No guts, no glory

No guts, no glory

Dispatches from the war: Mr. Trump, you're not Tom Paine

Note to the reader: Don’t blithely assume the economy is reopening and things will continue to improve.  The nation is under the control of public health traitors.  They can declare “new waves” of cases.  They can invent pretexts at the drop of a hat, and governors and mayors can declare lockdowns again.  This is not over.  The economic war against the people is being waged to destroy America.

You’ll see this week, as my controversial series of dispatches tries to reach out to the president, I’m suggesting that he break with hallowed tradition and send in troops (or the FBI) to the states and force open the economy, once and for all.  Permanently.

I fully realize the dangers of such a move.  I also realize what this economic war against the people and the country is doing to America.  The news media are covering up the full effects.  The nation is being driven off a cliff into chaos.  That is the heinous plan.  COVID is a pumped up lie and a gross exaggeration, formulated to enable the plan.

It’s a long night in the White House and a long night in America

It’s a long night in the White House and a long night in America.

It’s a folded newspaper on a silver tray, and the headline screams: WAR, AND AMERICA IS LOSING.

You’re the president and you read it.  You can’t not read it.

It’s 3AM and the moon is sitting in the sky.  Lopsided.  A blood moon.

The enemy hasn’t just landed on our shore.  He’s in every community in the country.  He’s inside the inside:

Every mom and pop store, every small and medium business in the nation is signaling frantically to you: WRECKAGE. WRECKAGE.  WRECKAGE.  WRECKAGE.

Is no one hearing those voices?  Is it a silent movie?  Just because the traitorous press refuses to cover it?

Mr. Trump, when are you going to fight the enemy?  When are you going to declare the real state of emergency?

Millions of people who voted for you are on hold.  They’re waiting.

They’re waiting for the cavalry to come over the hill.

You’re paralyzed.


In a state of war with the country fully invaded, with the economic devastation that has been visited on the land…
In a state of war with the country fully invaded, with the economic devastation that has been visited on the land…

You’re surrendering to the likes of those two-bit vampires, de Blasio and Cuomo, to that blown-dry idiot, Newsom.  The governors and mayors are taking you out.

That’s your destiny?

Who are you?

What’s the watchword and the battle cry in this crisis?

Is it Tom Paine?

“THESE are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.”

Or is it, “Order a contactless pizza from Domino’s”?

That once great city, New York, your city, lies in ruins.

Who, Mr. Trump, is the enemy?  Who has stormed the beaches and swarmed into the cities and towns of this country?  Who has taken down the engines of business?

Do you know?

Do you know who the enemy is?

You swaggered into the White House in 2017 like a two-gun cowboy, backhanding the press, talking fast, talking hard, promising to lift up the economy to soaring heights…and now you’re sitting in the Oval signing away trillions of dollars for a Welfare operation the likes of which the world has never seen.  Trillions of air-guitar dollars, lunar dollars, out-of-the-sleeve stage magic dollars, Fed Reserve high-on-speed dream dollars, boiling frog dollars, Wizard of Oz rainbow dollars.

Dollars for a smoking wreckage of an economy, for the people who were working every day in that economy.  Some of those checks are going out to people who have already committed suicide, who are now solidly addicted to booze and drugs, who are smashing apart their families, who are standing inside the empty dusty rooms and offices of their former small businesses, wondering what shuck and jive con leveled their survival and their legacy.

They’re being told by bright-eyed android news heads that “the reopening is proceeding.”  What do you think their unedited response is?

Do you really think it’s “we’re all in this together”?  Do you think they’re happily gnawing on that bone a gaggle of grinning PR devils tossed out the window of their cruising limos on the way to summer vacation houses?

You can’t worm out of this one, Mr. President.  You’re no Tom Paine and no George Washington.  You stood down and watched this storm hit.  This dismantling.  This economic invasion.  This wrecking ball.

Do you know who the enemy is?

 Millions of your supporters are ready to sign on for the war and back you up, and but they can’t find an enlistment office

What are you going to do?

Millions of your supporters are waiting for your answer and your action.  They’ve eaten as many of your tweet-calories as they can possibly handle.

They’re ready to sign on for the war and back you up, and but they can’t find an enlistment office.

Ten years from now, with the economy nationalized, with wage and price controls, with a permanent dole, with the hideous face of Pelosi or Hillary or Biden stamped on every digital dollar, where will you be?

And 50 years from now, when the history of this nation is buried under multiple layers of scrambled-egg obfuscation, some addled historian will write: “Donald Trump was once thought to have been the president of the United States, but he was actually a composer of a song, BACK IN THE USSR.

Unless you fight the war now, Mr. Trump.  No holds barred.

These are times that try men’s souls.  Who’s got your soul in a box?

Are you so dumb you can’t see it?  He’s the gnome standing right next to you at press conferences.

He’s the front man for the blood moon.





Jon Rappoport