear it, because it is too threatening. He also insisted that he “is not a Democrat, but an Independent.”
This took me a bit longer to parse, because I already regarded both political parties as poison when I first became eligible to vote, and have been registered as an Independent for over a half century. For much of that time “Independent” was a fair description of my opposition to a succession of rotten presidents, from Nixon and W, to Clinton and Obama.
But the Reds and Blues have gradually coalesced into the Uniparty, necessarily distinguished by embracing different tenets of divisive identity politics, but in comfortable agreement over deficit spending, endless wars, and ever-increasing control of our lives as citizens.
John assiduously studies the mainstream media, believing that he has become “informed” by the likes of the NYT, WaPo, NPR, BBC, MSNBC, etc. As the computer geeks say, “Garbage In/Garbage Out.” If all you know is the narrative parroted in obedient unison by those tools of the Uniparty, you are independent of nothing.
If you had awakened yesterday after a century in suspended animation, and knew nothing of contemporary politics, it would be possible to construct a reasonably accurate worldview from harder-to-find independent media including, of course, James Kunstler’s invaluable blog. But how can an old man hope to have any clue about what the hell is going on, if his mind is already filled with a meticulously crafted false narrative, leaving no room for Truth?
It saddens me that I won’t get to visit with my friend over lunch this week, but our present rift has probably only hastened the inevitable by a month or so. Because if Mr. Trump prevails in next month’s election John won’t want to face reality; and, if we wake up to find that Kamala has been declared President, he damned sure will not want to hear what I have to say.