The Wrapture Of Empire

Charlie Kirk wasn’t assassinated, he was murdered, and not by the guy who will go down for it. The bullet fragments from the autopsy can’t be matched to the gun. So, there’s that. Word on the street is the results are “inconclusive”, and if that’s the best line they could come up with I’m willing to bet the fragments are so obviously and demonstrably unconnected that they’re like human DNA and whatever liquid is currently sluicing through Baron.

Turns out there’s a big difference between Conspiracy Theory and Rational Appraisal of The Facts. Watch the many videos and read the official statements and parse the endless non-explanations and show me a single facet of it that makes any sense. Where IS Charlie’s body? Where’s the rest of the autopsy? Why did he get jetted away immediately/illegally on JD Vance’s Air Force Stubble-One? Where is Tyler Robinson right now? Why hasn’t he said anything, or been interviewed? Where are his parents and his cartoonishly Trans Lover? What AI program did Kash Patel use to write the fake texts from Tyler to Trans Prop #1 that were immediately recovered and widely released to the press for no good reason, except pure lunatic distraction?

“There’s too much evil in the guy, spreading hate … some hate can’t be negotiated out…”
Yeah, that’s not a text, it’s a straight lift from “Dog Day Afternoon”, so the salient question is, if Kash was going to poach lines, wouldn’t they have come from “Air Bud”?

Listen, I’m fine to be wrong. About literally everything. My ego and identity are not wedded to the fact that I don’t buy that Oswald acted alone. Show me more convincing evidence to the contrary, and I’ll scratch it off the list. Actually, it would be a great relief to have it convincingly proved, in as concrete a way as the Mueller Report that the United States, and especially those who currently run it, are NOT part of the most cynical grift in World History.

Meanwhile, what’s with the guys in the shooting footage who descend on Charlie’s body as if they’ve been waiting for a signal, aside from a bullet, to jump into action but do not scream for ambulances like the hippie chick at Kent State, instead strip his body of several mysterious items that people with law degrees might consider “evidence” and then hand those items off, in a seemingly practiced and professional way, to other mysterious operators, who calmly split in opposite directions, never to be seen, named, interviewed, or jailed again?

If nothing else, tell me how Tyler assembled, disassembled, reassembled, and then tossed the Mauser M 9 rifle (now there’s kismet — it was originally made in 1937 for the Wehrmacht) that just so happens to have predated U.S. serial number requirements because it was his “grandfather’s,” who, it turns out, as a Latter-Day Saints elder, was in charge of filing down rifles for the Greater Provo-Area Diocese.

So wait, you’re saying that Tyler decided to use student loans to snap a $2000 scope onto the beloved family/Nazi heirloom, and then kill time in Trans Lover Limbo waiting for a good reason to fire a single .30-06 Springfield round at the visiting content creator of his choosing, in order to stop the hate that cannot be named, let alone negotiated away?

And then he dumped the rifle in the yard of a property way too-cinematically owned by both Tesla and Palantir (really!), the mysterious military surveillance/population control software firm owned by billionaire Trump-funding Lord Of The Ringscharacter/ring-bearer Peter Thiel, utilizing data analytics under the programs Gotham and Foundry, both of which were developed in flagrante with the CIA, and the AI applications of which are currently deciding which girl’s schools to bomb or not to bomb in downtown Tehran, based on a cost-benefit analysis performed in a Faraday Pouch/Artificial Ethics vacuum?

We’ve all seen plenty of movies, and everyone knows that Jason Bourne takes the precious time to assemble, disassemble, and then reassemble the gun that he just murdered a public figure with, each time requiring a good ten minutes with a crescent wrench, instead of merely tossing it off-screen for Chuck Norris to find, and then ambles across campus, wraps it in a towel, and throws it onto a random property (Fuck off, Grandpa!) before taking a leisurely smoke break to text incriminating expository nonsense to a Trans Partner grown in a MAGA lab to light up all the MAGA hatred synapses at once — then hits the Dairy Queen for a Cherry Blizzard and hopes for the best.

Hey, remember when, in response to Charlie Kirk’s shooting, the silicoid insect that is Laura Loomer immediately tweeted: “How much do you want to bet that there is a trans terror cell that groomed Tyler Robinson?”

Well, glad you asked, Laura, because I’d like to bet a LOT. In fact, I’m prepared to lay out almost as much as Baron did when he shorted oil futures forty-five minutes before the first Tomahawk crashed into the first civilian. In fact, I’ll wager Laura’s failed humanity implants against my first edition copy of Donald Barr’s “Space Relations” that the only Trans Terror Cell that exists on the face of the entire planet is what remains of Mötley Crüe.

Is it weird that Erika Lane Frantzve-Kirk competed as Miss Arizona in the Trump-owned (peekaboo, haha, everyone dressed?) 2012 Miss USA Pageant?

When asked, in between wails of mourning, where the Body of Charles is, here’s Erika quoted in a far-right Arizona newspaper that only six people read: “Can I have one thing? Can my children have one thing? Everything was public. Can my babies have one thing where we hold it sacred, where my husband is laid to rest, where I don’t have to be worried about some secular revolutionary coming and destroying my husband’s grave while my daughter is sitting there praying?”

Well, no, Bikini Showcase, you can’t have one thing. Your very public husband made a very private fortune belittling un-rehearsed college students in rehearsed debates in public, and you, Erika Kirk, held a VERY public and seamlessly planned memorial a mere eleven days after his death at State Farm Stadium, home of the NFL’s Arizona Cardinals, in which you sobbingly “forgave” the Trans Terror cell that killed your husband, in a day-long State Fair/Southern Revival/Roman Spectacle that made the 1977 appearance of KISS at the Tokyo Enormodome look restrained.

So zero crocodile privacy tears, please. Also, while busy protecting the Fam and their need to pray in public privately, are you unaware that Jesus himself was a Secular Revolutionary? Yup, the entire message of the Son of God was to revolutionize the way humans treated one another, and explicitly not to worship the church/temple, which was just as much if not more corrupt than Turning Point USA, but to realize that true spirituality comes from within.
The Secular Revolution may not be televised, but the performative grief sure was.

And then here’s what the very Wehrmacht-friendly Steven Miller said during the Ladies Night portion of the Charlie Memorial, in a valiant attempt to unify the country: “We stand for what is good, what is noble. And for those trying to incite violence against us, those trying to foment hatred against us. What do you have? You are nothing. You are wickedness. You are envy! You are hatred! You can build nothing. We are the ones who build and lick! We are the ones who put tongue to balls! We are the ones who invest in cutting-edge hair plug technology! We are the ones who rely on your moronic gullibility!”

And it was at that moment, as Nosferatu Goebbels strode off stage to a standing ovation, that even the most fervent skeptics knew Trump’s assassination attempt was faked.

Yes, that means, for a bump in the polls, two people were murdered and a few dozen were in on the conspiracy, the blood wasn’t real, there was no damage to Donald J. Ear Cartilage, no medical records or pictures, it healed in a week of pure magic and great press.

Is it weird that just off the top of my head I can tell you the names of the men who shot President Lincoln (J.W. Booth), President Garfield (Charles Guiteau), President McKinley (Leon Czogolsz), and Oswald (Jack Ruby), or even that after Oswald went on the lam and was finally cornered in a movie theater showing a double feature of “War Is Hell” and “Cry Of Battle,” he shot Officer J.D. Tippit of the Dallas Police? But while knowing all those things, I simultaneously have zero clue what the name is of the Dead Cipher who supposedly shot at and missed Trump’s ear/hidden blood packet? Or why he did it? (“No clear ideology, let’s just move along and/or not vote for Kamala.”) Or why no one ever mentions The Cipher in any context or fashion as it relates to literally anything, except that it’s unwise to stare in the mirror and think of him at all?

Meanwhile, Donald J. Fist, the five-time draft dodger (unlike Robert Mueller, a lifetime conservative Republican who did three tours in Vietnam) is the last person on earth who would stand up and raise his arm in bloody triumph if he thought there was the slightest additional risk to his person, or his person’s future ability to grope staffers at will. The whole thing is so fake even Vince McMahon said no way. They got great pics, though.

The final, most damning evidence is that Trump never talks about it. Never brags about it. Never Tweets about it. Never mentions it in passing. Doesn’t demand that FIFA award him a purple heart for his injury. Doesn’t talk about the smell of battle, or the taste of fake blood in his mouth. He never mentions the low-ratings, low-IQ shooter, who is a disgrace to accurate shooting. He doesn’t talk about his own bravery, or the guy behind him that was shot. He never brings up a single aspect of it at all, ever.

The man who literally, genetically, psychopathologically cannot stop talking about himself. 

Because he knows it didn’t happen, and as a world-class liar, has the ferret’s instinctive sense of when to leave a dead rat alone.

Jeffrey Epstein is not a single person. He is like Zelig, the tabula rasa of amorality, the effluent of a system of wealth hoarding and monarchical/evangelical control that goes back to the Dark Ages. The circle of ghouls to whom he fed young girls and boys encompasses many of the richest people in the world, who have come to believe they are above the strictures of humanity.

And here’s a question that seems logically pressing, instead of randomly conspiratorial: why has Ghislaine Maxwell, convicted of five federal charges of child sex trafficking, been moved to a minimum-security prison? Just any old reason or rationale will do. Who moved her? For what purpose? Who in the DOJ signed off on it? What’s with the puppy and the tennis lessons? Anyone? Even a hint?

Here’s another question: how is it possible that Ghislaine Maxwell, ironically a woman, is the ONLY person who has been charged with sexual crimes clearly involving hundreds if not thousands of people, for which there are SIX MILLION pages of evidence to draw from, which even the mighty Alina Habba could cobble together a reasonable case with, while even the British Royals, for the first time since Oliver Cromwell, have decided that punishment must be meted out to one of their own, while still nada indictments here in The Land Of The Free?
Sure, Jeffrey Epstein was charged, but he suicided himself, so park The Ep File next to the Ark of the Covenant in the Nazi warehouse of your choosing.

Which brings us to TechnoFascism., and the essential Googling of eight things: Curtis Yarvin, Balaji Srinivasan, Acceleration Theory, the Claremont Institute, Dark Enlightenment, The Neo-Reactionary Movement, Nick Land, and Leonard Leo.

Sure, that’s a commitment of at least a half-hour, but ask not what your country can do for you.
Acceleration Theory is the notion that Billionaire Technofascists, just like in a mediocre Hans Gruber spinoff, have decided humanity is too chaotic to move with profitable efficiency into the Transhuman future (where your consciousness will merge with AI and your body will no longer be necessary as you’re already uploaded onto a quantum drive) and so we need to tear everything down now, as quickly as possible, by manipulating the cattle/masses with waves confusion and anger, plus wars, so global society can be razed and rebuilt by modern visionary geniuses with really good DNA, not only because they will be smarter future-builders, but also have wisely nominated themselves (Elon, Peter, Mark, Alex, Bezos, Zuck) to repopulate with the hapless female survivors.

Jared Kushner is the personification of The Walking Dude. He couldn’t even get a security clearance to be part of Trump’s first administration. He accepted billions of dollars from the Saudi Wealth Fund. The man who had other men cut Jamal Khashoggi into little pieces like a sheet cake with a reticulating saw is Kushner’s best friend and business partner. Jared Kushner and Steve Witkoff are running the Iran War. Witkoff is a moron and Kushner is evil, and neither of them are vetted or elected, but more importantly, in any way accountable.

It’s like, did no one, late at night, after a final round of fetal stem cells on ice, bother to consider what would happen, if in response to killing the top forty people in their government, the Iranians decided to close the ol’ Strait of Hormuz like one of Donald J. Trump’s Whopper-impacted arteries, thereby bringing the entire world economy to a halt? See, that would have been a discussion worth having. Like, how even fifty-years ago it was the exact reason Jimmy Carter didn’t send the Marines to free the embassy hostages, and every other industrial nation in the world thanked him for it.

It’s possible that a decade from now Kushner will get a fine and three weeks home arrest, otherwise known as the Bondi-Acosta-Epstein Sweetheart Deal, but in the meantime we are bombing Persia for two primary reasons: the degree to which it will benefit the future investments of Jared Kushner, and the degree to which far right Evangelical nutters wish to hasten the Rapture.

Jesus is never coming back. Neither is Horus or Zeus or Baal. If you believe in The Rapture, which apparently as many as 90% of Christian Evangelicals do, you are not a Christian, you are a dimly aware self-indulgent opportunist follower of a death cult. The Rapture, as a concept, is not even biblical, since it’s barely older than the statehood of Oklahoma. It was invented in the 1830’s by John Nelson Darby, the leader of the Plymouth Brethren movement, and is based on a misinterpretation of 1 Thessalonians 4:17, so you might as well sign up for the nearest Scientology Halitosis Seminar right now as believe in The Beneficial Apocalypse in which you are Specially Chosen by the version of Jesus envisioned by John Nelson Darby, as opposed to the inconvenient one who appears in actual scripture.

Religion, in the end, is the comfort of being an unquestioning lackey for the non-existent that confers a preferred status on earth while also ensuring eternal reward. Which sounds like a lot more fun than eternal torment as depicted on Renaissance canvases and/or Black Sabbath album covers. Christianity, as encapsulated in Larry Fishburn’s red pill, is basically a version of the sentence, “Dude, it’s SO much cooler to be on this side of the velvet rope,” not only because as a species we crave acceptance, but because there is genuine pleasure in looking out upon all the faces who aren’t welcome through the doors, and enjoying, in a near-sexual way, their exclusion.

Which, except for the rampant pet-eating, is the same pleasure to be found in watching ICE wrestle dirty immigrants down to supermax in El Salvador.

If you love seeing ICE at your local TSA checkpoint, you’re going to REALLY love them peering through the curtain of your voting booth, because they are already contracted to be quietly pretexted and then loudly insinuated into the midterms, and without question the 2028 presidential election.

That is, of course, barring election-suspending National Martial Law, which in a Hegseth World is always an option on the table, right next to the JD (not Vance, Jack) on the rocks.

Especially since Donald J. Trump, if alive, will definitely run for a third term. And it will not be with Vance at his side. This will cause a rift with Peter Thiel, since Thiel built Vance from the ground up with greasy Appalachian Legos, and has sunk a lot of pure cash dollars into his over-fed pet’s abject sycophancy. When Thiel finds out, he will jump on the horn and there will be an interesting phone conversation between The Leader of The Free World and Donald J. Trump.
Maybe as a result, Tyler Robinson will be released from jail through a glitch in Palantir’s Gotham software and be handed a real gun this time while Blackwater is distracted in Dubai.

The problem with that scenario is the mathematical improbability of finding a truckler more obsequious than JD (Just Dance) Vance. Who’s left that even Kid Rock wouldn’t grind against the leg of? Josh Hawley? Elise Stefanik? Howard “I only met the creep once, but also, here’s a bunch of pictures of me standing next to Epstein on Epstein Island” Lutnick?

If you’re always tempted to type that “Nutlick,” join the club.

Listen, I do not want to go to heaven. I’m not interested in eternal worship of anyone or anything. I am repulsed by the anti-intellectual totalitarianism that is the concept of the Afterlife, and it seems like someone needs to let the Evangelicals in on a little secret: if you’re who gets to float up into the clouds for The Forever Party, being trapped by the cash bar next to y’all is not my idea of fun.

Instead, my atoms will return to the communal atomic pool, and I’m fine to just rest there, more or less inert, as a secular atomic revolutionary, until the next 13.8 billion years rolls around. The dancing pattern that was once my atomic structure, my consciousness, the electro-magnetic field of my personality, was always going to dissipate, but not be destroyed, according to the laws of physics, which, unlike the utterances in every holy book or prayer or scribbled papyrus combined, has logical and rational proofs.

Here’s what’s neither a theory or a conspiracy: Donald J. Trump, president of the United States, repeatedly raped children. Donald J. Trump repeatedly raped, groped, assaulted, and fondled dozens of women, including his own ex-wife. Donald J. Trump is a predator’s predator. Even Epstein was scared of him.

Also, maybe we should dig up (pushed down that staircase?) Ivana, who is, with the usual great Trumpian empathy and sentiment, buried on the 15th green of the Trump National Course in Bedminster, New Jersey (really), stuffed into a pickle jar that is stuffed into a vault full of stolen documents, doubloons, Obama’s birth certificate, Trump’s tax returns, Trump’s medical records, Trump’s school transcripts, Trump’s horcrux, his diploma from Trump University, 11,000 Georgian votes, Herschel Walker, pictures of Trump with his sleeves up gamely clearing rubble at Ground Zero, 100 pairs of children’s panties, and the alien heart that powers Baron.

Also, just a head’s up that over the next two years we are all going to get to know a lot about a certain New Mexico ranch.

But, in the end, almost all of the truly guilty will escape with little or no retribution, because they always do. It is, as your more literary Russians will tell you, the inevitable Crime & Punishment & Buying Your Way Out Of Punishment.

Remember the Panama Papers? Yeah, no one else does either.

What this country really needs is a cap on billionaires. It could be tied to some sort of algorithm. Like, say, anything over 50 million is immediately converted to teacher salaries, and a 50% annual tax on anything over 5 billion goes straight into Ocean Conservation, Elephant Sanctuaries, Prison Reform, and Free Insulin. Sure, the Milton Friedman fans will moan, “Oh it will de-incentivize them” and “Oh, they’ll move to Calcutta and/or Dallas!” Go ahead, and good riddance. The unfairly taxed billionaires aren’t going anywhere, because they’re psychopaths and they will remain where they can exert maximum control, because billions are not money, billions are influence combined with dominance, a power that no single human was intended to have, let alone wield.

The real conspiracy, in the end, as it always has been, all the way back to The Code of Hammurabi, is who has the most money, and how amorally do they choose to apply leverage with it?

It is time, my friends, to manacle and adjudicate and eventually erase the stain of the metaphorical devil embodied in the literal Jeffrey Epstein, who, for ten long years, was Donald J. Trump’s best friend.

Which I’m sure we’ll get to right after the big Iran Victory Party this weekend, and after the hangover wears off, Easter will be officially deleted and replaced with “Yeah, We’re Really Sorry About That Whole Shah Thing” Day, at which point our two countries will hold hands and skip on over to Pam Bondi’s retirement bash to give her a brand new Timex inscribed, “No Good Deed Ever Goes Unpunished! Love, Jeffrey.”

* Originally posted at Everything Is Fine.com
Photo credit: The Bulwark