Testimony?

Thefoureunuchs

L to R; eunuch, ballbreaker, eunuch, token

 

Ah, testimony. Lovely word, isn’t it? Testimony: derived from Latin. Another gift from those crafty Romans. Testes, testis, testimony. From the oath taken under Roman law, that is to swear upon one’s manhood. Back in those years before the Romans had co-opted the Hebrew God to their own purposes, there was no “word of God” upon which to stake one’s honor. In any culture; any language; any time in human history, a man compelled to swear an oath at the risk of his jewels has proven to sufficiently incentivize truth telling. With this in mind, I for one, believe that this word ought be treated with a bit more reverence.

What is being offered up today, under the sublime leadership of the only alien being ever seated in the US Congress (pictured below)……

 

JabbaNadler 1Nadler 2Nadler 3Nadler 4……is not testimony. Not in any legal sense, nor in it’s euphemistic sense as given in the word’s origin. There aren’t enough balls present in that line up to do the word justice. These people, just like the recent parade of disgruntled diplomats at the Adam Schiff show, are the embodiment of what is wrong with Washington. The names and faces have been changed, but the story remains the same. The same condescending, rules for thee – not for me, hypocrisy hustle that swamp rats have heaped upon us for decades now.

Chairman Waddler adjusts himself upon that pillow of excess flesh folded beneath him. It’s a fortunate byproduct of the transformation he has undergone since arriving on this planet. A man who never could find his own ass with both hands now has a valid excuse. Some say that he actually has a pouch somewhere in those folds where he carries a spare gavel. Should this actually exist one shudders at the thought of what else might be found there.

You are witnessing the long playing version of the Caddyshack Presidency. These hearings are like a board meeting of the Bushwood Country Club, where the snobs scheme at how they will rid themselves of the nouveau riche trash, Rodney Dangerfield’s Al Cervic – ironically also a real estate developer. In their universe this is who Trump is. There is a scene from Caddyshack that I consider the most emblematic of the farce we have witnessed for the last three years. The swimming pool scene where the plebian caddies and club staff are permitted a brief opportunity to avail themselves of this amenity.  The look of horror upon the faces of the members is rather like the perpetual scowl of the swamp rat in the full throes of TDS.  And in both instances this fear is not just for the fact that the unwashed have breached their sanctum: it is the fear that once they’ve gone there will be a big, fat turd left floating on the surface.

I for one hope that President Trump leaves them a pipe-plugger of epic proportions. Lord knows we’ve been swimming in their toilet for years.

 

 

Brazil revisited

InkedFord Wenty profile image_LI

A report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent, Ford Wenty


 

After watching the farcical proceedings of the Adam Schiff Show for the past couple of weeks I was prompted to revisit one of my favorite dystopian tales, the 1985 Terry Gilliam film Brazil.  There are doubtless those within our audience who are familiar with the film, though I suspect that these would be in the minority. In the nearly thirty-five years since it’s release it is fair to say that despite Academy Award nominations, and the timeliness of the picture’s theme, it is something which has faded to relative obscurity.  For those not familiar I do highly recommend that you look up Brazil and set aside 94 minutes that you can easily part with. Some green would be in order for the occasion, or any other mind altering poisons that you have successfully tamed.

A little background here for those who may be completely unfamiliar. Terry Gilliam is best known as the lone Yank of the legendary English comedy troupe, Monty Python’s Flying Circus, most notably as producer of their bizarre animated sequences. It was a quite ambitious undertaking at the time, just four years after Gilliam’s first foray into film, Time BanditsBrazil incorporates some of the same fantasy elements as it’s predecessor; some may say these are overdone to the overall detriment of the Brazil storyline. The film employs what may only be called a “retro-futuristic” landscape, in much the same fashion as the more recent A Series of unfortunate Events. The sets depicting the outside world are eerily reminiscent of those presented in the early sci-fi masterpieces of famed German director Fritz Lang.

The cast was comprised of a veritable who’s who of British cinema, many of whom in ensuing years were to become well known to American audiences. One would need begin with Jonathan Pryce as the story’s chief protagonist, Sam Lowry. You will recognize him from his later roles in films like Four Weddings and a Funeral and the Brendan Fraser Mummy franchise.  There were also fellow Python alum, Michael Palin; Ian Holm, later best known as Bilbo Baggins from Peter Jackson’s LOTR universe; a not yet well known but certainly recognizable Bob Hoskins, later of Roger Rabbit and countless others. A bit of truly obscure trivia for you: Hoskins’ role was that of a workman, an HVAC technician from government’s Central Services. He had a partner which was none other than Nigel Planer, better known as Neil the Hippie from BBC 4’s short lived The Young Ones a few years prior. There were also some well known American talents, including Katherine Helmond, who was quite familiar to American audiences at the time from her television role in the hit ABC sitcom, Soap. In the most unlikely of roles Robert DeNiro appeared as one Harry Tuttle, the renegade HVAC technician and enemy of the State.

Without divulging all, for the benefit of those who may wish to check out the picture, it will have to suffice here to say that Brazil is a sort of dystopian parody/romance.  Those who have seen and recall it will likely concur with that summation. It is, if nothing else, the most unique treatment of the genre; the cinematic equivalent to Kafka. There has long been an audience in the English speaking world for the dystopian nightmare. In Brazil, like other British iterations, these are depicted as a moribund bureaucracy possessed of only the most inept and unintended malevolence. American interpretations tend to be more sinister in character. In truth any dystopia should contain equal parts of each. The absurd element of the bureaucratic state is captured sometimes subtly, but always brilliantly in this film. Some may have already drawn the connection, while others may still be pondering: what is the connection between this and the impeachment hearings? 

Well, recall that I began by stating that these hearings were the impetus for my cinematic retrospective. There have been an abundance of storylines that feed into this idea of the unaccountable state run amok. Each day there is some new element of federal agency malfeasance exposed and it all broadly coalesces into one large and intricately connected web, for those who will take the time to connect all the dots.  I contend that this can not be the result of mere ineptitude, rather it is by design. By the very complexity of these schemes, any attempt to explain and expose them becomes so convoluted that it makes it a very easy target for the label of “conspiracy”. The fact that the players within this drama are insulated, so far removed from any semblance of reality that exists beyond their bubble, is evidenced by something as innocuous as their language.

When I refer to language I do not mean the manner of speech used by the witnesses brought before this inquisition, telling as that may be. I mean instead their shorthand, the lexicon of their profession. Languages evolve out of a unique or distinctive culture. In the last two weeks we have been presented a cross section of unelected functionaries representing various sectors of what I like to think of as the “permanent security state”. There were the State Department, the Defense Department, and my personal favorite; the playground of the Ivy League farm club system and globalist tainted think tanks, the National Security Council. One watches, one listens, and one reads; and one is overwhelmed.

State. Secretaries and Under Secretaries, and deputies thereof. Ambassadors, deputy Ambassadors, chargee d’affaires and chiefs of mission. Oh, and don’t forget the venerated “special envoy”.

Defense. Active duty US Army, assigned to NSC at White House, reporting through chain of command to John Bolton, while also liaising with State and also reporting to an as-yet-to-be-named intel agency. Nice!

And the NSC. As far as the current impeachment narrative runs this is where the crux lies. The NSC: inextricably attached to CIA, DIA, DHS and every other damned alphabet soup bureau and/or agency in our federal government.

Even the House itself: committees and subcommittees, Intel, Oversight, Judicial and more. Question: how many lawyers does it take to fuck up a free lunch? And in the Justice Department and all of it’s many moving parts? DOJ-NSD, OCA, OCG, Directors, Deputy Directors, Deputy Assistant Directors, Counter-intel, AG, DAG, DAAG, and on, and on and on.

All of this nonsense, cumulatively, adds up to this theater of the absurd quality as viewed in the film Brazil. It’s like a Mad Magazine marathon of Spy vs. Spy, each little cell programmed to eternally perform it’s function oblivious to the body politic as a whole. It has become a living yet mindless organism, dedicated as are all organisms, to it’s own propagation. Look at it carefully, America. Is this what we have become? Reduced to a pathetic cartoon? Never mind ANY of the subject matter at hand. Just LOOK at what an absolute FARCE the entire thing is. Not just the hearings, but the ENTIRE federal government. And just like in the film there are only two ways that the absurdity comes to an end: by it’s utter destruction or by it’s own complete and utter victory.

We have but one, ONE chance to cleanse this filth in a peaceful and bloodless fashion. If we fail to do so something much worse will follow, for good or ill.

 

Ford Wenty report end, 23 November, 2019

 

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Pencilneck Liar

 

Schiffbuttholeface

 

 

With our sincere apology to the Beatles, the following is set to the tune of Paperback Writer

 

 

 

 

Dear Hollywood: will you read my script

It took me hours to write, my name is Adam Schiff

It’s based on a wet dream of the DNC

and I’ll need a job when they learn that I’m the Pencilneck Liar

Pencilneck Liar

 

It’s a dirty story of an evil man

and his dumb supporters who don’t understand

that they’re too stupid to know their own good

It’s a thankless task, but it’s the job of a Pencilneck Liar

Pencilneck Liar

 

It’s ten-thousand pages, give or take a few

I’ll be writing more in a day or two

It can be more salacious if you feel the need

I can rewrite it all because you know that I’m the Pencilneck Liar

Pencilneck Liar

 

I’ll be super famous, sell Disney the rights

Do the world premiere in my circus tights

When this is over you won’t find me here

I’ll be in Hollywood or in prison, I’m the Pencilneck Liar

Pencilneck Liar

 

Pencilneck Liar

Pants are on fire

Pencilneck Liar

Pants are on fire

Pencilneck Liar

 

Being for the benefit of Mr. Schiff

For the benefit of Mr. Schiff

hearings held within a SKIF

their words they parse

The diplomats will all be there

Counsel furnished by lawfare

What a farce

Secret hearings and depositions

designed to weave a lie into fake news

It’s no test

Oh Mr. S

will muzzle his foes!

The celebrated Mr. S

will shit his pants and then digress

on Watergate

Then CNN will dance and sing

while Mr. Schiff flies through the ring

Don’t be late!

Mr. Schiff plays up to the gallery

His authority is second to none

And for sure

Nancy the pure

is hitting the sauce

The fun resumes on Tuesday morn

when Mr. Schiff will show his scorn

for Mr. Trump

Then Nancy dear will vacillate

upon how she will evacuate

such a dump

Having been some months in preparation

A splendid time is guaranteed for all

Take a whiff

Mr. Schiff

is shitting his pants

Fauxcahontas

pretendian

There are so many things to dislike about this woman. It is truly a challenge to figure out where to begin. I could recite the laundry list of concerns, but there is one set of facts that do a pretty damned good job of encapsulating them all. It is something which cuts directly to the issue of her character as a person. As one might infer from the title of this article, I am of course referring to her now infamous assertion of Cherokee ancestry.

Though I have some rather strong opinions to the contrary, it is a generally held consensus that Harvard is a top notch institute of higher learning. If we are to base this on nothing more than a dollar equation then the idea has at least some credence. Otherwise how does one account for the exorbitant price tag attached to obtaining the pedigree? One could attend four years at Harvard and learn nothing, but for the right price they will bestow a piece of paper that says you have arrived: you are now among the elites.

Sometimes the value of that paper commands a price over and above money. In Elizabeth Warren’s case that price was high indeed. So desperate was she to obtain that pedigree, she willingly sacrificed any shred of integrity she ever possessed by an absurd attempt at cultural appropriation. Back then this was not the mortal sin that it is today, but let’s be completely clear that there is a huge distinction to be made. We are not talking about something petty. You know, like exploiting another race’s identity in your choice of Halloween costumes. What Lizzy pulled, without even the aid of a costume, was an assertion of racial identity (for which she had NO legitimate claim) for the sole purpose of obtaining preferred treatment in entry to an esteemed university. In one of the most bizarre manifestations of affirmative action Harvard actually cosigned this ruse.

So what we should question is this: was her motivation rooted in some insecurities surrounding her qualification that needed that additional edge? Or was it all just about that ancestor of virtue signalling, social posing? These are the only reasonable conclusions that one might draw from this and whether one or the other, neither are desirable traits in leadership. I’ve always had a sense that I had seen this kind of play somewhere before. And then I remembered this:

Go ahead and watch that and try to tell me with a straight face that the two are not the same.

Joe, we hardly knew you

GotGreen

Disclaimer:  the following is not editorial sponsored by the Ale 81 Inn. It is an independent consultation provided to the Biden 2020 Campaign by our field correspondent, Mr. Ford Wenty


 

Good day America. I am Ford Wenty and today I would like to address you not as the humble field correspondent of the Ale 81 Inn. As you can see above they’ve already thrown me under the bus. That’s fine. I get it. It’s just business. No, today I address all of you, but I address the Biden campaign specifically. Not as correspondent, not as news. Today I will do what the fraudcast networks do: I will act as a political consultant. The difference of course being that I bother to make the distinction.

Alright, let’s get right down to it, shall we? Joe….ah! Where do I start. Your campaign is a living, breathing dumpster fire. It’s ugly. Not Michael Dukakis kind of ugly. No, this is something more akin to watching a troupe of dwarfs with diarrhea performing a waltz on stilts. It’s bad Joe, there’s no sugar coating it, okay?

Since we’re only speaking in the frankest of terms I have a few things I want to make clear to you and to America at large. First of all, in the annals of congressional history you will always rank as the most beloved dumbass. You have been the consummate politician: you’ve never held a real job, you’ll say anything and often at the wrong time. Your favorite sandwich is known to all: your own size twelve shoe, uncooked with just a dash of contrition.  You’ve had us all fooled that you’re that old style Irish Catholic. Turns out Father Morey disagrees. Joe you embody all of the stale, moribund rot that your party has served for the past fifty years. In any other set of circumstances you would be the PERFECT nominee. Just the kind of poodle that a globalist establishment could love. But I’ll tell you what, Kemo Sabe. Some of the most successful species on this planet eat their own. The DNC is no exception.

Hell, we’ve all known for years that you were that creepy, touchy kind of guy. As long as you were a useful tool that was just O-Kay. They’ve already trotted that one out on you Joe. You’ve handled it deftly, but you think they are going to let it go? We know the donor class got their money behind you early because out of a field of twenty lunatics you were, if not a safe bet, the only thing close to it. But now you’re toxic, Joe. You and that brat kid of yours. They won’t throw you under the bus for any of that Ukraine or China business. They don’t want anybody looking any closer at that. No, they’ll choose from a host of other things with which to sink you. Lord knows you’ve given them a wealth of material.

So here is how it all shakes out, old Joe. You only have two options left. You can hang it up and slither back to Scranton, lick your wounds and try to forget, or….

It’s the fourth quarter Joe. There are no time outs, you’re 75 yards from the end zone, time is running out. Close your eyes Joe. Imagine you are Aaron Rogers, heaving that miraculous hail mary touchdown pass. It’s come to that Joe. You let AOC and her tribe throw in with Crazy Bernie. Let them go on about the Green New Deal. You can blow it away with your own New GREEN Deal: Biden 2020 for National Marijuana Legalization. It’s really the only play you have left Joe. You have my permission to use the image above to help launch the campaign. And if you need other assistance, please do not hesitate to call someone else.

 

 

 

 

Agent Mueller’s last ride

InkedFord Wenty profile image_LI

A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn Field Correspondent, Ford Wenty



 

The gavel bangs and the background chatter subsides. Ben Stein takes the dais and utters those iconic words: “Mueller?……..Mueller?”

Agent Mueller is home sick today. At least that’s the cover story. Agent Mueller’s day off. The befuddled man you see in the spotlight of these hearings is a chimera, a composite sock puppet with the ghost of J. Edgar reaching up it’s ass to pull the strings. The addition of the basement server defense lawyer at the 11th hour was just to provide additional cover, a helping hand should he trip over the official script. Whilst this charade proceeds the real Agent Mueller runs amok, somewhere in the Nevada desert.

The last confirmed sighting of the real Agent Mueller had him peddling psilocybin and CBD oils at Burning Man. He was in drag, a Hanoi Jane send up of sorts I am given to understand. There may be photos, but absent this I can assure that I have obtained this information from unimpeachable sources. A quarter century ago he may have stood out as an oddity, even at a freak show like Burning Man. In today’s America he blended right in with the rest of the crowd.

On 22 April 2018 I published my first report on Agent Mueller and his activities in this very journal, a piece entitled The Unvarnished Truth about the Mueller Investigation: Beware when Axolotls Frolic. At that time I shared this observation about Agent Mueller:

You know on paper when you look at Agent Mueller’s resume you might get the idea that you’re dealing with a boy scout. The kind of guy you’d want to think of as the straight arrow. Solid. But he’s a stellar example of that Annakin Skywalker to Darth Vader transformation that occurs in Washington DC. Like a black hole in space it is a death spiral, a crushing force de-atomizing even the most gargantuan blocks of matter that dare to fall within it’s orbit. It is a portal, a cosmic wormhole to an alternate reality of Orwellian proportions. All matter is transformed, reassembled into something that still resembles it’s former self, but is forever changed, corrupted. This is true for intentions as well. The best of intentions are lost within this maelstrom, replaced by a dogged determination to preserve the agency or bureau or whatever department of that alternate reality they have been absorbed into. The mission forgotten, it just becomes another job.

Today we can confidently say that these words apply not only to Agent Mueller and his protege, St. James the Pious, but to current FBI director Christopher Wray as well. It is an institutional rot; not a new phenomenon. And there is ample evidence that this has been the nature of the Bureau from it’s inception. At the conclusion of that piece I gave my assurance to our readers that I would remain on this story until it reached it’s sad and ugly end. We’re not quite all the way to the end yet, but I believe that it is time to render the final word on Agent Mueller.

I was at first incredulous at the intel which directed me back to the desert where our paths had last crossed. Once on the ground, following those threads to their end I knew when my quarry was near. I could smell the fear in the air, nearly palpable.  Mueller has taken flight in these wastes as Ahab upon the seas, not in pursuit; rather as the pursued. He is stalked by the ghost of the Great White Gangster. The specter of Whitey Bolger and darker spirits plague his every step. He could have escaped all of this, of course, but the Bureau needed that last hurrah to undo the damage committed by his successor. 

In Beware when Axolotls frolic I reported the abrupt and bloody end of St. James and it was indeed true. I have long known that the James Comey seen on book tours and on film, twitter or any other medium, is in fact a hulking Golem with James Comey skin stretched across it’s mocking imitation of life.  Whatever Mueller’s personal disappointment in his once star pupil, it was predetermined that Comey should be destined for Sainthood. Anything less would reflect ill upon that most sacred of institutions, the Bureau, and by extension all of it’s servants past, present and future. In some lab, buried deep within the rock of West Virginia, the U.S. government has gone all Frank Herbert with the remnants of the original. Like the legendary soldier, Duncan Idaho in faithful service of House Atreides, St. James the Pious has been genetically replicated in ghola form that he may too continue in faithful service of the house of Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity. Don’t be surprised if one of these abominations does not appear on CNN or MSNBC.

Months after the infamous hearings I finally caught up with Agent Mueller at a dusty diner on the outskirts of Tonopah, NV. At the southern edge of town on the Veteran’s Memorial Highway (US 95) he had taken a temporary refuge in one of the back booths of the diner. He was out of the drag get up now, though he still favored the look of the faded Army fatigue jacket. He seemed to be mumbling to himself and swatting at flies, which may have been real or imaginary. There were undoubtedly flies present in the establishment.

From a position at the register I could view the length of the diner. There appeared to be a lone grill cook in the pass through window and one disinterested waitress enjoying a cigarette. I stole a moment of eye contact with the waitress, a querying look to seek permission to seat myself. She set her cigarette aside and rasped out a “sit anywhere you like, sweetheart”, followed by “Coffee?” I told her sure, I’d take a cup. 

“Listen sweetheart,  if it’s okay by you I’ll just take that cup from ya right here. I’m gonna go back and visit Captain Flyswatter.” I wasn’t positive, but she seemed to suppress a bit of a chuckle. I seemed affirmed in this suspicion when she cast a sarcastic sneer in his direction.

“Izzat ‘is name? For real? He’s been coming in here like this, ever so many weeks for months now. You know him?”  She paused for a moment to steady a steaming cup of coffee squarely onto a saucer. She couldn’t hide the tremor as she extended it to me, recovering to steady it with her left hand. A subtle glance at the top of that hand revealed the discreet tracks embedded in the fleshy web between her fingers.

“We were casual acquaintances once. Some concerned associates asked me to check up on him.” I handed her three dollars as I took the saucer. Taking it she shrugged and returned to her cigarette. She had clearly reached her quota of fucks given for the day.

Agent Mueller showed no evident sign that he had even taken notice of my entry. He was engaged with an entirely different plane of existence. It was at this precise moment that I began to form a theory. Agent Mueller had, for lo these many months, been migrating between the signposts where his reality and our own still manage to intersect. An addendum to this theory also suggests that the number of these locations is rapidly dwindling. This would account for his frequency at this diner. Or, perhaps, he just really enjoyed the food and service the establishment has to offer. None of us may ever know for certain.

After moving the dozen or so steps required I slouched down, sideways into the booth behind him. “You’re a tough man to track down Agent Mueller.” It seemed as good an introduction as any. There was a lapse and then a sudden, single word in reply.

“Pilate.”

What I heard was the word “pilot”. Did he mean that was why he was hard to track down?

“You have a pilot or you are a pilot?”

“Pontius Pilate.”

This was from way out in left field. What did he mean?

“What about Pontius Pilate?”

“They used to call me Agent Mueller. I am Pontius Pilate now.”

Ooo-Kay! I knew this would get weird. I just didn’t know how weird, or how fast. He didn’t seem inclined to volunteer more and I wasn’t sure that I should yet pry too hard. I might learn more about this delusion if I simply played along.

“Well Pilate, have you eaten? I’ve got this coffee here and I was thinking about trying some corned beef hash. Care to join me?”

“Do I know you?”

“Of course! It’s Harris! From The Post, sir. Don’t you remember?”

“Harris, Harris……Oh, yes…of course! I remember now!”

“So, uh… how about that breakfast?”

“My hands are clean, Harris. You know that don’t you?”  For the first time he made eye contact. His eyes had a look somewhere between dread fear and a crazed fervor. He thrust his hands before my face, angrily. “Look at these hands, Harris! You see any blood on these hands?”

“Not a speck. Clean as a whistle.”

“God damn right they are. I’ll have dry toast and jelly.”

I returned to the counter where the waitress had been minutes before.  I should come up with a name for the girl, don’t you think? Referring to her as just “the waitress” is a bit dehumanizing. Maybe Julie the Junkie? Yeah, that’ll work. Or just Julie. Anyway, I placed the order with Julie and told her that I would dine at Captain Flyswatter’s booth, if she would be so kind as to deliver when ready. A surly grunt sufficed for a reply.

I rejoined Mueller/Pilate at his seat. “Pilate? Would you mind terribly if I were to join you here? The food should arrive soon.”

“Eh? Oh…Harris, it’s you. Yes, certainly. Sit down.”

Under the false appearance of representing the press one might ordinarily preface this sit down with the advisement of being strictly “off the record”. This was not necessary with Agent Mueller, for you see he is perfectly at ease in speaking with the press. I should qualify this by saying the “right” people in the press. Especially at the Post. And the Times, of course. Can’t forget that sinking ship. As long as her prow remains above the waterline everyone still salutes. I digress…

Mueller had been adamant that there was no blood on his hands. I’d had a short time to reflect on this and was able to draw the Pilate analogy clearly enough. This led to one other inevitable conclusion. If Mueller was Pilate then logically this would cast Trump as Christ? Now if I were really Harris from the Post, what would I say?

“Ahem. Uh…sir? Has anyone suggested to you that your mantle as Pilate perhaps implies that Trump is Christ? That’s a little off script, don’t you think?”

“Hah! How’s that, son? You think they’re still not going to crucify him?”

I played along, in character. “Well of course, yes. But how? You’ve washed your hands, now who carries out the sentence?”

“No longer my concern Harris.”

He was really adhering to character. Did he truly believe that he was Pontius Pilate? Perhaps he really did. Or perhaps it was just a manifestation of the true motivations of the man. It made positively zero difference whether the subject was Trump, Jesus of Nazareth or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. You could slap a fried bologna sandwich up on that cross and Agent Mueller would do his duty. And like Pontius Pilate it was simply an administrative function, fidelity to Rome and his patron, Caesar. With Bravery and Integrity sent swirling into the sewage line years before Agent Mueller has only Fidelity to cling to: Fidelity to the Bureau and it’s mission. Despite all of the good press and dedicated image building in film and television, the true mission of the FBI has always remained that of it’s longest reigning and renowned Director, Mr. Hoover. That is to be the American NKVD, a Soviet style political police with sweeping federal powers. Mueller wielded that club better than most of J. Edgar’s successors.

Every lie, every leak, every unscrupulous act is no accident and all with malice aforethought. Saint James learned everything he knew at the knee of Agent Mueller. He carried on in his footsteps capably until he made one fatal error. Jimmy let it become all about him. He forgot the cardinal rule: if you want the Bureau to look out for you, you have to look out for the Bureau. Mueller was right to shoot him in the head. Had I been in his shoes I’d have done the same. Agent Mueller needed to tie up loose ends. He needed Comey’s silence, but could not afford for him to disappear entirely. Fronting the report that bears his name was just a further gathering of loose ends. Andy and his crew did the best they could with what they had to work with and Mueller presided over it all as a desperate rearguard action for his beloved Bureau. He bought them time, but was it enough?

In the unlikely event that any indictments are handed down the ghola Comey will be paraded before the cameras and sacrificed on that great altar of convenience. And none will be the wiser. The Deep State is real, my friends. It’s not a swamp, rather it is a barren heath, overgrown with weeds. Like one giant thistle, many agencies comprise it’s parts, but the FBI is the taproot of it all. Even if none of these bad actors see a day in prison, the American people deserve to be told the truth. Prison is too good for these people. That would be the result of the legal process, which as we all know has fuck all to do with justice. Justice would entail these people meeting an end like Mussolini.

 

Ford Wenty report end

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