Come, come, Columbo
The journaliars made a fatal mistake in prematurely calling the election: they launched an investigation into themselves
What is happening in the American election is not, first and foremost, an investigation of voter fraud. That is merely the token offence. The true, deeper offence is much more serious. The defendant in the dock is not really the Democratic Party, but the hoaxers of the Fake News Media, who are now finally to be made to face the music for their crimes. What is happening is an investigation of journalying, now the flipped function of the fakers pretending to be truth-tellers still. The defendants are people who for several decades now have been passing themselves off as journalists, as custodians of the Fourth Estate, when in fact they have been undercover activists seeking to undermine democracy, constitutionalism and civilisation.
A trap has been sprung. It was sprung not by Donald Trump, or the Republican Party, or conservatism, or the ‘far right’, or Stephen K. Bannon, or Rudy Giuliani, or the Deplorables, but by the universe, by Karma, by Fate, Providence, God — by whatever words you choose to understand the way reality finally springs back to bite the wrongdoer, restoring the Natural Law which enforces the harmony of reality without which nothingness would prevail.
They walked right into it. Not alone did they try to steal the election by withholding facts and information from the public but they had become so barefaced about doing it by then that they forgot to clean their dabs before leaving he scene. They had long since lost the run of themselves. The condition — Trump Derangement Syndrome — had metastasized in 2020 when they became certain that they had their man but had him not. It was not that they had become negligent about safeguarding democracy, or were merely peevishly going through the motions of reporting, or were disconsolately engaging in wishful thinking while still doing their jobs with ill grace.
They had gone completely rogue. You could see it in those White House coronavirus briefings back in that noxious spring of this toxic year, when they launched nightly into the president like a swarm of precociously pubescent Jedward fans who had turned in the wrong departure lounge to find themselves face-to-face instead with Van the Mighty Man. They knew nothing of this being, this very stable genius, or what he signified, and they cared less. Here they were, at the centre of the greatest mythological event in close to a century of world politics and they were too apoplectic, too apocalyptic, to see it. They had lost their minds. They were out of their tinys. They no longer had the brains they were born with.
Having given oxygen to every lie about the President for three solid years, they had been shown — and seen — to be wrong about everything. No Russian conspiracy, no Ukrainian consolation, no dice, no goods, no scoop, no story. With one mighty bound, our hero was free.
Covid was their last chance: the more victims might be gathered into the nets of the pseudo-scientists, the better their chances of taking out the President. They absurdly put American at the top of the global fatality charts, measuring in absolute numbers rather than per capita — to make it look like Trump was killing people. They soft-focussed the truth that most of the deaths seemed to be occurring in Democrat-run states. They more or less buried the orders issued in March by Democrat governors that people be admitted from nursing homes from hospitals without testing. They ignored the blatant evidence of falsified fatalities happening pretty much everywhere. They helped to engineer a massive worldwide panic, which caused elderly people to be placed under unspeakable psychological stress, which hastened their deaths in a manner strangely in harmony with the homicidal agenda intent on body-snatching. But Trump fought back and played them at their own game: if, as they claimed, 2.2 million lives were under threat, then he would save two million of those. When it happened, they didn’t report it like that, but we had long since passed the point when anyone was taking seriously what journalists reported.
Then, in the mouth of the election, a story broke about a man caught red-handed by his own laptop selling to Russians the benefits and secrets of a senior political office of the American Republic — at one time occupied by his father, the ‘Big Guy’ — an eerily identical set of circumstances which they’d tried to lay at Trump’s door with their three-year Russia hoax. Except here were not merely Russians, but also Ukrainians, Chinese, Iraqis, you name it. Sex, too, underage girls, crack cocaine, BDSM. It was a Santa Claus story for real journalists but the journaliars looked the other way, since the figure at the centre was not Donald Trump but his presidential rival Joe Biden, caught on the hard-drive of his train-wreck son, Hunter. This, obviously, was not a story. In fact, this was obviously Russian disinformation, designed to skew the election . . . !
It was bad enough that they so blatantly ignored a story with almost precisely, and verifiably, the features of the false story they had pedalled about Trump, but the same journaliars who had on numerous occasions tried to suggest that the President was suffering from dementia, Alzheimers, Parkinsons and terminal coronavirus, treated the candidacy of a clearly unwell man with all the rigour of bent cops sent out to investigate their own protection rackets. But then they chose, in full view of the public, and — worse — the public’s phone cameras — to look the other way as the dead arose and voted in their multitudes for Joe Biden, as votes were altered, amended, rewritten in plain sight, as electoral machines were hi-jacked by social justice warriors funded by Mark Zuckerberg, as Republican observers were blocked from verifying the election count, as the President’s messages to his people were censored by Big Tech. And then, in the face of overwhelming evidence of wall-to-wall fraud, they ‘called’ the election and made it look like someone else — someone official — had done it.
This was the big mistake. Up to that moment, it was merely — in dim lighting to a deaf, dumb and blind man on a blind galloping horse — a matter of shoddy, partisan journalism. They could have let it lie. If their man had won, their man had won. Time would tell. Maybe if they had said nothing, Bannon and Giuliani wouldn’t have got so riled up. But they wouldn’t let it lie. They had waited so long for a moment like this that it was all too much to have to wait a moment longer. They called the election and in doing so entered the arena of misfeasance, the blatant public violation of their public obligation to … no, not Donald Trump, not the Republican Party, but the American people. They tried to steal something precious from the salt of the American earth. This was a transparent attempt to pre-empt the completion of the count and the certification of the electoral process by the Electoral College. It was an attempt to mislead the public into believing that the election was over, that it had been won by Joe Biden, against the run of play, contrary to the facts we observed at well-past-bedtime in the early hours of November 4th. It was an attempt to suggest not merely that there was ‘nothing to see here’ but that anyone who saw anything was simply being a Trump partisan, since both the blind man and the blind galloping horse were willing to testify that they had seen nothing whatsoever. And none of it would have been possible had the watchmen not agreed to abandon their posts and allow the thieves-in-the-night of November 4th the space, time and air-cover to perpetrate their dastardly deeds.
This was when it became a crime scene. This was when it went too far. This was when the journaliars gave birth to a process by which their mendacity could be measured for the first time, their criminality counted in ones and twos. Driven mad by the combined erupting mythology of Trump and his Deplorables, they jumped the gun and ensured that the Covid-yellow barrier tape would be produced to secure the scene. Any moment now, the open-topped coffee-coloured Peugeot 403 will turn into the driveway and out will step the shambling, raincoated figure of Inspector Colombo. The journaliars will smirk superciliously and engage with his irrelevant small-talk. Then he will bid them good-day, shamble towards his car, and at the last moment turn around and ask that ‘just one more thing’, nod his head at the smartarse answer, and wave goodbye once more. When he leaves, they will chortle at his idiocy and move to water the flowerbed where the body is buried. But the process will continue, chipping away at the journaliars’ narrative. Columbo will go off on wild-goose chases, follow false trails, propound implausible theories. The journaliars will giggle and sneer. Columbo will assure them that his wife ‘likes to read your paper’. Then, in less than a month’s time, the Deplorable Detective will return to gather the world into the library and explain how it was all done. When he is finished setting out his hypothesis, he will supervise the frogmarching of the journaliars to the waiting Paddy wagons.
Of course, it will not stop there, at least not right there. The accused, out on bail, will try to doctor the evidence, intimidate the witnesses, spin yarns of distraction. They will tell us that Trump has ‘fixed’ the Supreme Court to ensure he can stay in power for life. But they will be missing the story, as they invariably nowadays do. Trump will not have ‘fixed’ the Supreme Court: he will merely have repaired it. After decades of its being stuffed with activists and subversives and pro-aborts, the Supreme Court now has a majority of real judges, men and a woman who are trained in the art of objectivity, of identifying their own biases and eliminating them at the outset. This is what a judge is, not a partisan hack whose contribution can be anticipated by a process of finger-counting. There are no ‘conservative’ judges or ‘Catholic judges’, any more than there are ‘liberal’ judges or atheist ones. There are only good judges and bad judges: judges who deal in facts and law and judges who deal in lies and lawlessness. Trump has appointed to the Supreme Court three of the best judges to take the highest legal stage in America since the death of Antonin Scalia: Brett Kavanaugh, Neil Gorsuch and Amy Coney Barrett. They are judges of the old type, the type that knows right from wrong, who know where the balance should fall to restore harmony to the Natural Law. And this is why the journaliars will very shortly have to turn and face the facts of their own final undoing, set out in forensic lines of type.
The rot has now spread to the furthest reaches of the body diurnus. If you doubt this, consider that, over the past week since the conclusion of voting in the US election, we have seen interventions not just from the predictable ‘progressive’ mouths that had been calling an end to the Trump era since before it began. In addition, we have witnessed the bizarre parading of numerous previously unidentified Never Trumpers: self-styled ‘conservatives’, including several leading Catholic journalists here in Ireland, calling for the President to concede, or — the same thing — extending congratulations — or ‘comhghairdeachas’, ffs — to ‘President-elect’ Dormánach Seosamh. What this tells us is that the pathology afflicting the institution formerly known as the Fourth Estate has overwhelmed not just principles, protocols, ethics and safeguards long in place to protect the public from the odd bad apple scribe — or, for that matter, not merely the totality of the profession from top to bottom — but has now infected also even the last holdouts for Christian doctrines and beliefs. The Catlick journaliars are now prepared to see a man become US president who favours abortion up to the moment of birth and who will, if he were to be permitted to do so, blankly-beamingly preside over the introduction of Communism to the Free World — just because he (laughably) claims to be ‘Irish’ and ‘Catholic’. Happily, he is neither, but relax, Joe, neither is the Pope!
The Good News is that this will not happen.
The die is cast. The moment of truth is at hand. Step right up! Step right up! Grab yourself some popcorn, take your seats! Anyone for the last few choc-ices now?
Come, come, Columbo! We need you now to deliver the collar-feeling spiel. We need to hear you say it: ‘All my life I kept running into smart people. I don't just mean smart like you and the people in this office. You know what I mean? . . . But something bothers me . . . Maybe you can help me, Sir? That would be very kind of you, Sir.’