UNDER THE DOME: Demonic D.C. Is Getting Increasingly Tough To Ignore

"Hell Is Empty and All the Devils Are Here"

At first I thought this footage had to be doctored. But apparently not. Nope, it would seem not. Uh-uh, definitely not faked. Certainly creepy af, though!

“Never, ever go near power. Don't become friends with anyone who has real power. It's dangerous." - Stanley Kubrick

“You've got the power to open the door / You've got the power, it's been done before /
Once you get there you're sure to see / You open your eyes and Love will be easy…” - Van Morrison

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What the hell is going on in Congress? You probably don’t want to know and I don’t blame you, but you will. You will.

I mean, I know, and have known for a while. But how transparently diabolically insane is it going to have get in Washington, D.C., (Demonic Capital?) for you to realize our nation and especially its children are under legitimate spiritual attack by a cabal or coven or grotto of lizard-brain psychopaths and hell-bound handlers — AND — that you have the sacred God-granted ability to successfully push back against this profane anti-freedom child-destroying Evil if only you would so choose?

Up top, I’ve shared links to a variety of video clips from (thankfully) non-voting Congress half-member Stacey Plaskett, who represents the zombie voodoo hoodoo Virgin Islands, as she recently tried to censor and silence RFKjr during the hellacious House’s recent hearing on, uh, government censorship. 

Over her shoulder, a crazy-eyes white liberal woman silently mouths everything Plaskett is saying, mirroring her words exactly, even as she stutters over the word “fifty-five.” Once she realizes she’s on camera, she stops mouthing along and suddenly Plaskett can’t talk right, and says “representing” instead of “misrepresenting,” which causes her as-yet unidentified aide to get up and correct her. It’s creepy to watch, as is the unknown, unnamed young woman herself, who looks absolutely batshit insane.

To pursue the most generous interpretation of what we see here, Stacey Plaskett is a puppet reading lines and the woman is her speechwriter or a top adviser/handler and an obsessive nut who has memorized her boss’s speech. And maybe that’s all this is. But I doubt it.

Stacey Plaskett was convicted pedophile and reported Intel community blackmail artist Jeffrey Epstein’s hand-picked and maximum financed Congressional representative puppet. When she won her first Congressional race in 2014 by just 737 votes, against a popular and well-known incumbent, it was reported locally as “one of the biggest upsets in Virgin Island history.” Magick!

Except for the fact Plaskett and the crazy-eyes white chick stumble over the same word simultaneously and the young woman looks so demonically deranged. Mentally ill, if not possessed. It should concern everyone that someone with those eyes is working in D.C. politics, except she is far Far FAR from an isolated case. Her kind are Legion. You watch Psycho Psaki-bomb on MSNBC lately? Yikes!

Ah well, O Hell. Time for a couple of the many, many tales I could tell. Since I’ve been rewatching The Wire recently, we’ll stick to a year’s time in Baltimore, 2002, the year that singularly excellent series premiered.

When I lived in Baltimore, the first ad agency I worked for had several contracts with the state and the Feds (including NSA). At the time, 2002, Kathleen Townsend (née Kennedy, the eldest sister of RFKjr; sorry dude) was Lieutenant Governor. She came to the agency a few times, and I got into one group meeting with her about an environmental public messaging campaign. She was joined by two advisers, who bookended her, side-by-side-by-side, at the long table in the agency’s conference room. The advisors did almost all the talking while she sat there, mostly mute, eyes vacant. She spoke twice. She made a pair of observations. They were both idiotic. The advisors basically ignored her and pressed on. I left the meeting deeply unsettled. Nobody wanted to talk about it, at least not with me.

Lucasfilm’s Kathleen Kennedy, former Maryland Lt. Gov. Kathleen Kennedy Townsend, and actress Ellen Barkin as the murderous Kathleen Townsend from Poker Face, Rian Johnson’s mostly unwatched shameless Columbo ripoff on the third-tier streaming network Peacock. I’m not suggesting there’s any connection between any of these women, I mostly did it as an excuse to piss on Rian Johnson (again). I’ve heard he likes that anyway, if you can believe the dank Hollywood gossip site Crazy Days & Nights.

Another time when I was working at the Baltimore ad agency, I was contacted by a guy who worked on Capitol Hill. He had tracked me down via my second gig, writing for the Baltimore CityPaper (R.I.P.), where I was mostly one of their film critics, but also wrote book reviews and other assorted feature articles. 

It was not long after 9/11, little more than a year, around Christmastime, and I’d recently conducted an interview with the attorney and former Justice and Peace Coordinator with the Catholic Archdiocese of Baltimore, C. William Michaels, about his alarming book No Greater Threat: America After September 11 and the Rise of a National Security State (now out of print, natch — you can’t even find it on Amazon!) [EDIT: My mistake. It’s got a new publisher and available on Amazon for…$33]

The guy (can’t remember his name) called me out of nowhere on the phone. Said he lived in D.C. but had read my CityPaper (R.I.P.) article and was impressed. He said he worked for a Congresscritter and was thinking of leaving politics for advertising or marketing and was wondering if I would talk with him about the industry. I was flattered. I said sure. He said he’d come up to Baltimore to talk with me.

He arrived and was younger, better dressed and better looking than me. Not a Ken doll but not far from it. We talked for about an hour in one of the ad agency’s smaller meeting rooms, and it was clear pretty quick that he was not only younger, better dressed and better looking than me, he was smarter. 

I have zero idea why he would trust me with the things he told me. Maybe he’d done more research on me than he let on. Maybe he knew that I had once been a Theology scholarship student before getting a Film degree, or had gleaned from my writing that we were kindred spirits of some kind. I have no idea. 

Anyway, he told me he was a graduate of some prestigious school (can’t remember) with some kind of political degree (can’t remember) and got a gig with a Congresscritter (can’t remember who or from where, but it was a man). Smart, friendly, handsome, impeccably dressed near-Ken wasn’t bragging, but said his hard work ethic and being smarter than most of the people on The Hill combined to get him fast-tracked. The past year of his life had been blinding. 

He also said it was all a lie. He said the vast majority of government officials were puppets, told what to say and do. He said that the economic coverups were immense, that grand new inventions like car engines that ran on water and Tesla-influenced energy technology that cost pennies on the dollar were being squelched to maintain a crony capitalist caste hierarchy of power. He said that anytime a new invention was created that endangered the ruling class, it was declared a matter of “national security” by the military, who commandeered it, twisted it for their own manipulative purposes, and then, sometimes but only sometimes, years later, brought it to the public through some caste-system-approved businessman or corporation. 

The younger, better-looking-than-me guy said he couldn’t take it anymore. He was hating himself. Hating his job. Hating D.C. He wanted out, and then he said something close to: “Almost all of politics is about ‘The Narrative’ and marketing. That’s it. And if that’s all it is, I’d rather do that on a much less dangerous scale. Advertising seems a lot more fun.” 

“The advertising industry has more failed artists and intellectuals than the Third Reich.” — Don Draper. But presumably fewer than politics.

In 2002-ish, advertising was still kind of fun, even though I was kind of miserable, like I was always kind of miserable after I left journalism, though I didn’t tell the guy that. I told him that he should leave his resume (he’d brought several!) and I’d put in a good word for him, try to get him a meeting with somebody further up the food chain who could maybe make a hiring decision. I also said I’d like to stay in touch, because he was clearly a guy who knew where some bodies were buried and I was still writing for CityPaper (R.I.P.) with a nose for news, so I wasn’t quite as fully miserable as when I got called up to the Madison Avenue major leagues and totally lost my shit. 

We never spoke again, though. I passed his resumé up the food chain, but nobody was interested — post 9/11, dot.bomb time, the agency was shedding jobs, not hiring. 

I did get an email, though. The guy updated me that he’d gotten a great gig in marketing for some kind of new-fangled alcoholic drink (don’t remember; Zima, maybe?) where he would go to different bars at night in D.C. and Baltimore and the spots along the corridor in between, then strike up conversations with people and talk up the specific beverage, to try to get them to try/buy it. He said he enjoyed what he was doing, he was happier, it was a lot more relaxing, and he was meeting many new and interesting people. Near-Ken was such a good talker and so handsome, his success sounded like a lock. I figured a guy like that was drinking well and getting laid like crazy (or maybe drinking like crazy and getting laid well?), which would improve anybody’s attitude about things.

I emailed back, saying I enjoyed our conversation and would like to hear some more, but he never responded or maybe politely pushed it off. I don’t remember. We never communicated again, either way.

I guess that’s not a personal “Rule of Three,” but if you add in Zombie Stacey Plaskett, it gets us there. And maybe-dead-maybe-not but definitely not suicidal Jeffrey Epstein’s personal Congresscritter (one of many, we should presume) is the lead story anyway.

Make no mistake: Washington, D.C., is a very Very VERY strange place, and right now it’s probably the strangest it’s ever been. Loaded with brainwashed/possessed people-cum-puppets. NPCs, as most mischievous memesters say, and you’ve got to admit the memesters have been right about a lot. 

As usual, I’m left with more questions than answers, but I swear upon my soul everything I’ve typed here today is True. What does it all meeeeeaaaaaan? Usually I follow that up with “beats me,” but today I’m actually pretty sure: Say Your Prayers.

Smug, loathsome, repellent CNN propagandist Jake Tapper has crapped out another piece of hack work that he may or may not have actually written but does at least tell us what’s up. Like Zombie Stacey Plaskett, presumed Hellfire Club member Jake recently went on an unhinged tirade against RFKjr, loaded with CIA-endorsed linguistic “tells,” which were nicely deconstructed by fellow Substack-ian David Marks so I don’t have to.