Thursday, October 21, 2021

Brandon Didn't Kill Himself


“Let’s Go, Brandon” is the new “Epstein didn’t kill himself.” Each is creole for normal people to convey that the Approved Story is an obvious lie.

Having watched the video several times, I genuinely cannot tell if that NBC reporter misheard the crowd wishing crude intimacy upon Joe Biden, or if she was attempting to edit reality like some Baghdad Brandon.

But really, does it matter?

Truth has no place in their world. Whether through their cloistered benightedness or enforced falsehoods, those who mean to rule us only see, and tolerate, their side of the story.

Perhaps like you, I had not heard much about Jeffrey Epstein until after his death. I knew vaguely of a wealthy guy with a demonic face who had the goods on many important people. One might be forgiven for such a tale blending in with all the others in this day and age.

But when, as America’s highest-profile prisoner, he turned up dead of apparent suicide, I felt my intelligence being insulted.

The Official Version posits that the jailer fell asleep – which only happens in cartoons, incidentally – whereupon Epstein activated his FastPass to Hell.

Right from the start, we see we’re in trouble with the story. We cannot even address the question of suicide or murder when we begin with a snoring Barney Fife. If the latter, did the assassin send in the Pirates of the Caribbean dog to snatch the keys and make his entrance?

And what of the surveillance footage? Free citizens cannot order a cheese sandwich without being videotaped from every angle, but the guy supposedly capable of bringing down Gates, Roberts, the Clintons, et al. (if only) was somehow out of frame?

Consequently, millions of us who otherwise would have left unremarked the untimely departure of a dreadful person seized upon “Epstein didn’t kill himself” as shorthand for, “You people are such awful liars.”

It’s not just that they lie to us, it’s that they give us zero credit for discernment.

The past couple years in particular, they have stacked one falsehood upon another, like Richard Dreyfuss building a mountain of mashed potatoes.

However you voted, the 2020 election was an obvious absurdity with a plainly manufactured result. You may despise Donald Trump and rejoice that he is gone (for now, anyway), but to assert that Joe Biden lost Florida and Ohio by landslides, along with 18 of 19 bellwether districts and 15 House seats, yet somehow won Georgia, Arizona, and overcame a 750,000-vote deficit in Pennsylvania in the dead of night, shattering Barack Obama’s national vote total record, is to demean us both.

People know this, even without quantitative deep dives and earth-shaking MyPillow revelations. Precisely because it is so obvious, thou canst not say it for fear of cancellation or othering.

But you know what you can say? “Let’s Go, Brandon!”

Of course, the ubiquitous, euphemistic chant is not entirely, or even primarily, about the election farce. It’s about all of it.

Indeed, if Joe Biden, who has been running for everything but cover his entire life, had kept a low profile, we may have let him sneak onto the roster of presidents with little more than a roll of our eyes. But the country-snatching fraud last November was merely a precursor to the “Your body, my choice” policy of the powers that be. Biden himself is clearly a cipher for whatever truly nasty Epstein-types are running things.

This brings us, of course, to the Church of Covid, which is a Notre Dame of nonsense.

Once again, people plainly see that stories don’t add up. Whether it’s death rates, the conflation of “cases” and “infection,” the shifting definitions of “vaccine,” or the mounting anecdotal evidence that the sacred injections are doing as much or more harm to those in their orbit than the disease, the official narrative is a jumble that cannot be reconciled with itself, much less withstand outside scrutiny.

And no one talks about healing or making people feel better anymore, do they? All is control, submit, obey.

When asked by fearful friends whether they will throw up barriers to interstate travel, or go door-to-door, rounding up the Covid non-compliant and putting them in camps, I reply that there is no limit to what they will do, if they are allowed. Even those responsible do not appreciate the insatiable appetite for power they have indulged.

From Moses to Milton to modern times, we are taught that man’s compulsion to rule is the nature of Hell itself.

A number of Internet commenters have proposed that the next World War will be between people and their own governments. Upon reading this, the penny dropped for me. I have nothing whatsoever against the people of China, Russia, Iran, what-have-you, and I hope and expect the feeling is mutual (until they get to know me, anyway).

I do not doubt, however, that Joe Biden and the ghastly people round about him – some publicly known, some not – wish me ill.

Wherever you find yourself reading this – the United States, Canada, Australia, the United Kingdom – do you see any limit to your leaders’ ambitions? Have they not violated the most intimate realms of society and bodily autonomy, all the while making clear they will not stop until forced to do so?

If, as those denizens of the interwebs have averred, the next global conflict is between we the people and our would-be rulers, perhaps “Let’s Go, Brandon!” will be recalled like the cheerful songs at the start of the Great War, with impromptu football matches between the trenches and promises to be home by Christmas 1914.

If you are anything like me, you have never harmed another person in your life, nor would you dream of doing so. But like any tolerant, patient, handsome man, I have my limits. We all have people and things that we love, and spaces that belong to us alone. Liars and tyrants trespass them at their peril.

For now, mockery of our Naked Emperors (possible band name) in the shared language of the oppressed gives us a reason to smile. Those have been few on the ground for some time, and it reminds us we are not alone. We must never stop taunting them until our throats are sore and our ribs ache from laughter.

Let’s Go Brandon, indeed.

Theo Caldwell just wanted to be left alone. Contact him at