Republicans storm secret Democrats’ impeachment hearing

by Jon Rappoport

October 24, 2019

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On Wednesday, House Republican lawmakers—between 25 and 50, depending on whose numbers you believe—climbed out of their baby diapers for a few minutes, invaded a classified room in the Capitol, and demanded to be let in on secret impeachment hearings run by the little prince of oafs, Demo Adam Schiff. The prince, who often appears as if he’s a stark hypnotized subject of CIA MKULTRA experiments gone into the dumpster, left the room.

Whether you love or hate Trump, who is the target of the hearings—beside the point. Whether he should or shouldn’t be impeached—beside the point. The point is SECRECY.

If this hearing and the depositions from witnesses mean anything—and they do—then they should be put on television for all the country to see. What are the Democrats talking about? What do the witnesses have to say? Who are they? Why the closed doors? Who do these idiots think they are? This meeting wasn’t an informal planning session in somebody’s house in Georgetown with drinks and cigars. It was happening in the Capitol.

Therefore, you might think the Democrats in the room EXPECTED Republicans to come scrambling through the doors and caving in the proceedings. For theatrical effect.

What?

It’s called stirring the pot. Raising the threat level.

The Demos are pulling out the stops, all the way to the presidential election of 2020. They’re doing impeachment by polls and surveys. They’re going to the mattresses. They’re swinging at anything within their reach. “The impeachment process” is the occasion for yet more pounding on Trump. They want him softened up as much as possible, so that by the time of the Democratic Convention, in the summer of 2020, when THEIR presidential candidate will be named…

When it is quite possible that Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, and Joe Biden are splitting the votes and none of them has the nomination in tow…

And several long voice ballots are called, state by state, and the delegates remain firm, and no back room deal can be made—and all this escalating drama is being played up and banged out on global television, over the course of several days, with breathless network anchors on the scene, working their best pol porn opera under the heading of A NATION IN CRISIS…

And surely, the very end of civilization is upon us…

Suddenly, the synthetic ceiling skies part and an orchestra pounds heavy chords, and some Demo preacher-lizard type steps up to the mic on the big wide stage and sing-songs…

“A majority has been found! A voice has come to us! The reason for our deadlock is clear! All along, we had the CANDIDATE in front of us! And now, a new ballot will be called! And a new name entered!”

Yes, a new name and a new person, who has been spared the effort and fatigue and problems of campaigning over the long hot summer, who surely would have melted down under the strain, but who, through the magic of medical science—drugs and more drugs, until the right combination and protocol were found, for the short term—that person can now, on ropes and pulleys, descend from the ceiling of the giant hall, grinning with the face of a young delighted girl who has just been given her first weaponized drone for Christmas…

H I L L A R Y  C L I N T O N.

Gone she was, but here she is.

And NOW, the states can be polled again. And THIS time, we see and hear state after state universally affirming, by unanimous acclaim, amidst the wild roars in the room and the wondrous close-ups of male and female hysterical weeping, against subliminals of Libya being destroyed piece by piece, the nomination of the real candidate.

Gone she was, but here she is.

Primped, pumped, drugged, and smuggled into candidacy, once again.

The nation has been saved.

A moving walkway takes her through the massive throngs of wild worshipers. She clasps hands and touches cheeks and yes, a few menthol-induced tears sit firmly under her own eyes, glistening in the pin-spot lights like ice crystals.

She floats through the whole room and out the back and on to a lift that spoons her into a black SUV that pulls away from the curb. Off to a secret location to prep for her acceptance speech in prime time.

Back in the conventional hall, in her wake, two tons of confetti are falling on the delegates. Out of nowhere, a few thousand HILLARY signs are in their hands. Network cameras pan the room, then hold on a long shot. A voice says quietly, “We’ll be back, after this.”

Blackout.

Aces.