Not Even A Mushroom Cloud Will Make Them Doubt The Narrative

 

It is hard to admit that you were wrong. It is harder to admit you were wrong on a very serious subject. Even harder to admit you were wrong when the group you belong to was wrong, because it means you will have to go against the crowd. It is harder still to admit you were wrong when doing so makes it obvious that a group you felt superior to was right. That is the kind of blow to the ego very few of us are willing to endure.

For the reasons stated above, people who fell in line with the Russiagate narrative are never going to admit they were wrong, not even to themselves. They will never permit themselves to consider that all their emotional energies were diverted from opposing Trump on any issues of substance into being unwitting dupes to the unelected deep state that has a self-admitted goal of complete global hegemony. Russia was the next nation on their list, and so the propaganda campaign had to be kicked into high gear. Democrats, this time, proved to be the subjects most useful for this purpose.

Hillary Clinton embraced the by-now debunked lie that Russia hacked her e-mails in order to save face and have someone to blame for her failure. Blame and Hillary do not coexist very well, so she was an easy sell. The Democratic Party cottoned to the Russiagate narrative because it meant they didn’t have to do a post-loss post-mortem to see what they had done wrong. A party every bit as beholden to moneyed interests as the Republican Party has no interest in contemplating what it might need to do for voters other than virtue-signaling. The media, perhaps, found it easiest of all to go along with the story of Russia interfering in the U.S. elections. For one thing, it absolved them from doing any actual journalism on their own: they just had to repeat the assertions from anonymous sources they were being flooded with on a daily basis. For another thing, they never had to take accountability for what they reported: They could take an accusation — say Putin having video of prostitutes peeing on Trump — speculate on what Putin might be making Trump do to keep the video hidden, and then move on to the next “bombshell” when the previous one had proven to be a dud. Lastly, Russiagate was a HUGE moneymaker for the establishment media. As Executive Chairman for CBS News said about Donald Trump — and which was doubly true for all establishment news outlets regarding Russiagate: “It may not be good for America, but it’s damn good for CBS.” For a while, Rachel Maddow was flying high doing nothing more than quoting from the Steele Dossier the way Joel Osteen quotes The Bible.

And of course, all the neo-cons went along with Russiagate because it advanced the agenda that they first put into practice with the invasion of Iraq. All those ghoulish demons from the pits of the Republican Party slithered over to join with the Democrats to blame Russia for what the American people and both their corrupted parties did to themselves. And the Democrats welcomed them with open arms like some prodigal son. This unification with what they once considered all that was evil they now called “bipartisanship”. “How could we be wrong when even our worst enemies agree with us?” In this way, George W. Bush was no longer a villain but became one of the good guys, like something out of a poorly written professional wrestling script.

People in an emotional state are easily manipulated. That is why those who were crushed by Hillary’s loss fell for Russiagate like a hungry trout for a well-tied fly. That’s why anyone who wasn’t emotionally invested didn’t. Anyone who was able to go to bed the night before the election because they didn’t think the survival of Western culture relied upon Hillary’s victory saw the Russiagate narrative for what it was: a lie, an excuse, a call for increased tensions against yet another country, a joke, pathetic.

Biden has had time to give us a good idea of what a Hillary Presidency would have looked like. Both being obedient servants to corporate power and the military, there is little difference one’s influence could have made. Hillary might have been more full-throatedly supportive of the military industrial complex, but without the 4-year buildup that was Russiagate, it would not have been as effective. Indeed, tying Trump to Russia was a stroke of (evil) genius on the part of those who dictate our international politics.

But like I said, it is hard to admit you’re wrong when you have so much emotionally invested in a narrative. I know I am not going to convince anybody to change their mind, let alone admit their complicity in a lie that quite possibly could be more damaging than any other lie told in human history. The only people who will read and relate to this are those who already know the truth. But that does not mean I can’t make the lie sit a little less easily in some people’s minds. I can still remind them that people other than Trump supporters, paid Russian trolls, and useful idiots can hold a position contrary to their own. I can still make self-delusion hurt a little bit.

*Dearest reader: I admit I am guilty of using what Professor S.I. Hayakawa referred to as “snarl words” in this article. Snarl words are “highly connotative language that often serves as a substitute for serious thought and well-reasoned argument.” I further admit I have done so in order to provoke an emotional response rather than a substantive debate. If I felt substantive debate were possible on this issue I would have refrained from such behavior. I honestly believe there is no way of arguing this subject with believers without provoking an emotional response. Please note that I am at least upfront about this and that it is a form of arguing that I normally find offensive.

Beneath The Surface (An Allegory)

There was once a large pier from which, in the before time, sail boats used to sail to all parts of the world. But now the giant metal behemoths rule the waves and the sail boats are seen there no longer. Bereft of its former purpose, families now use it to launch their personal water craft, fish from, and picnic on. On a warm summer day, water craft roil the waters as children play upon the still sturdy beams of the dock. But early in the morning, before the visitors and vacationers arrived, an old sailor could often be seen sitting at the end of the pier. He had no fishing pole nor water craft: he was content to look out upon and listen to the waves. For the sea was in his veins, and though he was no longer a sailor, he still heard the sea’s call. He visited her to watch the sun rise and stayed with her until the crowds began to arrive. Often, he would simply gaze for long periods of time deep into her depths, communing with some spirit that only those intimate with the sea would know. For the same unknown longing called to him even now as it once called to him as a young man. Where once he traveled the world in hopes that he might find an answer to this longing, as an old man he became content to experience the mystery without the need for answers. One day, as he stared into the depths that the waves were always trying to conceal and distort, he saw a motion deep within. It was but the briefest of glimpses but it set the hair on the back of his neck at end. It was one of those mysteries of the deep that sometimes rise from the dark and give hints of all that was submerged. It was big. Of that there was no doubt. He had seen enough in his days to not be mistaken. A glimpse of white that would terrify him if he were in a boat. Would have terrified if he had been a younger man. Terrified him now. He thought he knew what it was but stared transfixed at the water, looking for confirmation. Again he saw something — just a hint, but it turned the blood within his veins cold. He scanned the waters, his trained eyes fixed to look beneath the surface and the dancing waves that reflected the sky rather than reveal what was within. And then he saw it again. This time, there was no doubt in his mind. It confirmed the fear that filled his body. A shark. A great shark, its body larger than a life raft, and just as white. He was safe where he crouched as he peered over the edge of the wooden dock, but still fear gripped him. There are some fears men do not outgrow, some fears that reason cannot tame. It swam about, and the old sailor believed he could feel an aura of malevolence around it. Superstition clings tight to those who have long looked into the depths of the sea. He stared for a while, waiting for the beast to appear once more. He knew it was lurking, knew it was a hunter that sensed prey. He could almost feel its hunger. And while such a thing frightened him, it was this sort of peril which perhaps urged people such as himself to the sea in the first place. Life lived fully is spent in defiance of the jaws of predators. He would not have noticed the arrival of others were it not for the fact that his every sense was strained in anticipation of spotting the thing again. They were at a distance yet, not on the pier, but they were readying their toys and their tackle, and would soon be headed his way. Another vehicle pulled up as he looked, and another turned around to back a trailer full of water craft into the water. The old sailor walked toward them, waving to them in warning of what he had seen. The people were familiar with the old sailor who kept mainly to himself and to the water. They thought him odd but harmless. But as he approached them on this day, he looked — as they may have thought to themselves — off his meds. His behavior was wild and in his eyes was a look of danger. “Do not go in the water!” he cried. “There is a shark in it.” “Show me,” cried a father, entrusting the children to their mother while he walked toward the end of the pier with the old man. The old man, hesitant to lead him too far out, nevertheless did as he was asked. But when they got to the end of the pier, the father said, “Is that what you see? Why, it’s only a duck.” And sure enough, there was a duck bobbing gently upon gentle waves, quite unconcerned with the people on the pier and quite unaware of the danger that lurked beneath. “Not the duck!” said the old sailor, exasperated and angered. “I have lived my life on the sea, surely I know a shark from a duck. Look.” And he pointed down into the depths, because for a brief moment the shark again raised close enough to the surface to be seen by one who knew where to look and what to look for. “I only see a duck,” said the father, the patronizing tone in his voice thinly veiled. “You have to look deeper,” cried the old tar. “Anyone can see a duck!” “And yet I only see a duck,” said the younger man self-assuredly as he slowly turned away from the older man. He waved his wife and children forward. One who has lived his life successfully without ever encountering a shark may grow foolishly confident that he knows best, and feel he need not worry about what has never bothered him before. As the man walked towards his family, the old sailor observed that the man with the water craft had released them from the trailer into the water. He stood thigh deep in the water, still close enough to shore to be safe but assuredly headed toward danger. Still more people came, heading toward a day of carefree enjoyment. The old sailor went from one party to another, trying to find someone who might heed his warning. Some seemed concerned initially, but with a nod from the father he had first talked to, they seemed to take the warning less seriously. And so they went about their business, heedless of the old man who seemed increasingly emotional and irrational as he went from one person to another. At last, he despaired of warning anyone at all. He thought of the duck who bobbed among the waves and thought that at the very least he might be able to save him. And so he grabbed a rock and walked back toward the edge of the pier. People had already fired up their water craft and were speeding off from shore towards deeper regions. As they accelerated, they created huge waves behind them which roiled waters, making it impossible for the old sailor — or anyone else — to see what lay within the depths. The old man neared the edge of the pier and saw the duck bobbing quite comfortably. He changed his grip upon the rock, getting ready to throw it in the duck’s direction, hoping to scare it away from the danger that awaited it. But even as he loosed the rock a violent eruption happened beneath the duck, and in an instant huge white teeth closed over the duck as it was dragged forever more into the darkness of the water and the darkness of the shark’s belly. The father who the old sailor had spoken to had seen him throw the rock and came forward to see what had happened. Looking out at the water and seeing the duck was gone, the younger man asked, “What did you do to the duck?” “It was the shark!” the sailor cried. “It wasn’t a shark,” said the father, disgust in his voice. “It was just a duck. A poor, innocent duck. And you killed it.” “I didn’t,” cried the old man. But the younger man was done listening. He walked back to his family and the others who were with them, and soon he pulled out his cell phone and could be seen talking to someone. The people on the shore — the crowd continuing to grow — stared out at the old man, who tried to tell whoever might listen of the danger he had seen. Soon, a squad car arrived. Two police officers walked out onto the pier, spoke briefly with the old sailor, placed handcuffs on his wrists and led him to their car, where they placed him in the back and drove away. “Is the bad man gone, mommy?” a young boy asked “Yes, son,” said his loving mom. “It’s safe to go in the water now.”