Insider's Guide to the Coup

N

For original post go to:
https://aim4truth.org/2019/12/28/cat-report-254/
----------------------------------------------
The audio below is from an original recording in April 2018. Today, December 28, 2019, the Senior Executive Services, SERCO, the Mueller-Arvinder Report, and the overthrow attempt of Donald Trump by the British are still going UNREPORTED in the alternative (with a few exceptions) and mainstream media. Eventually, they will have to giddy up because this is TRUTH and it isn’t going to be hidden from the citizens of planet Earth any longer.

Updated with memes. Same audio as above but great new memes added: The Swamp is filled with SES enemies of America

Please be our guest to download the video. It is easy to do  – just find the download tab just below the video frame inside of Vimeo. Then upload to your channel platform- whether it is on Vimeo, BitChute, YouTube, or others. Let’s all do our part as information warriors to demand FULL DISCLOSURE. Settle for nothing less.

 

https://vimeo.com/381804267

-----------------------------------------------------

 

Pass it along, but don't be like me. When posting, follow the directions in italicized print above!

 

 

 

Our Jewish Brethren

Concerning our Jewish brethren, I understand this much:

 

First, there are those who are wealthy and powerful, depraved and sick, who only hide behind a Jewish mask;

 

Next, there are those who are secular yet call themselves Jews, some well-off, some not, many of whom may condone the actions and misdeeds of the group described above based solely upon a Jewish cultural identification;

 

Also, there are religious Jews who have been and continue to be misled by Talmudic rabbis at Talmudic synagogues, many of whom would likely condone whatever is done by someone, however amoral, as long as that person is, or claims to be, a Jew properly following the Talmud.

 

But there is also a last group I refer to as Torah-based Jews (e.g., the so-called “Karaites”) who are benign in comparison—learned, moral and worthy of respect. Those of this last group are closer than the others to being and acting like real human beings. (However, that is not to say that such "real" Jews may not be in any of the second and third groups listed above, but only to speculate that such a one is more likely within the last group mentioned.)

There are, of course, "non-denominational Jews" who do not identify with any particular group but who reject certain immoral "poison precepts" found in Talmudism and prefer to follow the law of Moses as best they can. These are certainly honorable men and women desirous of being upright and good in the eyes of God. These are dignified individuals obviously worthy of respect.

 

All this to say that, given the many stripes of Judaic persons/groups I don't feel that it is helpful to bash Jews, as such, but rather that when one speaks out against their bad acts they should be identified as belonging to one of the above groups (most likely only to one of the first three); and, once identified, to clarify that such a so-and-so bad actor is identified based upon the fruits of his or her action(s), viz., stating the reason why an action or actions are wrong.

 

I posit to you that Zionists—those ardently involved with the creation, re-establishment and maintenance of the State of Israel—are among all of these groups and which I do not condemn based only upon that label, but rather upon an analysis of their motivation, i.e., whether their Zionism is indeed God or Bible-based, or is just based upon being a supremacist extremist JINO (Jew In Name Only). The analysis must also consider to what extent the plight of dispossessed Palestinians under their control is properly and humanely accounted for.

 

The overall analysis here has multiple steps. If it seems complex it is. And beware! Given the intolerance of politically correct Judaism, no matter how careful and correct you try to be when speaking out you will still be condemned as an "anti-Semite." This makes the whole speaking-out process fairly worthless, does it not?—quite possibly, unless you willingly accept suffering, persecution. “Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Matt. 5:10

 

The saints and the martyrs embraced Jesus and despised the world. I aspire to that sensibility. But it is more than a sensibility; it is integrity. Integrity is steeped in belief and discipline. It calls on us to exhibit the vertebrae of our soul—in short, to show that we have backbone by speaking out when we feel called to do so. 

 

And yet I would balance this exercise of integrity with being a “peacemaker.” That is, true Christians are motivated to bring peace, peace between people and God, and also between those at odds with each other. “Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called children of God.” Matt. 5:9

 

What happens when an ideal collides with a felt duty to act, to speak out? I am willing to speak out against  evil and specific wrongdoers who may or may not be Jewish. This willingness comes from my own Christian, Biblical beliefs that exhort us to act according to our convictions, from the depths of conscience. This is in contrast to simply speaking negatively and disparagingly of Jews (or other groups based upon religion)—unless of course they are heretic-blasphemer-traitors like Schiff, Nadler, Pelosi, et al. Even condemning the likes of them carries a caveat—we are supposed to pray for them, viz., that they see the error of their ways and repent.

 

Still, we are not confined only to praying for evil-doers; we still must contribute to improving our world, our human condition, by calling out evil-doing and injustice and be willing to bear the consequences of doing so. Thus, this imperious and prone-to-being-the-barking-and-burning-excoriator-of-the-wicked is here to “tell it like it is”—to back up an ideal with some real backbone. Righteousness of action begins with courageous words.

 

[Next, Our Christian Brethren]

 

Finks I Have Known

 

One day in seventh grade at Blessed Sacrament School, we were told that one of our priests was coming to visit us. The father arrived, as expected. It was Father Rogan and he threw out a question. He asked us, “What does the word ‘catholic’ mean”? Various students attempted to answer the question. None of their answers were accepted. As they were shot down, one after the other, I became very intrigued. I wondered, hard, what could the answer be?

 

In the end, none of us students were able to give him the definition of “catholic.” When we had all given up, Fr. Rogan finally told us. He said that it meant “universal.” It meant what?—I thought—if it means universal, then why not just use the word “universal”? But I don’t think I said anything.

 

The appearance of Fr. Rogan in our class, all-of-a-sudden-like, was kind of weird in itself. And then, to come with only this one question (with its elusive-yet-seemingly-simple answer) was also weird. It was just the weirdness of the whole episode that must have cemented it in my memory.

 

I was in seventh grade in 1966-1967.  I was 12-/13-years old. It was the psychedelic era in pop music. I remember that I often wore Levi corduroy jeans back then, and of course, they had to be tight or they weren’t cool. I had a crush on my teacher, Miss DeSantis—a big-breasted Amazon who wore tight skirts and tops that accentuated her Playboy bunny figure.

 

This was also the year that our principal, Sister Paschal, suddenly came to the class door asking to speak with me in the hall. Surprised, I got up from my desk and went out to meet with her. She said, “These tight pants you wear—they show everything you have. You’re a leader, and whatever you do, the rest of the boys are going to follow. So maybe it is best that you don’t wear this style of pants here in school. OK?”

 

Dumbfounded, I sort of shook my head, yes, and meekly accepted her directive-couched-as-a-request. I walked back into the classroom with my mind swirling. And I don’t recall, exactly, but the other kids must have been curious about what the principal wanted with me. Being the naively truthful lad that I am, I must have told them outright that Sr. Paschal asked me not to wear Levis to class anymore. I doubt I went into much more detail than that.

 

This was the second incident from that same time period. It has remained in my mind ever since. It was weird because it forever melded together (1) a perceived quality of me as a leader with (2) something I should be ashamed of, viz., “tight pants showing everything I have.” (It wasn’t that I was going around with a cucumber stuffed down my pants or anything.) But the weirdest part of all was the way in which Sr. Paschal had gone about her “mission”; she intentionally made this into a dramatic act of pulling me out of class so that, whether I liked it or not, the curiosity of the other students would certainly make them ask me outright what was so important that she had to  pull me out of class(?) In other words, it was a one/two punch combining an embarrassing confrontation, sure to be followed by an awkward admission I would need to make before my peers.

 

Seventh grade was a milestone for me, comparable to the major catharsis society was experiencing in ’66-’67.

 

Next was my teacher in eighth grade. She was the polar opposite of Miss DeSantis—a nun, the type of nun who is very deferent to authority. She was formerly known as “Sister Maris” who had changed her name to Sr. Evelyn Bonnet. This woman had a peculiar way about her. Her face would redden at the drop of a hat; she seemed full of unresolved complexes that revealed themselves in hard-to-hide emotions, surfacing from time-to-time and leaving me (and other students I’m sure) feeling oddly disconcerted. This was when the Vatican II changes were upon us, and this nun seemed very enthusiastic about all of that. I ran into her years later at the centennial celebration of the church and school. She didn’t remember me, even though I had been the president of the class and, I thought, had been a part of (what I imagined, at least to be) some dramas of memorable proportion. I recall thinking that she’s just as much of a dry, cheerleading and clueless functionary now as she had been then, maybe more so!  

 

Shortly before this time we had moved to a different parish, Little Flower in Bethesda, MD. Blessed Sacrament School was in D.C., just on the other side of the Chevy Chase, MD line. But, with special permission, my siblings and I were allowed to stay at Blessed Sacrament to finish there and to graduate.

 

Strangely, Fr. Rogan was transferred to the parish of Little Flower shortly afterwards. It was he who responded when I asked my father to find a parish priest to bless my bedroom.

 

This was about five years later during a sort of “spiritual emergency” I was having (characterized by mental anxiety and delusions). It was during the work week, in the early evening. Distraught, I approached my father with my urgent request. He could see that I was suffering and, being the strong believer that he was, he took my request very seriously. He said he would go just as soon as he got rid of his “five o’clock shadow.”

 

Soon after he departed our home, he returned with Fr. Rogan. My bedroom was downstairs, separate and apart from my brothers’ and sisters’ bedrooms. I had painted flames in yellow and orange day glow paint on the red wall by my bed, with stylistic, hippie flowers of many colors on the ceiling above. In the dark, the flames and all of the colors would come alive using an ultra-violet “black” light.

 

Fr. Rogan entered my bedroom (in all its glory) with my father accompanying him. In one hand he held an aspersorium (bowl containing holy water) and grasped an aspergillum (silver ball on a stick) with the other hand. Fr. Rogan briefly  looked around to see what sort of a deranged place my bedroom might be, and then began some prayers while dispensing sprinkles of holy water all about the room. He made no attempt to counsel me, as I recall, or even talk to me much. I guessed that my father may have told him I was a bit unbalanced and maybe the priest felt he should stick to his religious task and leave my confusion to another type of professional. In any event, it seemed like a kind of pro forma holy water blessing because he performed as requested and promptly departed.

 

I remember my father saying how he felt funny, wondering what the priest must have thought about “all those flames painted on my wall” (as in” the flames of hell,” thought I). Actually, when I painted those flames I was thinking more along the lines of the flames popularized by hot rods from that era, usually painted on front fenders—or the illustrations by funny car aficionado Ed “Big Daddy” Roth, with his “Rat Fink” and “The Gasser.” I definitely was not (consciously) trying to depict myself as “lying on my bed in hell as an offering to Satan.”

 

I don’t know, maybe the Roman Catholic Church was covertly trying to look out for me. I say this because of another strange coincidence. Between 1968 and 1970 I attended Gonzaga College Preparatory High School near the Capitol in D.C. The headmaster at that time was one Fr. John Keating, S.J. Completely dispirited, I left Gonzaga after my sophomore year. Instead, I opted to attend a Montgomery County Public School in Bethesda called Walt Whitman High School. The funny thing is, the headmaster must also have been “dispirited” because he also left Gonzaga at about the same time. And where did he end up?—you guessed it: at Walt Whitman. Fr. Keating, as rumor had it, had left his vocation and run off with some woman. He was now “Mister” Keating and a counselor. He was not my counselor (maybe that would have been too obvious). Regardless, he was there, just as Fr. Rogan was passively “there” at Little Flower.

Neither "Mister" Keating nor Fr. Rogan ever made another appearance in my life; nor did Sr. Paschal (Sr. Evelyn Bonnet always was "out to lunch"). I suppose I was too much a part of the  hip, new counter-culture for them to bother about me. (Or, as I wrote about in my previous book (Soul Enticed, Vol. 2) by then I was already a long-gone, unwitting Manchurian Candidate—quite the antithesis of conservative Catholicism, even with its glossy new Vatican II veneer.) One thing seemed certain to me then and now: they all shared a hard-to-pin-down, "uncaring schmaltziness"; we used to call such people "finks". And though I may seem a bit harsh in saying so, maybe there's a fink lurking in just about all of us; maybe it takes one (rather it "took" one) to know one. Basta!