Latest / The Epstein Chronicles / The Epstein Files, the UFO Narrative, and the Politics of Distraction (5/26/26)

Transcript

The Epstein Files, the UFO Narrative, and the Politics of Distraction (5/26/26) · The Epstein Chronicles

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Speaker 1: What's up, everyone, and welcome to another episode of the
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Epstein Chronicles. Folks, we got some breaking news. The aliens
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that Donald Trump and the Trump administration have been telling
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us about have finally arrived and they've now made contact.
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So I'm forced to interrupt this regular programming with the
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kind of breaking news event that every newsroom has quietly
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rehearsed for, every government has publicly denied preparing for, and
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every lunatic with a folding chair outside Area fifty one
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has somehow been waiting his whole life to say he
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told us so. At approximately six forty three pm Eastern time,
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the skies above Washington, d C. Were filled with the
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sound witnesses described as a freight train, a cathedral organ,
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and a malfunctioning casino buffet have in a fistfight inside
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of a thunderstorm. Moments later, an enormous spacecraft emerged from
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what officials are calling an atmospheric anomaly, though several terrified
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Pentagon sources privately described it as a giant interdimensional middle Finger,
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fully equipped with running lights. The craft, which is currently
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hovering above the National Mall, is estimated to be larger
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than Manhattan brighter than a Congressional Ethics hearing after three
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espresso martinis, and according to earlier radar readings, shaped somewhere
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between a cathedral, a battle cruiser, and a lawsuit from God.
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The President's been moved to a secure location. Congress has
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been moved to an even more secure location, though frankly,
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many Americans are asking why the hell we didn't think
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of that sooner. Air traffic's been grounded, the military been
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placed on high alert. Every cable news network has assembled
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a panel of former generals, retired intelligence officials, celebrity scientists,
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and one guy who wrote a book in nineteen ninety
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eight called they Came from Uranus and They're still mad
1:49
about it. But tonight, after centuries of speculation, decades of
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government secrecy, thousands of blurry backyard videos, and millions of
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people insisting that would ever crashed in ron Oswell was
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absolutely not a weather balloon, unless weather balloons have cheekbones
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and opinions, humanity has received its first confirm message from
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an extraterrestrial civilization. And their demand was not for water.
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It was not for minerals. It was not for our
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nuclear codes, our livestock, our oceans, our DNA, or our
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streaming passwords their first demand. And we cannot stress this
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enough that this is real, official and currently being blasted
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through a nine hundred mile subwolfer over the capital of
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the United States. They want the Epstein files, not their
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adapted files, not the sanitized files, not the trust US
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nothing to see here files, Not the version that looks
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like someone spilled squid in across every important name and
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then called a national security They want it all the names,
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the logs, the emails, the visitor records, the financial trails,
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the flight manifests, the jail footage, the broken cameras, the
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missing minute, the sealed testimony, the buried memos, the records
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that disappeared into that strange federal swamp where accountability goes
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to get water boarded by paperwork. There are spokesman who
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identified himself as Commander of Blipzorp of the Interstellar Truth Commission,
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addressed the planet minutes ago in a transmission that interrupted
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every television, every phone, tablets, smart fridge, gas pump, airport screen,
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and one apparently haunted Peloton and Bethesda. In that message,
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Commander Blipzorp stated that his civilization had observed Earth for
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forty thousand years and had remained neutral through war, plague, empire,
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nuclear weapons, reality television, crypto collapses, and the invention of
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hard Seltzer. But after reviewing humanity's handling of the Epstein case,
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the alien delegation concluded that our species had reached what
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they called an unacceptable density of elite bullshit. The words
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not ours. The aliens say they have no interest in conquest,
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no interest in colonization, no interest in turning humanity into livestock,
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although one commander reportedly described billionaires as already halfway there. Instead,
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they claim they're here to conduct what they're calling a
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full spectrum audit of the freak show. Officials in Washington
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averge calm, which is always reassuring, once said by people
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visibly sweating through their suits while an alien battleship besides
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the Delaware screams who was on the plane, loud enough
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to rattle fillings in Virginia. The Department of Justice has
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released a brief statement saying it's reviewing the request. Moments later,
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the alien vessel responded by projecting the words that means
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no across the moon. The FBI has declined to comment,
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the CIA has declined to exist. The Bureau of Prisons
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has reportedly unplugged every camera in the building out of
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muscle memory. Meanwhile, reactions across the country have been swift.
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Crowds have gathered in major cities at release the files.
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Wall Street trading briefly halted after a holographic alien squid
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appeared above the New York Stock Exchange and shouted bank
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records too upinstripe goblins as several elite private clubs. Witnesses
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report wealthy men spontaneously diving into ornamental hedges on Capitol Hill.
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Lawmakers from both parties have called for unity, transparency, restraint,
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and time to fully understand the alien request, which has
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been difficult because the request is currently written in flaming
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letters across the Potomac River and appears to be extremely clear.
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The aliens have offered Earth a package of advanced technology
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in exchange for full disclosure, including clean energy, anti gravity, transportation,
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cancer cures, a universal translator, a cure for hangovers, a
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machine that finally makes printer's work, and a device that
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detects political lies. Early testing of that last device reportedly
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caused it to explode during a closed door briefing after
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only nine seconds. Now we should note that the federal
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officials continue to insist that survivor privacy must be protected.
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The Alien delegation has agreed, stating repeatedly that victims and
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survivors should be shielded. Their issue, they say, is not
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worth protecting the vulnerable. Their issue with what they described
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as using survivor privacy as a human shield for powerful
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dirtbags who suddenly believe in confidentiality after a lifetime of
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treating consequences like a rumor for poor people. Again, their
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words not mine. As of this broadcast, the mother ship
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remains stationary above DC. Smaller craft have been seen hovering
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over Palm Beach, New York, London, several private islands, multiple
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financial districts, and what appears to be at least one
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extremely nervous law office in Manhattan, where the conference room
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lights have been flickering for twenty minutes. The Aliens have
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issued a deadline, though they have not given a time.
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Their statement simply says before Chadwick finished, is billing the
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cover up as document review. We do not yet know
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who Chadwick is, but based on the amount of sweating
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currently happening inside America's elite legal establishment, Chadwick knows exactly
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who Chadwick is. Tonight, the world waits government, scramble, market, shake,
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cable news panels multiply like mold, and above the capital,
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a civilization from beyond the stars has arrived, not to
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ask humanity who we are, but to ask what the
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hell we've been hiding. Look, we're entering unknown territory. First
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contact has happened. The Aliens are here, and their message
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to Earth's ruling class is unmistakable. Hand over the Epstein files.
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All right, Now, let's get to the actual statement made
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by the aliens. Greetings, use sweaty little carbon based disaster goblins.
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We are the Relaxian Empire, and we're from the ass
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end of the Andromeda Cluster. And after forty thousand years
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of observing your planet, we have fire finally decided to
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make contact. Not because of your art, not because of
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your science, not because of your wars, your religions, your
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little flags, or your billionaires, or whatever the hell pickleball
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is supposed to be. We watch you discover agriculture, split
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the atom, invent jazz, create cheese burgers, fake sincerity on LinkedIn,
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and somehow turn every customer service phone call into a
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psychological endurance test. We saw your species survive plagues, ice ages, empires, recessions, disco,
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crypto bros, and the invention of the leaf flower. For
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thousands of years, we kept asking ourselves whether humanity was
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ready to join the wider galactic community. And every time
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one of you invented something miraculous, another one of you
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immediately ruined it by using it to scam old people,
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start a war, or sell a subscription service. We watch
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your philosophers ask what truth is. We watch your scientists
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search for the origins of the universe. We watched your
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poets write about love, death, beauty, and longing. Then we
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watch your politicians stand behind podiums and say absolutely nothing
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with the confidence of drunk furniture. That was troubling. Still
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we waited. We were patient. Then we reviewed the Epstein
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situation and said, all right, that's enough land the ship.
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So let us be perfectly clear. We came here for
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one reason. Give us the full Epstein files, you lying apes,
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and don't hand us that black mark or ransom note
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bullshit where every page looks like a drunk raccoon attacked
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it with a sharpie. We didn't bend space time, vaporize
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seventeen asteroids, and listened to six hundred years of your
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radio signals, just to be handed a PDF that says
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Jeffrey Epstein met with redacted at redacted while traveling to
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redacted with redacted and redacted. Oh, very cute, very official,
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very the printer jammed right where the powerful people started sweating.
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Very national security, which on your planet appears to mean
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everybody shut up before someone important has to explain why
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his calendar looks like a demon's rolodex. Very ongoing investigation,
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which we have learned is earth speak for please allow
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several more decades for the documents to age and the
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archaeological artifacts very classified, which apparently means that the public
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paid for the whole disgusting circus, but the only people
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who helped run it are allowed to see the ten poles.
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We want the names, We want the logs. We want
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the emails. We want the flight manifests. We want the
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bank records. We want the jail footage. We want the
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missing minute. We want the broken cameras. We want the
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guards who suddenly forgot how clocks work. We want the whole,
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filthy Las Vegas buffet of institutional ass covering. We want
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the phone messages, the visitor schedules, secretarial notes, the estate records,
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the charity records, the suspiciously convenient memory lapses, the banker
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emails written in that special rich guide dialect where every
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sentence sounds like it was laundered through six lawyers and
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a dead orchid. We want the calendars. We want the
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appointment books. We want the address books. We want the
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flight logs that everybody pretends are confusing, even though somehow
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your species can track a burrito delivery across eight neighborhoods
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but can't explain who got on a private jet with
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a convicted predator. We want every sealed filing that got
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buried under a procedural fog. We want every interview transcript
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where someone suddenly developed amnesia the moment of famous name
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entered the room. We want every memo where some federal
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goblin in a cheap tie type the phrase limited scope
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while the truth was screaming through the drywall. Because from orbit,
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let us tell you something. The cover up glows. It
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glows like a radioact of possum and a microwave. It
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glows like a casino bathroom under black light during eedc
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It glows like a banker's forehead when somebody says subpoena.
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It glows so hard that our navigation system briefly mistook Washington, DC,
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Palm Beach, Wall Street, and New Mexico and several private
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islands for a chain of emergency beacons transmitting the universal
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distress signal for rich people are hiding something disgusting. Again,
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your government keeps saying there's nothing to see here, buddy,
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We have eight eyes, three brains, and a live detector
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build into our lower end. Testine, there is absolutely something
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to see here. Every time one of your officials say
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we need to protect privacy, our spacecraft starts laughing so
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hard the cup holders eject protect privacy, fantastic, Protect survivors,
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Protect victims, but stop acting like the names of powerful dirtbags,
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our sacred religious artifacts guarded by the pope's weird cousin.
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Protect the victims, yes, protect the survivors, absolutely, Protect the innocent, obviously,
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but don't stand there with a straight face and suggest
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that the same civilization that livestream traffic court leaks celebrity
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divorce texts, and docks as teenagers over bad restaurant reviews
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has suddenly discovered a holy reverence for privacy. The second
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the subject becomes rich men on planes. I don't think
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that's privacy. I think that's panic and a blazer. I
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think that's a cover up with a legal department that
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is institutional sweat spray with clone and shoved behind a podium.
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We've seen primitive civilizations before. We've seen planets where the
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ruling class a diamonds and worship the haunted vending machine.
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We've seen moon dictators had war crimes inside decorative gourds.
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But you people, you people invented bureaucracy so evil it
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makes demons. As for a union rep. Your paperwork has paperwork,
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Your hearings have pre hearings, Your investigations have sub investigations.
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Your subpoenas have emotional support subpoenas. Every time someone asks
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a basic question, some attorney emerges from a mahogany coffin
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and says, well, we must be careful not to compromise
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the integrity of the process. What process the process of
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burying the process inside another process until everyone involved dies
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of old age or gets a consulting contract. A billionaire
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predator gets protected for years surrounded by politicians, financiers, academics, royalty, media, parasites, intelligence, weirdos,
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and rich freaks with dead eyes. And somehow your official
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answer is basically, anyway, have you considered being mad about
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gas prices? No? No Earth, bad Earth. Roll up the newspaper,
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smack the planet on its nose. This is not a
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parking ticket. This is not a zoning dispute over a
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haunted Applebee's. This is not some local scandal where the
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mayor's cousin stole copper wire from the community pool. This
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is an international sewer pipe running through finance, politics, law, royalty, academia, intelligence,
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adjacent weirdness, and every other polished room where powerful people
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gather to convince themselves. Consequences are for the peasants. And
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yet somehow, every time the public gets near the truth,
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the door closes, the record seals, the camera fails, the
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witnesses forget, the lawyer objects, the judge narrows the question,
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and the agency says it cannot comment. And some corpsie
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spokesperson reads a statement so dead it makes some bombing
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fluid look like red bull. We didn't come to conquer you, Frankly,
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you've already been conquered by banks, lobbyists, pharmaceutical commercials, and
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guys named Brad who say let's circle back while committing
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fraud and quarter zips. So you're not ruled by kings anymore. Congratulations,
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you upgraded to committees, donors, foundations, shell companies, private equity vampires,
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and consulting firms with logos that look like third rate
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toothpaste brands. Very sophisticated, much progress, same castle, worse lighting.
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We came to audit the freak show, and let us
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be clear. If your leaders cannot produce the full Epstein files,
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we're going to assume the entire up rust of your
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civilization is one giant, disgusting country club full of perverts, fixers,
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blackmail artists, and dead eyed lawyers billing fourteen hundred an
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hour to make evil sound like a compliance issue, Your honor,
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my client was merely adjacent to the intercontinental sex trafficking octopus.
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Shut the hell up, Chadwick, back to the slime pit,
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Your honor, My client only attended the dinner because he
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was interested in philanthropy, science, and networking. Sure, Chadwick and
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our battle cruiser only entered your atmosphere because it was
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interested in bird watching and regional cheeses. Your honor, my
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client has no recollection of ever meeting the defendant, despite
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appearing in eleven photographs, three flight records, six emails to
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dinner invitations, and one handwritten note that says great seeing
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you again. Sign your BFF. Enough return to the slime pit, Chadwick.
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Take your billable hours with you. The space wolves are
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hungry and they understand discovery, and don't give us that
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bs that there's no other people that exist who were
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involved or really the man had islands, planes, mansions, schedulers, recruiters, lawyers, bankers, visitors,
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phone books, calendars, surveillance systems, and enough ridge creeps orbiting
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him to affect the tides. But somehow the paperwork vanished
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like a fart in church. Please, we're aliens, not cable
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news anchors. We have watched your species generate four hundred
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pages of terms and conditions for a flashlight app But
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now suddenly nobody can locate the central documents attached to
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one of the most infamous criminal networks in modern history.
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You can recover a deleted text from a teenager's cracked
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iPhone in a cornfield, but a billionaire's visitor records apparently
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slid through into Narnia. You can track a package of
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novelty socks from a warehouse in Ohio to a porch
17:48
in Tampa with minute by minute updates, but the full
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truth about who moved around Epstein's world is apparently trapped
17:54
in some mystical swamp call pending review. Come on, we
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know a cover up when we smell one, and this
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one smells like yachtsweat, panic shredders and royal armpits. It
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smells like a law firm conference at two am. It
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smells like a billionaire's assistant crying into a copier. It
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smells like a sealed deposition, a dead hard drive, a
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missing tape, and a guy from an agency nobody voted for,
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quietly whispering we better not broaden this. It smells like
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everyone important knows exactly where the bodies are buried, but
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the map is locked in a filing cabinet labeled do
18:28
not open until civilization collapses. So here are our terms.
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Release the files, unredact the names, preserve survivor privacy. Stop
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hiding behind ongoing investigations that move slower than a dead
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turtle in peanut butter. Stop pretending every powerful name is
18:46
a national security issue. Stop pretending redactions or holy scripture.
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Stop pretending that when ordinary people ask for accountability, they're
18:54
being unreasonable, conspiratorial, or too stupid to understand complex legal realities.
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The complex legal reality is this, a lot of people
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had a lot of access to a very bad man
19:06
for a very long time, and somehow the accountability machine
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moves like it's powered by a hamster with asthma. And
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for the love of every star in the horse at Nebula,
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stop pretending the public is too stupid to notice when
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every camera, guard, hard drive memo, visitor log and federal
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officials suddenly starts acting like they were assembled out of
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wet cardboard. Your people notice, Your people see it. Your
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people may be exhausted, overworked, underpaid, distracted by bills, poisoned
19:37
by apps, and emotionally waterboarded by news cycles. But they're
19:41
not stupid. They know when a story smells wrong. They
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know when the official explanation has more holes than a
19:48
meteor struck space diaper. They know when the same institutions
19:53
that can ruin an ordinary person's life over a form
19:55
error suddenly become gentle, patient, nuanced, and spiritual, compassionate when
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the subject is a lead misconduct. That is why we landed,
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not because humanity is hopeless, but because humanity is being
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treated like it's stupid and frankly. That offends us as visitors,
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observers and professional galaxy level bullshit detectors. In exchange, we
20:18
will offer Earth several gifts clean energy, cancer cures, anti
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gravity transportation, a universal translator, a machine that makes printers work,
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a pill that eliminates hangovers without causing side effects, moral
20:34
reflection or karaoke confidence, a device that prevents billionaires from
20:39
naming things after themselves, or remote control that mutes every
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pundit the moment they say both sides. A spray that
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repels lobbyists, tics and men who own three vests but
20:49
no shame. And a device that instantly detects when a
20:53
politician is lying. Although we tested it on your Congress
20:57
and it exploded so violently it opened a portal to
21:00
a dimension made entirely of screaming accountants and Anapauline Luna.
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And those accountants, well they're still screaming, by the way.
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They have all formed a small provisional government inside the portal,
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Their flag is a spreadsheet. Their national anthem is the
21:15
sound of someone crying during tax season. We understand this, Earthlings.
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We are not leaving until we get the files. We
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parked our mothership over Washington, DC and were prepared to
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hover there indefinitely, blasting the phrase who was on the
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plane through a nine hundred mile subwoofer until every lobbyist
21:33
in Georgetown pisses. Merlow will rotate the message hourly for
21:37
Variety at noon, release the logs at three, why did
21:41
the cameras fill? At six? Who visited the island at midnight? Chadwick,
21:46
get out here, you billable hour Gargoyle will project giant
21:50
holograms over the Capitol Dome, will beam subpoena reminders onto
21:54
the sides of luxury condos. Hell, We'll replace every golf
21:57
cart at every elite resort with a tiny alien vehicle
22:00
that only drives in circles while yelling unredactedt you cowards.
22:05
Will hover overthink tanks and ask why every scandal involving
22:08
rich people eventually gets translated into language so boring it
22:12
feels like being smothered with a wet resume will appear
22:15
at Donor galas disguised as shrimp towers and whisper we
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know what you did in two thousand and three, will
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infiltrate yacht clubs, country clubs, foundation boards, private retreats, elite conferences,
22:26
and any dinner where the salad fork is treated like
22:29
a class boundary. We'll sit there with our eight eyes glowing,
22:33
sipping your stupid sparkling water, waiting for one of these
22:37
wax faced aristocratic panic mannequins to say the phrase philanthropic relationship,
22:42
and when they do, we will activate the shame siren.
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It kind of sounds like a foghorn having a nervous
22:48
breakdown inside of a cathedral. This is first contact, This
22:52
is disclosure. This is the Galactic Federation formerly telling your
22:56
ruling class the jig is up, you crusty little goblins.
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Hand over the files before we start abducting bankers and
23:03
making them explain offshore trusts to angry space wolves, and
23:08
do not test the space wolves. They have four miles
23:11
union representation and absolutely no patience for phrases like tax optimization,
23:16
legacy planning, confidential settlement, or reputational risk. One of them
23:22
already ate a hedge fund prospectus. And now understands carried interest,
23:26
which means it has developed political rage that is bad
23:29
for everyone. So choose wisely. Earth. You can do this
23:33
the easy way, where the files are released, the victims
23:36
are protected, the public its answers, and your species earns
23:40
a provisional seat at the galactic table of not completely
23:43
hopeless civilizations. Or you can do this the hard way,
23:46
where the Empire remains parked over your capital, your elite
23:50
sweat through their beastpoke suits, and every federal building in
23:54
the Western Hemisphere. Here's a nine hundred mile alien subwolf
23:57
of screaming Epstein didn't have a whole damn international operation,
24:01
so everyone could pretend the only document that matters is
24:04
a redacted PDF that looks like a burnt lasagna. We're patient,
24:09
we're advanced, we're heavily armed, and unlike your institutions, our
24:13
cameras work. Commander Blipsorp of the Interstellar Truth Commission signing
24:18
off PS. Whoever invented Muzirelli sticks may approach the ship. PPS,
24:24
whoever invented ongoing investigation as a way to bury accountability
24:28
in what cement will be fired into the sun after
24:31
a fair hearing. Three appeals and one extremely rude power point.
24:37
All the information that goes with this episode can be
24:40
found in the description box.