Zzzzzz, Deep Sleep: Dan Rather, Robert Reich, and Heather Cox Richardson on Substack

When I start reading their work, I suddenly wake up and it’s five hours later; it’s magic; what’s going on? There is WRITING; what these people are doing is something else

Jon Rappoport Jul 24 ∙ Preview

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They’re doing BUREAU-SPEAK. The bureau is buried somewhere in the bowels of the National Security State:

Humans or AIs devise ditties and phrases and rhythms and refried talking points, and when they eventually get to the reader’s brain, they’ll register as sugar sprinkled on Roundup Ready GMO corn syrup.

Not eaten. Injected.

A little up and then a big crash. Where is the couch? I’m blind. I have to lie down. Call my lawyer. I’m suing for desecration of language and narcosis. Zzzzzz.

I’m sleeping, then I’m dreaming. Trucks and vans labeled NY TIMES are roaming suburban neighborhoods and men and women are reading Times articles through loudspeakers…and lights in houses are going out. So are the people.

A thought comes to me. This is what MKULTRA turned into.

I have a problem. A serious problem. It’s taken me a year to put this article together. When I read Rather, Reich, Richardson extensively, I fall into missing time.

I thought it was snowing outside, but I see the trees are green. Did I just check out for six months? Where’s my dog? A neighbor drops by. I interrogate him. He tells me while I was in the hospital, the dog died, a bear destroyed the shed, the cops had to remove three squatters who took up residence in the basement, and my deep well filled up with pig shit from a local farm factory feces lagoon. I’m now on city water. Biden thinks we’re fighting a proxy war in Iraq. A big dude is swimming against college girls in meets and half the country thinks he’s female. A surgeon with pink hair is cutting off boys’ balls in the O/R and it’s affirming care. Not a war crime.

Who actually reads and devours Dan Rather, Robert Reich, and Heather Cox Richardson? Here’s the scene I see:

Their perfect reader is a Suburban blonde in her early 40s. No makeup in the morning, good features. Hair pulled together in the back with a gold clasp. Wears a pressed white T-shirt and shorts. She’s on the couch, her bare tanned legs tucked in under her, and in both hands (no nail polish) she’s cradling (as if it were a baby) a big white cup of steaming coffee, at her lips. She’s reading an article on her phone.

While she reads, a dreamy veiled moment comes to her: She imagines Michelle ma belle Obama in a crisp gray military uniform sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office barking Presidential orders to three white Jewish boys from Harvard.

In the corner of the room, a 6-1 230 lb. butch Martha with a gray buzzcut sits in folding chair, holding an Uzi in her lap. Watchful. All day.

Good times.

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