Daniel digs deep to unearth some riveting ones, yielding insight into the ugly way the Clinton Crime Syndicate does business, and always has.
Cody Shearer is also the author of another Russia-Trump dossier used by the FBI, a memo that Steele, the author of the better known dossier, passed along. How did Steele come to possess Shearer’s memo? Shearer was one of Bill’s plumbers, notorious for spreading and circulating scandals aimed at Republicans. He’s also been accused of targeting and intimidating Bill Clinton’s victims.
Is it more likely that a British agent happened to independently come across a memo by a Clinton political operative that echoed his own material or that his dossier was based on the memo? Was the Steele dossier an original piece of work by a former British intel agent doing his own research or had he been hired to put some meat on a conspiracy theory created by a Dem political operative?
We don’t know the answer. Yet. But it’s quite possible that Steele, Russian intel operatives and all the other elements of the vast campaign were never more than window dressing on a smear from the same guy who had peddled the Dan Quayle cocaine story the last time the Clintons needed help.
The Steele dossier, with its sloppy fact-checking and lurid tales of prostitutes urinating in a Moscow hotel, is far too unprofessional to be the work of a British ex-intel agent, but it reads like a Cody Shearer smear. Nasty and vicious has always been Shearer’s stock in trade as a variety of Republicans can testify.
Before Fusion GPS, there was Investigative Group International (IGI). Like Fusion GPS, IGI was a shadowy organization that specialized in digging up dirt for insiders. IGI’s boss was a longtime Clinton pal and the organization was turned loose on Bill Clinton’s political enemies. Shearer was accused of working as a subcontractor for IGI to go after George H.W. Bush and Dan Quayle.
There are still many questions to be answered about the Steele dossier. But the most important question is how a piece of opposition research was transformed into a law enforcement matter.
And what is most troubling is that it may not even be the first time that the Clintons have pulled that off.
The campaign against Trump is unprecedented because of the scale of the abuses. The collusion between Obama government officials and Clinton campaign personnel transformed opposition research into a license for surveillance on the political opposition. A conspiracy theory from the Clinton campaign became leverage for delegitimizing and trying to reverse the results of an election. And the conspiracy theory that elements of the FBI loyal to the Democrats relied upon to attack Trump originated from the deepest sewer in Clintonworld that had been covertly smearing political enemies for decades.
The Clintons are done. But their legacy lives on after them. The Russia conspiracies and the Mueller investigation continue to divide this nation even though Hillary’s political career is deader than Julius Caesar. Fusion GPS is still around. So is IGI. And there are other organizations like them out there.
There will always be political operatives like Cody Shearer out there. But if we don’t insulate law enforcement from them, elections won’t be determined by voters, they’ll be decided by political coups disguised as scandals. The establishment and its private police state will decide who runs the country.
The damage wantonly done to America and its institutions by the Clintons, Obama, and the amoral lust for naked power that drives the sorry lot of them is damned nigh beyond calculation. It is no exaggeration to say that these are ugly, indecent, treacherous, and dangerous people, being entirely unburdened by scruple, conscience, or virtue. Years ago it was my considered practice to regularly dump on Bill Clinton by calling him a near-sociopath; this, after all, is a man known to relentlessly pursue his every desire and ambition without the slightest pang of either shame or remorse over the harm—real harm, serious and lasting harm—done to those he victimized along the way.
Seems to me that at this stage of the game, after having watched him at his grubby pursuit of self-aggrandizement for decades now, we can comfortably dispense with the “near-” qualifier. It stupefies me to know that the dirty wretch can still dupe anybody at all with the thin scrim of humanity he tosses over his maleficence and depravity like a tattered, threadbare old shawl. Yet somehow, he does. Far more than just a handful of those dupes, too. One can only stand back and marvel over it in…well, whatever it is, admiration probably isn’t quite the word for it.
But bad as Bill is, Hillary is probably worse, lacking as she does the soulless caricature of empathy that enhances The Creep’s manipulations by allowing him to fraudulently present himself as a caring, ordinary guy drawn to politics by a simple desire to be of assistance in alleviating the travails of his fellow citizens. Compared to the pair of them, the narcissistic, thimble-deep Obama is but a callow amateur, a real greenhorn, despite the fact that he’s actually a pretty nasty piece of work in his own right. The universally-reviled Nixon—held over Republican heads since the 70s by liberals as Satan, Charles Manson, Ed Gein, and Hitler all rolled into one appalling lump—doesn’t even rank on the same scale as these toads. Next to the Clintons, poor old Tricky Dick begins to look more like Santa Claus or Mother Teresa instead. They leave him in the shade by a considerable margin.
Looking at the bigger picture, it is to this country’s undying shame and detriment both that we ever allowed without protest the rise of a professional-politician class at all, in feckless disregard of our Founders’ passionately-expressed warnings against that very thing. The Clintons are of course extraordinary, highest-order examples of that repellent breed, the pinnacle of its evolution to date. But the basic traits developed to such an extreme in the Clintons are no more than typical of very nearly all of that class: absolute and insatiable megalomania; the ability to tell any lie, either trifling or egregious, without so much as batting an eyelash if it’s useful to them in the moment; facility for convincingly feigning emotions one does not feel to even the most infinitesimal degree, such as contrition, compassion, concern, regret, gratitude, or humility; falsely evincing respect for the opinions, ambitions, or concerns of one’s constituents; ability to conceal contempt for those constituents with fawning, near-groveling obsequiousness, and to pretend to enjoy being in their midst when occasionally necessary for campaign purposes; shamelessness astounding in its depth and breadth, even when caught in the very act of the most humiliating transgressions one could imagine; a self-confident, ever-ready glibness, supporting a talent for quickly assessing on the fly the response most likely to be deemed appropriate after being caught in such a transgression; a con artist’s eye for the gullible, credulous, and easily-led; a boundless egotism, inspiring an unshakeable belief in one’s own irreplaceability as the only real hope of meaningful progress for the benighted dimwits who vote for you; a bone-deep conviction that you deserve all the power you so viscerally crave, and that you are not only qualified but duty-bound to order the lives of those you rule rather than govern according to your innate superiority.
These traits among others…and Bill Clinton is the uncontested Lord and Master of them all, doubtless the envy of every lesser pretender to his mighty throne: Crazy Bernie Sanders, who never did a day’s honest work in his life, a thoroughly inadequate man who nonetheless feels himself adequate to rule the rest of us under a socialist tyranny; Lieawatha the Injun Maid, whiter-than-white appropriator of indigenous Native American culture, hypocrite nonpareil; creepy boob Joe “Feel Em Up Feel Em Up Grope Grope Grope” Biden, standing ready to heed the call of exactly no one and offer his unwanted service to the nation in yet another of his serial bumbling runs for the Oval Office; the execrable, befuddled, and increasingly pathetic empty suit John Kasich; eminently bribable serial molester John “No Reasonable Offer Refused” Conyers; even Slick Willie’s own “wife” too—who, after her last stinging repudiation, must find even brief proximity to her husband-in-name-only so grating as to be damned near intolerable by now, an excruciating reminder of the contrast between his success and her failure.
They all envy him, and quietly hate him for attaining a summit of professional-politician greasiness and smarm too lofty for them to so much as credibly aspire to. Or they would, that is, were they capable of a moment’s honest self-reflection and awareness. Which they aren’t, fortunately for them; if they were, they’d be spontaneously combusting in the streets from burning shame.
Yep, even as The Creep fades into obscurity and Constitutionally-mandated electoral irrelevance, he haunts their thoughts still. That’s got to just frost their nuts but good. Especially Hillary’s big brass ones. You want a Clinton legacy? Right there it is, bub: Bill’s ghostly presence darkening the Progressivist mind like a lingering shadow. That dubious legacy will endure a good long time, too, until the last backcountry dog-catcher to defraud his way into office under the ragged Democrat-Socialist rubric gives it up at last and decides to call himself something else next time out, just for appearance’s sake.
This nation indubitably owes Trump a mighty debt, one difficult to calculate and impossible to repay, for thwarting the Clintons’ re-infestation of the White House if for nothing else. It’s a measure of the NeverTrumpTards’ insane, myopic folly that they remain disgruntled by it—those dwindling few of them still aquiver with bitter indignation over an upstart electorate’s daring to ignore Conservative Inc’s predictions of calamity should DC business as usual be disrupted by such a vulgar, unserious buffoon, at any rate. The 2016 election was a pivotal, watershed moment in American politics: an election that truly did matter, to an extent that precious few of them have for decades now. There are plenty of others, of course, but looming largest among the reasons why is the unanticipated reprieve from a descent into the depths of a rerun nightmare, another dunking in the Clintonian cesspool.
So thank you, Mr President. From the bottom of my own heart, anyway, if not Ewan McMuffin’s, David French’s, or any other Vichy GOPe sad sack who prefers the comforting familiarity of defeat at the hands of a true blackguard to the risky uncertainty of meaningful victory.