Rally For Corruption Quotes

If everything is amplified, we hear nothing.

liable to quote lyrics about the death of the campaigner Blair Peach during an anti-Nazi rally in London in the seventies and rant about oligarchic corruption in the US body politic.

despite the efforts of some to use the word ‘Socialism’ as some kind of rallying cry, it’s important for every reasonable person to acknowledge that anything other than a solitary existence as a cave-dwelling hermit entails some degree of Socialism.

Why Trump, many wondered, including many evangelicals themselves. For decades, the Religious Right had been kindling fear in the hearts of American Christians. It was a tried-and-true recipe for their own success. Communism, secular humanism, feminism, multilateralism, Islamic terrorism, and the erosion of religious freedom—evangelical leaders had rallied support by mobilizing followers to fight battles on which the fate of the nation, and their own families, seemed to hinge. Leaders of the Religious Right had been amping up their rhetoric over the course of the Obama administration. The first African American president, the sea change in LGBTQ rights, the apparent erosion of religious freedom—coupled with looming demographic changes and the declining religious loyalty of their own children—heightened the sense of dread among white evangelicals. But in truth, evangelical leaders had been perfecting this pitch for nearly fifty years. Evangelicals were looking for a protector, an aggressive, heroic, manly man, someone who wasn’t restrained by political correctness or feminine virtues, someone who would break the rules for the right cause. Try as they might—and they did try—no other candidate could measure up to Donald Trump when it came to flaunting an aggressive, militant masculinity. He became, in the words of his religious biographers, “the ultimate fighting champion for evangelicals.” 6

I want much to hear how that tea is received,” Franklin worriedly wrote a friend in late 1773. Parliament had added to the indignity of its continued tariff on tea by passing new regulations that gave the corrupt East India Company a virtual monopoly over the trade. Franklin urged calm, but the radicals of Boston, led by Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty, did not. On December 16, 1773, after a mass rally in the Old South Church, some fifty patriots disguised as Mohawk Indians went down to the wharves and dumped 342 chests of tea worth £10,000 into the sea.

OBAMA WENT THROUGH STAGES. That first day, I was in multiple meetings where he tried to lift everyone’s spirits. That evening, he interrupted the senior staff meeting in Denis McDonough’s office and gave a version of the speech that I’d now heard three times as we all sat there at the table. He was the only one standing. It was both admirable and heartbreaking watching him take everything in stride, working—still—to lift people’s spirits. When he was done, I spoke first. “It says a lot about you,” I said, “that you’ve spent the whole day trying to buck the rest of us up.” People applauded. Obama looked down. On the Thursday after the election, he had a long, amiable meeting with Trump. It left him somewhat stupefied. Trump had repeatedly steered the conversation back to the size of his rallies, noting that he and Obama could draw big crowds but Hillary couldn’t. He’d expressed openness to Obama’s arguments about healthcare, the Iran deal, immigration. He’d asked for recommendations for staff. He’d praised Obama publicly when the press was there. Afterward, Obama called a few of us up to the Oval Office to recap. “I’m trying to place him,” he said, “in American history.” He told us Trump had been perfectly cordial, but he’d almost taken pride in not being attached to a firm position on anything. “He peddles bullshit. That character has always been a part of the American story,” I said. “You can see it right back to some of the characters in Huckleberry Finn.” Obama chuckled. “Maybe that’s the best we can hope for.” In breaks between meetings in the coming days, he expressed disbelief that the election had been lost. With unemployment at 5 percent. With the economy humming. With the Affordable Care Act working. With graduation rates up. With most of our troops back home. But then again, maybe that’s why Trump could win. People would never have voted for him in a crisis. He kept talking it out, trying on different theories. He chalked it up to multiple car crashes at once. There was the letter from Comey shortly before the election, reopening the investigation into Clinton’s email server. There was the steady release of Podesta emails from Wikileaks through October. There was a rabid right-wing propaganda machine and a mainstream press that gorged on the story of Hillary’s emails, feeding Trump’s narrative of corruption.

For the last seven years, we set out on a thousand dream adventure—mostly mine—and not once has she complained. We fought as often as we fucked. We moved twelve times, dodged bullets, lost friends, fought the good fight, together, and mostly side by side—which was the biggest fight of all. We struggled, felt defeated, rallied, and came back swinging. We utilized our position in every imaginable way, going head-to-head with the biggest threats, mostly corrupt corporations and media conglomerates controlled by deep state.

Except he was no prince or heir. He was nothing more than a remnant of Atlantia, the corrupt and twisted kingdom that had fallen at the end of the War of Two Kings. A monster who had wreaked havoc and caused bloodshed, the embodiment of pure evil. He was the Dark One. And yet there were those who supported him and his claim. Descenters who had been a part of riots and the disappearances of many Ascended. In the past, the Descenters only caused discord through small rallies and protests, and even then, that had been few and far between due to the punishment that was meted out to those who were suspected to be Descenters. The trials couldn’t even be called that. No second chances. No long-term imprisonment. Death was swift and final. But things had changed of late. Many believed the Descenters had been responsible for the mysterious deaths of high-ranking Royal Guards. Several in Carsodonia, the capital, had inexplicably fallen from the Rise. Two had been killed with arrows through the back of their heads in Pensdurth, a smaller city on the coast of the Stroud Sea, near the capital. Others had simply vanished while in the smaller villages, never to be seen or heard from again.

True Cause. History is full of war, of death, of sacrifice…of unimaginable brutality. All in the name of the Cause. The mighty Cause. It is not the idea of fighting for a cause that saddens me so. It is the ease with which people devote themselves to it. Men have flocked into the streets, marched, argued, fought, killed…for causes they didn’t even understand. They do it because they follow along, to be part of the group…or because they don’t want to be left out. Because they are told to, or because they crave to be part of something. They follow the Cause for many reasons, with great passion and staggering ignorance. Disturbingly rare among them, are people who fight because they truly understand the reasons for their struggle. Most are simply followers, nipping at the heels of their leaders, like dogs begging for scraps. Throughout history, men have fought for uncounted reasons. For land, for money, for hegemony over their neighbors. They have fought for religion, to avenge insults, to impose belief systems…or to resist such being forced upon them. Wars have been waged to preserve or eliminate slavery, to escape the yoke of political masters…or to impose such rule upon others. Men have fought against those they branded inferiors…and struggled against those who called themselves their betters. The drum has beaten the call to war throughout history, rallying men and women to fight for the Cause…to accept the inevitable pain and suffering of war. To sacrifice sons and daughters to the slaughter. To see cities burn and millions die in confusion, agony, and despair. All for the Cause. Since the dawn of recorded history, the flags have waved and the crowds have cheered. The soldiers have marched…they have marched to fight for the Cause. What did most of them get back from those who called them to war? Famine, disease, shortages, despair. Burned cities and broken dreams. A flag-draped coffin in place of a live son or daughter. Words, endless, professionally-written platitudes, offered by the masters in justification of the slaughter. How often was the Cause truly just, worth the pain and death and horror of war? How many of those billions, who took to the streets for 5,000 years and cheered and sang and rallied for the Cause…how many of them really understood? What percentage took the time to consider the facts, the situation…to question what they were told and ultimately decide for themselves if the Cause was true and righteous? How many mindlessly believed the words of their masters, giving their all to a cause they didn’t even comprehend? A Cause that wasn’t worthy of their sacrifice? What if the Cause is false, corrupt…a fraud created simply to urge men to fight? What if it serves nothing more than the base purposes of the leaders, buying them power with the blood of the people? What does the reasonable man, the just man, do if he discovers the Cause is false? Is there any retribution, any action, any violence unjustified in punishing those responsible? Could any horror that the oppressed and manipulated victims visit upon their former masters be unjustified. Does righteous vengeance become the Cause.

Militaristic rhetoric surfaced at times in PK literature, and despite the organization’s apolitical posture, this rhetoric inevitably found expression in a conservative political agenda. McCartney, for example, rallied the “men of the nation” to “go to war,” reminding them that they had “divine power” as their weapon: “We will not compromise. Whatever truth is at risk, in the schools or legislature, we are going to contend for it. We will win.” For the most part, however, PK speakers preferred sports metaphors to military ones.

AS EVANGELICALS BEGAN TO MOBILIZE AS A partisan political force, they did so by rallying to defend “family values.” But family values politics was never about protecting the well-being of families generally. Fundamentally, evangelical “family values” entailed the reassertion of patriarchal authority. At its most basic level, family values politics was about sex and power.

Using this and many other examples, Tainter concluded that the collapse of a complex system is not explained by a specific cause such as a barbarian attack but by the response function of the civilization under attack. Societies that succumbed to invasion, plague, or drought had overcome those threats many times before. In the end, society fell because it was no longer motivated to recover. Whether it was taxation, corruption, decadence, or weak leadership, the members of society did not rally or rebuild. They just let it happen and migrated or lived in simplified conditions.

Meadows also received a text on December 20, 2020, from Mike Lindell, a mustachioed, self-described former crack addict who’d made a fortune as CEO of the bedding company My Pillow. Lindell, who was an infomercial star, major Trump rally fixture, and financial backer of various protests against the former president’s loss, implored Meadows to have federal agents seize voting machines in key states. He was famous for wearing a large cross necklace and his message was an overheated blend of Christian prayer and internet insanity. “Hey Mark, I felt I was suppose to text you this message … You being a man a faith and on the front line of the decisions that are going to be historical! I would ask that you pray for wisdom and discernment from God! You are one of the people the president trusts the most. That being said I want to add my input.… Everything Sidney has said is true!” Lindell wrote. “We have to get the machines and everything we already have proves the President won by millions of votes! I have read and not validated yet that you and others talked him out of seizing them … If true . I pray it is part of a bigger plan … I am grateful that on the night of the election the algorithms of the corrupt machines broke and they realized our president would win in spite of the historical fraud! I look for deviations every day in my business … when I find one I investigate relentlessly until I know why it happened and how it happened … (this is my gift from God that has made my business so successful) From 11:15 pm on the night of the election I have spent all my time running impossible deviations and numbers from this election … I also was blessed to be able to get info and help Sidney Lin General Flynn and everyone else out there gathering all the massive evidence! I have been sickened by politicians (especially republicans) judges, the media not wanting to see truth (no matter what the truth would be!) This is the biggest cover up of one of the worst crimes in history! I have spent over a million$to help uncover this fraud and used my platform so people can get the word not to give up! The people on both sides have to see the truth and when they do.… There will not be no civil war, people (including politicians!) are fearing! The only thing any of us should fear is fear of the Lord! Every person on this planet needs to know the truth and see the evidence!!! Mark . God has his hand in all of this and has put you on the front line … I will continue praying for you to have great wisdom and discernment! Blessings Mike.” Meadows seemed grateful

This routine of "Come with me," "No," "Come," "No, I don't have to. Here is my lawyer," "No, come with me" is something I know so well I could repeat it in my sleep. What is important right now is to think strategically. I have a single-use mobile phone in my pocket (I feel it). Kira has the backpack with the laptop. I give the suitcase to Yulia; it is unlikely she will be detained too. That seems to be everything. I am ready. I say goodbye to Yulia, kissing her on the cheek. The standard dialogue has already reached the stage of "If you refuse to comply with the instructions of police officers, forcible action will be taken." There is no point in refusing to go with them and be dragged off by the arms and legs like at protest rallies. What if all they are planning to do is hand me a summons to appear in court? In fifteen minutes the whole confrontation would look pretty silly. I kiss Yulia again and go on my way, accompanied by an escort of police.... Everyone in Russia is familiar with the phrase "a theater performance for one spectator." It starts within a few seconds. Two characters in plain clothes turn on cameras, while a third (you call tell he is in charge from his jacket) produces some papers, goes over to the major, and begins solemnly intoning, "Comrade blah blah blah, I report that in the case of blah blah blah there is blah blah blah evidence, blah blah blah Navalny, blah blah blah search." Having absorbed this, the major turns to the border guard, who reports that based on a review of blah blah blah documents citizen Navalny has been identified. At this I start laughing at them. "Why are you behaving like lunatics? Who are you putting this shown on for? There's only me here; relax and speak normally," I say. They cannot relax, however, because of those two cameras filming the proceedings. Their superiors, who have scripted this performance, are invisibly present in their camera proxies. Nobody reacts to my words.

There is about to be a hearing to authorize your arrest." "But we're in a police station." "Yes. We were allowed into the building just now and told there is going to be an off-site session of the Khimki court." "This can't be happening," I say. "The head of the Khimki police department is applying for you to be placed under arrest for a month." "Well, who are they?" I ask, indicating the people in the chairs. "These are 'the public,' I have no idea how they got in." I notice "the public" are all glum middle-aged men who avoid my gaze. "You have to be joking." What is happening is impossible even by the standards of Putin's courts. I was formally put on the wanted list for failing to register with the criminal division while undergoing treatment in Germany after being poisoned. I was required to report there twice a month under a sentence that had already been declared unlawful by the European Court of Human Rights. In theory the Simonovsky District Court, which has jurisdiction over my place of residence, can decide whether to turn my suspended sentence into a custodial one on the grounds of my failure to attend. It has done just that more than once in the past after I was detained for participating in protest rallies. The argument was that this too was a violation of the conditions of my suspended sentence, which required me to "behave well and not break the law." Hearings of this kind are needed for intimidation, and to remind me that I can be thrown in jail at any given moment. Until now, they have invariably concluded with a warning: "Okay, we're not going to jail you this time, but this is your last warning." At least those proceedings had the formal appearance of a court session. There were summonses, dates of hearings, opposing sides. The criminal division would demand I be jailed and say how terrible I was. We would dispute that. But what was this? A law court in a police station? And anyway, what did the head of the Khimki police precinct have to do with me, and what right did he have to demand I be held under arrest for a month?"... I leave my cell in a police station for a meeting with my lawyer, only to find I am in a court, complete with its own fake public and fake journalists. When the judge comes in, I yell at her, "Are all of you out of your minds? What's going on? Who are these people, and how come they knew about this trial before I did?" "These are journalists and members of the public, and this is an open trial." At this moment, beautifully timed, we hear people in the street chanting, "Free Navalny!" and "Let us in!" "Right now there are members of the public down there. Let them into the trial," I say. "Everybody who wished to attend has been admitted," I'm told. "You can hear yourself, they are shouting 'Let us in!'" "People have been standing there for several hours, and no one is being allowed in," Olga says. "I waited there myself for three hours and was admitted only a few minutes ago. And I found out that there was to be a trial three minutes before it started." "Everybody who wished to attend has been admitted," the judge repeats. "You have said this is an open trial. I demand you admit the journalists. There are dozens of them." "The trial is open. Applications were received from the press service of the Ministry of the Interior and from . . ." -she names two pro-Kremlin publications. "Nobody else expressed a wish to attend the trial." "Nobody else knew anything about the trial!" I say. "Our trial is open. Any media organization could submit an application, but they did not wish to," the judge says.

For decades, the Religious Right had been kindling fear in the hearts of American Christians. It was a tried-and-true recipe for their own success. Communism, secular humanism, feminism, multilateralism, Islamic terrorism, and the erosion of religious freedom—evangelical leaders had rallied support by mobilizing followers to fight battles on which the fate of the nation, and their own families, seemed to hinge.