Attribute to L. Neil Smith’s The Libertarian Enterprise

Last weekend I went to a sports bar in my hometown for karaoke night. I am a regular attendee of other karaoke nights around town, and always go to entertain others and have a good time; that’s what they're for, after all. I am very serious about music and not a drinker. Water and Red Bull are my drinks of choice.

This particular locale has always been somewhat blue collar, and I’ve been there a handful of times over the last several years. The karaoke stage is at one end of the building, near the dartboards, and across the room are a number of pool tables. Big screen TVs show muted sports games as the music plays; plastic pitchers of beer brewed in-house are served by a friendly wait staff.

Last Saturday, I elected to go out in a hot pink MAGA hat. In this blue town, I always expect a bit of pushback, but my support for the movement is strong and I have worn MAGA apparel in Washington, DC as well as in Europe, so I’m used to glares and stares. They don’t bother me anymore; the reactions of those who understand the movement are worth their weight in gold. The hat is like a dowsing rod for both angry liberals and shy conservatives.

This particular evening, I went to the bar and the questions began immediately. I was asked by a nice young lady why I was a supporter of President Donald J. Trump, and was happy to engage.

“What do you think happened with North and South Korea this week?” I asked her. “Could Trump have had anything to do with that? Because South Korea said he deserves the credit for it.” (This was prior to South Korean President Moon’s declaration that President Trump should receive a Nobel Peace Prize for his work, as well as the submission of a letter to the same effect from eighteen members of Congress.)

She was surprised and asked me to elaborate. It might have been the beginning of a pleasant conversation if her friend, a very large man, hadn’t interjected and begun talking over me about the deficit, asking me which tax bracket I was in, and carrying on at top volume so I couldn’t reply. He asked my preferred source of news and told me self-assuredly that his preferred source is the Washington Post. Of course it is.

I was about to ask him if he knew about WaPo’s $600 million contract with the CIA, or if he’d ever learned the basic fact that 99% of American print media is owned by Gannett, and that 99% of television news is owned by its subsidiary, Tegna. I might have asked him if he’d ever heard of Udo Ulfkotte, a German journalist who died of a heart attack after exposing the connection between the CIA and the journalistic profession (by explaining that official narrative-building stories are often handed directly to journalists, who are told to put their names on them and submit them). I might even have discussed with him the controversy in the ’60s and ’70s over journalists who reported directly to the intelligence agencies. But instead he continued talking over me, becoming louder, more vulgar, and volatile, and so I picked up the book of songs I’d been looking for in the first place, told him I was there to sing karaoke, not to talk politics, and took a seat with my mom, my constant companion at such events.

He continued trying to engage us from across the room, shouting over the music and pointing.

I sang my first song of the night (Eagles’ “Get Over It”, which I’ve long been planning to sing and record in just such a hat), and his female friend high-fived me as I came off the stage. It was a lovely moment which I will treasure; I felt connected to her and was sad that our previous conversation had ended so disastrously.

See video here, if you’re in the mood for some music.

It was around this time that a woman (a former employee of the bar) took the stage and told all in attendance that she hadn’t voted for the candidate who would “grab [her] pussy.” She sang her song (and I happily acknowledge that she’s talented) and pointed a finger at me. I seem to recall being taught that pointing is rude.

For almost the next three hours she carried on to her friends; occasional snippets I’d catch over the music were the standard buzzwords: racist, xenophobe, Trump, muh pussy, and so on, a stream of obscenities and half-consciousness.

As the evening progressed, a number of MAGA people came over to express themselves to me. We met a lovely gentle biker who kept an eye on us most of the night; a car mechanic spoke the words “let’s make America great again” into the microphone during an instrumental break; a Marine veteran came to sit with us. A friend of the gaggle separated himself from them to whisper in my ear that he would have voted for Trump, and that he had just become an American legally over the summer. I shook his hand and congratulated him, and he went back to his friends.

It took a very long time for my second song to come up, and chagrined, the KJ approached me and told me that my submission had gone missing; he asked me what I wanted to sing, and he put me into the system immediately; shortly thereafter I was called up.

When I went up for that second and final song of the evening, “Out Tonight” from the musical “Rent” (a particular favorite of mine, sung in the show by a young HIV+ Puerto Rican exotic dancer), the heckling began. The angry woman called out to ask if the “Spanish babies” mentioned in the latter half of the song were “rapists”; she sang along off-key, and shouted that I’m a racist. The abuse went on for the entirety of the song, but the music was loud enough in my ears that she was more or less drowned out.

After I left the stage, she carried on shouting that I was in essence not allowed to sing a song about a minority individual by simple virtue of wearing a MAGA hat. A few minutes into this tirade, a server came to her table and escorted her off the premises. The wait staff apologized for her behavior and so did the KJ; it was not their fault, but it was very touching nonetheless. Our Marine friend walked us out to our car, and we bade him adieu, heading for home across town and laughing the whole way.

I have little interest in dissecting claims shouted over music; the louder a person screams, the less sense they seem to make, and I don’t expect rational argument when words come directly from a place of intense emotion. But as to her claim that I believe the Spanish babies are rapists, I believe it’s worthwhile to point out a few things.

The character Mimi Marquez, named after Mimi in Puccini’s “La Boheme” (upon which “Rent” is loosely based) is Puerto Rican. She is an American citizen.

Miss Thing’s assertion is that she, or the aforementioned Spanish babies, would be comparable to a criminal illegal immigrant; this doesn’t jive with me, and really solidified my understanding of a psychological phenomenon (and propaganda topic) called projection; Goebbels and Alinsky both employed it. It is the practice of accusing one’s opponent of the very things of which one is guilty, and it is extremely effective, because after it is employed, the only response is “I know you are, but what am I?” (third grade, much?).

So here are the simple facts. I do not care a whit for the color of a person’s skin. I do not care where they come from, what language they speak, or what they do with their own life, as long as they do not harm others. That’s not why I support President Trump, and that’s not what his tens or possibly hundreds of millions of supporters around the world see in him, either. But I can’t speak for them. I can only speak for myself.

I support President Trump because I have dedicated innumerable hours to researching his cause: to remove the power from the hands of the aristocracy and return it to us, the people of this country. I understand, as do a growing number worldwide, that the history of our planet was written not about average humans, living out their lives in relative peace and anonymity, but about the sons and daughters of a few elite bloodlines—the very same bloodlines of slave traders, kings, and priests and priestesses of the dark occult who have bled the “peasant class” dry for centuries (curiously, John Kerry, the Bush family, Dick Cheney, John Adams, and the Mountbatten-Windsor boys, among a great many others, all claim or claimed to be descendants of purported witches executed in Salem in 1692).

Donald John Trump, a plutocrat though he may be, is something different: the nephew of John George Trump, the electrical engineer tasked by the FBI with analyzing Nikola Tesla’s laboratory (as he was deemed the only person who might understand its contents); the grandson of Elizabeth Christ Trump, the woman who started the very organization which he made famous. He takes his inspiration from John Fitzgerald Kennedy, who famously stated that “we are opposed around the world by a monolithic and ruthless conspiracy” which “has conscripted vast human and material resources into the building of a tightly knit, highly efficient machine that combines military, diplomatic, intelligence, economic, scientific, and political operations.”

In the most recent release of the JFK files, it was revealed that there were thirty or more CIA agents in Dallas on the 22nd of November, 1963—including “the actual hit team.”

See screenshot here: kek.gg/i/6mMRyh.png

Knowing all of this—and taking Udo Ulfkotte’s fateful words to heart—I will gladly take President Trump at his word regarding his intentions for the United States and their people, as well as his desire for peace. His actions correspond directly with his words, and deliver real, tangible results.

The alternative—trusting the CIA, Gannett, and Tegna—is simply not something I’m prepared to do.

That’s why I wore my MAGA hat to the karaoke bar. That’s why I don’t care if I’m derided in public. It simply doesn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things.

One by one, we must break free from the narrative created and perpetuated by corrupt intelligence agencies, politicians for sale, newsrooms, teachers, corporate interests and lobbyists, lawyers, and phony scientists. Their greatest fear is that they will lose their control over us, and that we will discover the truth kept hidden for so long: that there’s freedom over here, enough to go around, if only we will reach out and take it.