Earesistible Trajectories

Donald, meet Donald.

Pure black ops Bubba.

Ahhh, sheeit.

Ear we go again.

If all the worlds a stage then the theatre directors are intent on keeping American politics as the only show in every town. There are no other marquees that demand so much attention.

Actors may come and go but the drama never ends.

The populace, a non-discerning audience surrenders to enflamed passions and is easily moved by the drama, mistaking nearly every script for reality. It often takes months or years for them to deprogram what they saw on their programming devices, and reprocess everything through a more perceptive lens. Most never even bother with the effort.

Nobody is permitted into the theatre who doesn’t surrender their mind to the theatrics. If you manage to sneak inside the theatre and question the script in the heat of any drama and refuse to participate in the emoting, you are chastised and given the boot. Crowd psychology demands you adhere to the mob, or take a hike. It is the common burden of the exiled, borne of years of pattern recognition that infused healthy skepticism with cold impartiality.

Sometimes the scripts are trickled to the public in advance of the theatrics and the outcasts point and scream and try to warn others before they enter the theatre, but they are only further cast aside.

Sometimes those sounding the alarm are participants in the drama and know the script in advance of the theatrics. Alex Jones and Roger Stone prognosticating Trump’s assassination for the past weeks come to mind while trying to convince conservanormies that his operation is on the brink of “being ceased by the feds” despite cutting a backroom deal in the wake of the billion-dollar Sandy Hook judgment to keep his ranch.

Son-of-CIA officer Tucker Carlson did the same on a few podcasts over the past month. Con Inc. of the MAM spread each “assassination is the next logical step” fortune teller to their flock, laying the groundwork for yesterday’s drama.

They have to tell us in advance what they’re going to do and guys like Tucker and Jones are the bullhorns. With so many dedicated soldiers in the information wars, including controlled opposition on the payroll foretelling events, creating division and chaos never looked so easy.

If time is accelerated by technological innovation then the time it took a tiny minuscule portion of the audience to abscond with the lone gunman theory after November 22, 1963, and be introduced to the magic bullet theory was a decade. To bump that figure up to a healthy majority, most of whom weren’t yet born when the event took place required another two generations. Even with the healthy skepticism and cold impartiality finally arriving so late, the alternative theories weren’t going to go without their own rewrites.

Enter Hollywood servants Oliver Stone and Kevin Costner stage left to further muddy the waters. The audience of the three-hour epic, executive produced by an Israeli citizen would have no access to Kennedy’s standoff with Israel’s nuclear aims, Allen Dulles’ revenge plot, David Ben-Gurion’s revenge plot, American Zionist Council’s revenge plot on RFK who issued an ultimatum that the group register as foreign agents just two months prior, nor the Dallas Citizens Council, serving as the Lone Star State’s B’nai B’rith with names like the day’s host Sam Bloom who had in his address book the patsy killer (dead men tell no tales) Jack Rubenstein. Abraham Zapruder, the lone cameraman had his offices in the nearby book depository.

That’s a sordid cast of characters you have me associating with Mista’ Garrison.

It’s gonna be a Turkey shoot. Followed by a Louis XIV Versailles sodomite orgy.

How do you call a live broadcasted political rally where all attendees are filming on their super high-resolution pocket cameras, and innocent bystanders are injured or killed—scripted drama?

You don’t. You call it a partially scripted drama, and then you do your best to piece together the eyewitness testimonies and parse them with the official dramatists to remove the unwanted stone until the statue emerges.

The official narrative supporters use the death of innocents as proof of authenticity and nothing scripted. Perhaps denying or forgetting they just killed a minimum of 17 million people and maimed tens of millions more with an injectible bioweapon posing as medicine for a virus that never existed.

Do you think they’d hesitate to shoot a few Trump supporters at a rally?

So, what script was produced in advance of yesterday’s drama?

A pudgy Soyman called Brooklyn Dad inserts a US letter-sized piece of paper into a typewriter, rolls the paper back too far, then forward again, and slams down the holding bar. He takes a sip from his triple hazelnut soy latte with extra whipping cream. He’s been hired to write the events that will kill the man who has been living obnoxiously rent-free in his head for years.

He begins to tap out the words for the fifth rewrite of page 20 for Earesistable Trajectories, the new forthcoming blockbuster by A20 studios starring Joseph Gorden Levitt as a militant pantifa kid named Maxwell, with a history of political agitation at Trump rallies.

We open the script with him serving a five-month sentence in 2016 for his passionate activism—which mostly includes harassing working and middle-class Trump supporters by calling them fascists and Nazis, as they gather to hear their cult hero speak.

His mom picks him up from the Allegheny County clink and there is mostly silence on the drive home. She mentions an uncle who would be willing to give him a temporary job at his small business on a trial basis until…

Boooooorrrring! C’mon, soy dad!

Maxwell is released early for reasons unknown, but officially his record is altered stating “good behavior.”

A mysterious black-tinted SUV pulls up to the guard shack of the prison gates. The license plate looks suspicious. Probably government.

A door swings open. We see a dark-suited figure in the shadows of the vehicle.

“Get in Maxwell.”

Maxwell meets his new handler who is going to make life easier for him in the coming years, but he’ll never know his real name or who he works for.

Deposits will be made. Instructions given. Glory promised.

Gaaaaay! Antifa? Really?

We open with a geeky young man who’s probably on the spectrum. We stick with the three-named assassin, Thomas Matthew Crooks. He’s smart but not street-smart. He lacks ambition and motivation despite appearing in a Blackrock commercial in 2023.

He can be easily persuaded with positive reinforcement and technotronically remotely influenced to carry out any actions his targeters desire.

He’s a TI or Targeted Individual. Something’s off in his life but his autism only enhances his obsession with finding an elusive cure. The constant frequencies activate tinnitus. The beeping and whirling sounds are relentless, bordering on chronic incurable skull throbbing pain.

In six months his brains will be splattered atop of the AGR International Inc. building in Butler, Pennsylvania. The chips where his brain matter pools will be removed by a dedicated insider, probably the Secret Service before local police have a chance to examine the scene or a coroner finds them in an autopsy.

Throw in some government baddies refusing extra detail protection and calling in stand-down orders at Secret Service HQ.

Snipers on a barn roof with their rifles aimed in the perfect direction at the exact moment.

Nobody on the adjacent roof of AGR International Inc., just over a chainlink fence with a perfect vantage point for an easy headshot.

The barn roof snipers refuse to pull the trigger until the assassin gets off three shots at the President.

Mayhem ensues.

A bloody ear emerges from the dog pile of Secret Service agents.

Fist pumps. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Followed by a collective sigh of relief, some tears of sadness, plus a billion dollars worth of Presidential advertising.

Meme factories work overtime where glorious memes are born.

Iwo Jima all over again.

Cultists rejoice.

Throw in a key line for the evil demented President to repeat to donors four days earlier, a foreboding metaphor uttered on a conference call.

Okay, well, what kind of sniper are you?

Coming soon to a programming screen near you as a spin-off of Civil War.

All I know for certain is that whatever official story emerges will be as convoluted and backasswards as the Las Vegas shooting, 9/11, Covid, October 7th, Lahaina, Uvalde, Sandy Hook, hell, just about every engineered mass atrocity either orchestrated or permitted to happen.

I also know that if the “deep state” really wanted Trump’s brains splattered across a stage on live TV, they wouldn’t miss. They could take him out any time they wanted. I only suspect this may have been an attempt to do that via Patsy, but something went wrong by luck, accident, or intentionally. We won’t know which for some time.

Because there is only one type of mistake at a rally for a leading Presidential candidate who is beloved by a hundred million Americans just two days removed from the Republican convention…

…the kind that is ordered.

We never would have allowed the limousine to slow down to ten miles per hour, much less take that unusual turn at Houston and Elm.

Breaking news:

Too soon for jokes?

Cold impartiality Good Citizens.

Think. Don’t emote.

Hit me with your best shot.

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