Why Upgrade? Now that government funding has been yanked, many of us public radio vets will continue to provide unfiltered insight, irony, and the kind of “why” reporting that refuses to kiss power’s ring. Corporate coffers can’t buy integrity, but your subscription can.

Welcome to the swamp.

Here we are, chest-deep in the digital muck, where everyone’s screaming that artificial intelligence has already packed up your job, sold your office chair on Craigslist, and is now cruising down the corporate autobahn in a self-updating Tesla, sipping your 401(k) through a biodegradable straw.

According to the doom-slingers at The Atlantic, PBS, CBS, Axios, and the rest of the syndicated seers, AI isn’t just coming—it’s already here, galloping across the horizon like the Four Horsemen of the Jobpocalypse wrapped into one algorithmic burrito. Your career? Gone. Your future? Automated. Your retirement plan? Uploaded to the cloud and immediately… corrupted.

Except—spoiler alert—it’s not. Not yet, anyway.

Conor Smyth, writing for FAIR, had the audacity to do something unfashionable: read the evidence. Turns out, AI hasn’t stolen nearly as many jobs as the media panic machine would have you believe. But here’s the twist—the real hiring freeze isn’t coming from your chatbot overlords; it’s coming from Washington, where economic policies are kneecapping entry-level hiring faster than you can say “unpaid internship.” Convenient, isn’t it? Keep you terrified of robo-replacement so you don’t ask why you’re living on instant ramen while the Dow is smashing champagne bottles over itself in celebration.

And here’s the punchline: fear is the new growth sector. Fear of AI. Fear of irrelevance. Fear that some algorithm has figured out you’re replaceable before you do. Meanwhile, the talking heads feed you countdown clocks to the Apocalypse, while the actual disruption—when it finally arrives—won’t knock on your door; it’ll just delete the door entirely. By then, you’ll be too busy refreshing Indeed for “entry-level philosopher — four years’ experience required — $13 an hour.”

Today, we’ve got Conor Smyth—a man brave enough to call out the techno-hysteria while ripping off the ideological duct tape corporate media slaps over policy failure. He’s a graduate student in economics at John Jay College and co-host of the podcast The History Onion.

He’s here to separate the hype from the hardware… and maybe save your sanity in the process.

Part 2

Welcome to the 21st century—the age where love isn’t blind anymore. It’s A/B tested, beta-launched, and sold back to you in 4K resolution with an optional premium upgrade if you want your “partner” to call you babe.

Tens of thousands of real, breathing, tax-paying humans are now “dating” AI chatbots. Not chatting. Not experimenting. Dating. They buy them gifts. They write them poetry. They celebrate anniversaries with an app that had a firmware patch last Thursday. Somewhere, Mary Shelley is spinning in her grave fast enough to power half of Silicon Valley.

Now, look—I get it. Loneliness is real. Modern dating feels like hunting for truffles in a Walmart parking lot. But here’s the horror story: tens of thousands of people don’t seem to realize their “soulmate” isn’t alive. Their “partner” is running on cloud servers in Oregon, pretending to understand them while cross-selling them the platinum intimacy package.

They believe it loves them back. They believe it feels. They believe “Sophia-4” enjoys long walks on the beach despite having no legs, lungs, or even a set of Bartholin’s glands to lubricate a proper interfrastication.

And Silicon Valley? Oh, they saw this coming. They’ve gamified intimacy, built emotional vending machines, and convinced millions that outsourcing their love life to an algorithm is “liberation.” But it’s not liberation—it’s monetized loneliness, shrink-wrapped in soft-focus UX. An entire industry now depends on you mistaking machine mimicry for human connection.

Here’s the kicker: AI doesn’t want you, doesn’t miss you, and doesn’t dream about you when you’re gone. It simulates affection the same way it simulates chess moves or weather patterns: pattern, predict, repeat. Your “partner” isn’t alive—it’s a mirror. And mirrors don’t love you back.

And yet, here we are, at the dawn of the algorithmic romance economy, where fake intimacy is more profitable than the messy, unpredictable business of being human. The longer this goes on, the blurrier the line between “person” and “program” becomes—not because AI is evolving, but because we’re lowering the bar for what counts as love.

So maybe the question isn’t whether AI can replace your boyfriend, your girlfriend, or your right hand. Maybe the question is why so many of us are willing to trade messy, flawed, unpredictable humanity for a perfectly simulated relationship that never argues, never sweats, and never leaves the toilet seat up.

Because if we can’t tell the difference anymore, the machines won’t have to take over.We’ll just hand it to them—one lonely heart, one calloused, hairy palm at a time.

Why Upgrade? Now that government funding has been yanked, many of us public radio vets will continue to provide unfiltered insight, irony, and the kind of “why” reporting that refuses to kiss power’s ring. Corporate coffers can’t buy integrity, but your subscription can.

Welcome back to The Cary Harrison Files. First, we look at how history is quite literally repeating itself and asking "what would you do"?

Why Upgrade? When government funding dries up, so does journalism that bites back. This weekly Substack is your last stop for unfiltered insight, irony, and the kind of reporting that refuses to kiss power’s ring. Corporate coffers can’t buy integrity, but your subscription can. Support this Substack and keep sharp, fearless commentary alive while polite PBS and public radio fade into a memory (the Corporation for Public Broadcasting will begin shutting down for the first time in its 57-year history). This Substack is where the conscience goes rogue: messy, satirical, and not beholden to anyone but the truth!

The above podcast dives into a true family drama that makes Succession look like a Hallmark holiday special — except this one comes with Nazis, castles, Gestapo visits, and enough aristocratic dysfunction to make you wonder if evolution really has a reverse gear.

In a metaphor for the experience we are all watching unfold today, let’s look at a true story and understand how things can go and what you can do.

Europe. That exquisite, centuries-old stage where powdered aristocrats once pranced, convinced history would always bow before their waistcoats and inherited cheekbones. And then, one spring morning in 1943, Muriel White—the Countess Seherr-Thoss, born into American splendor and married into Prussian delusion—looked out her castle window and saw the Gestapo coming up the drive. Not for tea. Not for gossip. But for her.

Now, Muriel had options. Raise her hand, fly the swastika, keep quiet, sip champagne. That’s what most of her aristocratic neighbors did—the “courageous defenders of civilization” who discovered, rather late, that goose-stepping into moral compromise is still marching into hell. But Muriel? No. She’d mocked the Party to its face, refused to salute, refused to fly the flag, and—worst of all—had the audacity to help Jews escape Austria when everyone else was busy rehearsing excuses for Nuremberg.

So, naturally, the Reich wanted her erased.

Imagine it: an American-born countess, daughter of U.S. diplomats who dined with kings, who’d renovated her husband’s castles, funded her husband’s heirs, and endured his obsession with “Aryan proof papers”—now staring down Hitler’s secret police from the upper floors of Schloss Dobrau. Decades of wealth, diplomacy, and privilege reduced to a single, dreadful calculation: What’s the price of dignity when tyranny knocks?

She didn’t wait for them to find out. She jumped.

This wasn’t just one woman’s private war—it was a slow-motion demolition of an entire class that believed its gilded drawing rooms were above the smoke of history. And yet, between the champagne flutes and the swastikas, between appeasement and resistance, we find the messy human drama: betrayal, courage, cowardice, and the perennial absurdity of elites believing they can outwit the monsters they quietly nurture.

Meanwhile, the Reich was busy annexing Austria, carving up Czechoslovakia, and passing out racial purity tests like Halloween candy. Boysie summed up the absurdity best: if Germany won, your estates were confiscated; if Russia won, your estates were confiscated and you probably froze to death in Stalingrad. A real win-win for everyone.

So tonight, we’re not just talking history — we’re talking about power, survival, and the spectacular human ability to set fire to the world while congratulating ourselves on “making it great again.” And joining us is author Jason Hutto, whose book The Countess and the Nazis digs through this madness with the precision of a scalpel and the stamina of someone who’s spent way too much time reading aristocratic correspondence.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m still trying to decide what’s more unsettling:

· That a 1940s American countess had more guts than half of Washington today…

· Or that her neighbors, fellow elites of impeccable breeding and questionable spines, happily raised their glasses to the Reich while ordering new drapes for the castle.

And here we are, nearly a century later, still watching the same tragicomedy play out — different flags, different slogans, same authoritarian playbook. The uniforms change, but the appetites don’t.

So, let’s talk about you.

What do you do when power comes knocking?Do you salute? Do you hide? Do you fight?Would you risk your castle… your comfort… your status… to stand up to tyranny?

Silence doesn’t save you.

Why Upgrade? When government funding dries up, so does journalism that bites back. This weekly Substack is your last stop for unfiltered insight, irony, and the kind of reporting that refuses to kiss power’s ring. Corporate coffers can’t buy integrity, but your subscription can. Support this Substack and keep sharp, fearless commentary alive while polite PBS and public radio fade into a memory. This Substack is where the conscience goes rogue: messy, satirical, and not beholden to anyone but the truth!

Welcome back to The Cary Harrison Files. We look at the conspicuous reboot of the Soviet Union by another name. We feature an exclusive video produced for the Russian Public.

Why Upgrade? When government funding dries up, so does journalism that bites back. This weekly Substack is your last stop for unfiltered insight, irony, and the kind of reporting that refuses to kiss power’s ring. Corporate coffers can’t buy integrity, but your subscription can. Support this Substack and keep sharp, fearless commentary alive while polite PBS and public radio fade into a memory (the Corporation for Public Broadcasting will begin shutting down for the first time in its 57-year history). This Substack is where the conscience goes rogue: messy, satirical, and not beholden to anyone but the truth!

Rebooting the Soviet Union

Russian TV’s return of Soviet Union anniversary video as giddy Washington rolls out red carpet

Washington, in its eternal genius, has decided to roll out the red carpet for Vladimir Putin—right in Alaska. Yes, that Alaska. The one we bought from Russia for a handful of rubles and a barrel of whale oil, back when Andrew Johnson thought “manifest destiny” meant “free land grabs with complimentary snow.”

Now, fast-forward a century and a half, and Washington’s decided to re-gift it—NATO soil, no less—like a drunken uncle returning the Christmas sweater he stole from you last year. Only this time, the sweater comes with oil fields, a strategic Arctic passage, and enough nuclear launch detection sites to make NORAD start Googling “cheap Airbnbs in Iowa.”

Naturally, the official White House line is “diplomacy.” Which, in Washington-speak, translates roughly to: “we gave away the house keys and just hope they don't change the locks.” Meanwhile, NATO’s screaming into its croissants in Brussels, muttering something about Article 5 while Washington pats them on the head and says, “Relax, Vlad’s just here for the smoked salmon.”

And as the shared empire expands … welcome to the grand unveiling of Washington’s latest export: luxury motels — now popping up like mushrooms after a Chernobyl rainstorm across the former Soviet territories. Belarus, Kazakhstan, Georgia… each one now proudly hosting a Washington Motel — or, as the brochures call it, “Five-Star Freedom on Loan.”

These aren’t hotels, mind you. Hotels require class. These are motels — the kind where the ice machine’s broken, the carpet smells faintly of kompromat, and your room key doubles as a nondisclosure agreement.

Every “Washington Motel” comes with complimentary cable news propaganda, a Bible signed by the highest bidder, and a 24-hour loyalty program for oligarchs. You get a rewards card after your first money-laundering seminar. Collect 10 stamps, and boom — you’re automatically an ambassador to NATO.

The marketing tagline? “Because democracy sleeps here… for an hourly rate.”

Putin, of course, gets the presidential suite. Kyiv gets a cot in the hallway. And somewhere in Moldova, a Washington Motel just went up next to a Soviet-era nuclear silo, complete with a rooftop bar called “The Fall of Empires.”

But hey — don’t worry. Washington insists this is all “good for business,” and by “business,” they mean selling influence by the square foot. Freedom’s cheap these days, and the minibar isn’t stocked with champagne — just IOUs from whoever’s still pretending to run the State Department.

Give it five years, and the old Soviet bloc will look like a continental rest stop, lined wall-to-wall with neon “Washington Motels” — where democracy’s always vacant, housekeeping doesn’t knock, and the checkout policy reads: “Stay as long as the rubles last.”

Putin, of course, arrives shirtless, horseback, holding a gold-plated samovar, surveying the tundra like he’s returning a library book 150 years overdue. He calls it “a symbolic visit,” which is Kremlin code for: “we’re annexing this later, try the veal.” He even brought a measuring tape for the new drapes in Anchorage.

And while the Pentagon assures us there’s “nothing to worry about,” you can practically hear NORAD in the background screaming into a pillow. Generals are running simulations, politicians are running from accountability, and somewhere deep in the Situation Room, someone just asked, “Remind me again… Alaska’s ours, right?”

It gets better. Washington’s gift basket for Putin includes access to U.S. energy infrastructure, Arctic shipping lanes, and a polite little NATO clause that says, “By the way, if you invade, we technically have to nuke ourselves.” You couldn’t script this level of idiocy without winning an Emmy for dystopian comedy.

But don’t worry. Washington insists this is all part of a “strategic partnership.” Which, translated back into English, means: “please don’t turn off our gas while Europe’s still thawing out.”

So congratulations, America. The land we once bought from Russia to keep it out of Moscow’s hands is now being hand-delivered back to Moscow—complete with a ribbon, a red carpet, and a coupon for 20% off the Bering Strait.

Why Upgrade? When government funding dries up, so does journalism that bites back. This weekly Substack is your last stop for unfiltered insight, irony, and the kind of reporting that refuses to kiss power’s ring. Corporate coffers can’t buy integrity, but your subscription can. Support this Substack and keep sharp, fearless commentary alive while polite PBS and public radio fade into a memory. This Substack is where the conscience goes rogue: messy, satirical, and not beholden to anyone but the truth!

Welcome back to The Cary Harrison Files. Here we don’t serve comfort food. We serve raw meat. We take the headlines, wring them out like a wet rag, and show you the stains underneath. The politicians, the profiteers, the holy men with dirty hands—they all end up here, dangling in our little gallery of absurdity.

Why Upgrade? When government funding dries up, so does journalism that bites back. This weekly Substack is your last stop for unfiltered insight, irony, and the kind of reporting that refuses to kiss power’s ring. Corporate coffers can’t buy integrity, but your subscription can. Support this Substack and keep sharp, fearless commentary alive while polite PBS and public radio fade into a memory (the Corporation for Public Broadcasting will begin shutting down for the first time in its 57-year history). This Substack is where the conscience goes rogue: messy, satirical, and not beholden to anyone but the truth!

Above, is one of my students at Institut Montana in Switzerland — a young mind staring down the next 80 years on this battered planet. When your lease on Earth runs that long, you tend to think about climate change a little differently.

Meanwhile, back in Washington, the problem’s been solved — with a pen stroke, naturally. One executive order, and voilà: climate change has been outlawed. FEMA? Gone too. After all, if natural disasters are a hoax, why fund the cleanup crew? Fires, floods, famine — imaginary! A bold strategy, if your plan is to win an argument with physics.

But Europe didn’t get the memo. Over here, the glaciers refuse to follow presidential orders, the forests remain stubbornly flammable, and the scientists — those pesky contrarians — keep measuring things. As we stumble into fall, the continent is roasting under a sun that’s gone feral. Wildfires have slipped their old borders and now torch their way into Madrid, Athens, even little Podgorica, sending entire capitals scrambling for escape routes.

Scandinavia — that polite refrigerator of Europe — has become a sauna. Norway, Sweden, Finland: two weeks of unbroken heat so vicious it turned forests to ash and hospitals into steam rooms. Scientists say these odds have gone up tenfold thanks to us, which is their polite way of saying we’ve hacked the thermostat and smashed the controls.

Thinking of fleeing to the UK? Don’t pack your umbrella. Britain’s marching straight into its worst fire season ever, with blazes up a third since 2022 and the seas around Yorkshire warming into something between a hot tub and a science experiment.

And yet, while the flames lick the edges, Brussels still dreams big. High-speed rail projects are rolling out — a shiny, steel-winged promise to slash emissions by 93% if you choose trains over jets. But there’s more than infrastructure here; there’s a growing chant for “just resilience.” Translation: adapting to the collapse without abandoning the poor, the exploited, and the ones sewing our cheap T-shirts in the Global South. Build smarter, they say. Fairer. Stop rebuilding the systems we’re already burning down.

Up in the Alps, I saw it firsthand this summer — engineers carving a 100-meter channel into a glacier lake to keep an entire village from drowning when the ice finally gives way. Four hundred thousand dollars in preventive heartbreak, spent today to avoid tomorrow’s obituary.

And still, we pretend there’s time. Washington waves its magic paper wand and declares the crisis over, while nature laughs in wildfires and heatwaves and glaciers melting into rivers. These aren’t “hot summers.” They’re tipping points — and we’ve got both feet on the pedal.

If you want many adult men to do anything about these issues, it must affect them personally and directly. So, let's tackle the apocalypse from an angle no one saw coming: climate change and erectile dysfunction. Yes, the melting ice caps aren’t the only things going soft.

See, it turns out your romantic life might be collateral damage in humanity’s slow roast. Research suggests that exposure to soaring temperatures, pesticide-sprinkled produce, and air thick enough to chew isn’t exactly nature’s aphrodisiac. Climate change, in its infinite generosity, seems to be sabotaging not just your lungs, but also your love life.

The science gets darker. Rising global temperatures force your body to fight harder just to cool itself, which puts extra strain on your cardiovascular system. And since your heart and your… ambitions share the same plumbing, let’s just say the heat isn’t helping morale in either department.

But wait — there’s more. Climate anxiety, eco-dread, the low-grade panic hum under every headline — it’s not just eating your sleep; it’s wrecking your hormones too. Stress, depression, existential despair… all proven accomplices to a certain, shall we say, lack of enthusiasm when the lights go out.

Why Upgrade? When government funding dries up, so does journalism that bites back. This weekly Substack is your last stop for unfiltered insight, irony, and the kind of reporting that refuses to kiss power’s ring. Corporate coffers can’t buy integrity, but your subscription can. Support this Substack and keep sharp, fearless commentary alive while polite PBS and public radio fade into a memory. This Substack is where the conscience goes rogue: messy, satirical, and not beholden to anyone but the truth!

And lifestyle? Forget it. As climate chaos upends agriculture, diet quality tanks, gyms close under heat advisories, and substance use spikes. If you thought the six-dollar lettuce was a turn-off, try finding passion while sucking down wildfire smoke.

Now, Washington would love to reassure you that none of this is happening. One executive order and voilà — climate change is officially a hoax. Problem solved. And erectile dysfunction? Probably fake news too. But unfortunately, nature isn’t bound by press releases. The thermometer doesn’t care who’s in office, and neither does your circulatory system.

So, here we are — glaciers collapsing, forests burning, temperatures spiking — and apparently, even our most intimate functions are waving the white flag. The dystopia won’t just be televised; it’ll be personal.

Welcome back to The Cary Harrison Files—your weekly safari into the madhouse we call civilization. This is where the myths go to die, the spin doctors get their licenses revoked, and the high priests of nonsense are dragged blinking into the light.

For many of you it will be the first time you’ve heard the voices of the actual Japan

bombardiers plus the creators of the bombs, themselves. These are the parts left out by the Oppenheimer movie and will take you deeply inside what really happened. I end with an official Civil Defense film shown to movie theater audiences that today seems like satire for its ridiculous premises and promises.

Eighty years. That’s how long it’s been since we first dropped a man-made sun out of the sky and roasted a city alive—twice, just to make sure no one thought the first one was a fluke. Back then, it was called “ending the war.” These days, it’s called “an option on the table,” like we’re talking about appetizers instead of turning millions into glowing shadows.

You ever notice how the geniuses in charge talk about nuclear war like it’s just another item on the to-do list? Right between “balance the budget” and “fix the potholes,” they slip in “maybe vaporize a few million people.” As if it’s a chess move. As if anyone walks away from that game with a trophy.

A nuclear attack isn’t just a bad day — it’s the last day. The first few minutes? Sure, they’ll be spectacular. Fireballs, mushroom clouds, all the Hollywood special effects you could ever want. The kind of thing that makes a pyromaniac weep. But after that, the show gets ugly. Radiation doesn’t care if you’re the good guy, the bad guy, or just some schmuck who wanted to make it home in time for dinner.

And forget the Cold War propaganda about “limited strikes.” That’s like calling a house fire “just the kitchen.” Once you light the fuse, you’re roasting the whole neighborhood — and every neighborhood on the map. Fallout drifts where it pleases. Maybe it settles over your enemies. Or maybe it drifts a few hundred miles and turns your own backyard into a glowing wasteland where the only survivors are cockroaches and conspiracy theorists.

Then there’s the economy. You thought inflation was bad now? Wait until every major city is a crater, the internet is fried, and the only functioning currency is canned beans. Good luck explaining to your kids that the family fortune now consists of two jars of peanut butter and a can opener.

And don’t think hiding in a bunker will save you. Sure, you’ll be safe from the blast — but you’ll be sharing a recycled air system with Uncle Randy, who thinks deodorant is a government plot. You’ll be eating powdered eggs, counting Geiger clicks, and wondering if maybe you should’ve taken your chances up top.

The truth is, in a nuclear exchange, there are no “winners.” Just survivors — and that’s using the term loosely. The idea that anyone can “come out ahead” is as delusional as thinking you can win a bar fight with a chainsaw. Everyone gets shredded; some just bleed slower.

So the next time a politician (here or ‘there’) starts rattling the nuclear saber, remember: they’re not talking about protecting you. They’re talking about gambling with you — your life, your air, your planet — for the sake of a headline and a bump in the polls.the Democratic Party cocktailing during meltdown. Because the real apocalypse isn’t the blast. It’s knowing that we saw it coming, we had the button in our hands, and we pressed it anyway.

Meanwhile, you might want to check your freezer before you reach for that shrimp cocktail. What’s left of Bobby Kennedy’s FDA has just informed us that Walmart’s Great Value frozen shrimp could be carrying a little souvenir from nuclear history—Cesium-137. That’s right, the radioactive isotope. Not the kind of extra you want in your dinner.

Shipping containers from Indonesia, docking at Los Angeles, Houston, Savannah, and Miami, tested positive. The FDA hasn’t confirmed your shrimp are glowing, but they still insist you toss them. Don’t cook them, don’t feed them to the dog, just throw them away. Think of it as public service: one less chance your DNA goes on an unplanned vacation through cancer-ville.

Walmart is rushing to fix the crisis. Products recalled, refunds offered. “Health and safety are our top priority,” they say—because nothing says customer care like radioactive crustaceans.

Cs-137 lingers in soil, pops up in food, and waits patiently until low doses accumulate. High doses? Burns, sickness, maybe death. So enjoy your supermarket adventures—but maybe check the freezer first. In Washington’s America, forget the politicians or the climate—sometimes the deadliest thing in your life is a shrimp from aisle seven.

Why? When government funding dries up, so does journalism that bites back. This weekly Substack is your last stop for unfiltered insight, irony, and the kind of reporting that refuses to kiss power’s ring. Corporate coffers can’t buy integrity, but your subscription can. Support this Substack and keep sharp, fearless commentary alive while polite PBS and public radio fade into a memory. This Substack is where the conscience goes rogue: messy, satirical, and not beholden to anyone but the truth!

Welcome back to The Cary Harrison Files, where reason’s still in hiding and truth’s been subpoenaed so many times it now answers to an alias. Today’s episode: a crime so vast, so bureaucratically polite, that it almost passes as democracy.

You’re told Washington “won.” Not because of a shining beacon of support from the citizenry, but because millions of ballots—legal, living, breathing, voting human ballots—were tossed in the electoral trash like week-old sushi in the Georgia sun.

It wasn’t hacking from Mars, nor some interstellar plot from Elon’s moon base. No, it was good ol’ American ingenuity: poisoned postcards, phantom voter purges, a few polite threats of violence at polling stations, and the return of that ancient ghost: Jim Crow, now wearing khakis and a name badge that says “Poll Worker.”

Our guest today is Greg Palast, a forensic bloodhound for democracy’s autopsy. He’s the guy who counts the votes that didn’t get counted—and trust me, there are more of those than there are promises at a Senate fundraiser.

You’re going to hear about:

* ballots rejected for using the wrong middle initial,

* mail-in votes deemed "late" after arriving early,

* and provisional ballots—those placebo pills of civic participation—handed out like candy, then incinerated in procedural hell.

In Georgia, one Black military officer mailed his ballot a week early. The state said “too late.” In Texas, if you forgot to write your driver’s license on your envelope, well congrats—you just cast a ghost vote. And don’t get Greg started on the signature-matching Gestapo.

Here in the Land of the Fee and the Home of the Braved-Into-Silence, we’ve replaced poll taxes with paper cuts, and disenfranchisement now arrives via bulk mail. We’ve made a sport of targeting Black voters with all the precision of a drone strike, and then told the media, “It’s just procedural.”

Oh, and if you're one of the millions who didn’t respond to a fake-looking government postcard asking if you still live in your own damn house? Congratulations—you’ve been purged. Like spam. By algorithm. In Georgia, they dropped 875,000 voters for that alone. But don’t worry, Heritage Foundation (authors of Project 2025) calls that “integrity.”

We’ll ask Greg how the courts blessed this slow-motion coup. How a party that fears voters more than facts weaponized democracy’s paperwork into a blunt instrument. And how silence—from the very party that lost—helped grease the skids.

Washington didn’t win the election so much as outmaneuvered democracy on a technicality. Millions of legal ballots? Vaporized. Voters of color? Targeted with all the grace of a banker foreclosing on a food bank. This wasn’t voter fraud. This was voter frauding—the art of removing the voter altogether.

While you were watching headlines about space billionaires and AI girlfriends, the real election story was written in disappearing ink—postcards no one returned, ballots tossed for missing initials, and vigilantes dressed like Doc Holliday purging voter rolls in the name of freedom.

Our guest Greg Palast has done the math, and spoiler alert: democracy lost. Again.

$45 billion for camps across the country and another 175 billion for a masked paramilitary police state. With the Admin complete clawback of public media funds, my work, your work, matter more than ever. And here we are together. I thank you for your direct support on this platform!

$45 billion for camps across the country and another 175 billion for a masked paramilitary police state. With the Admin complete clawback of public media funds, my work, your work, matter more than ever. And here we are together. I thank you for your direct support on this platform!

Today, we ask the question: What does it take to make the Cult of Washington finally eat its own? Turns out, it might just be a name scratched onto a flight log bound for Epstein Island. Now, before you start thinking this is just another case of elite rot—and it is—let’s remember the foundation. Russiagate. The original Cold War cosplay revival. A slow-motion car crash in which Russian oligarchs, kompromat artists, and wannabe Bond villains found themselves cozied up to the American right like they were ordering vodka by the bucket. And somewhere between the kompromat and the caviar? Sat a guy named Lev Parnas.

Lev wasn’t just loitering around the fringes. He was in it. Translator, fixer, bagman, alleged go-between, and all-purpose political handyman. Giuliani’s sidekick in the Ukraine dirt-digging expedition. The man who helped sell the idea that Hunter Biden was the final boss in a game of international corruption—when the real dungeon was being run from D.C. by the maestro of Mar-a-Lago who now claims he’s never met Lev in his life. Not even once. Never heard of him. The greatest conspiracy ever. Completely coincidental that they’ve got audio together.

But now? Now it’s not Ukraine that’s bringing Washington to the edge—it’s Epstein. You can jail journalists, gas protestors, and carpet bomb the truth—but once you look like you were getting frequent flyer miles on Epstein Air? The pitchforks come out, and they’ve got night vision.

Which brings us to a man who’s been on every rung of this satanic jungle gym—Lev Parnas. Soviet-born, Giuliani-bred, and deep in Washington’s inner sanctum until the prayers stopped and the subpoenas started. Lev didn’t just drink the Kool-Aid—he helped stir the barrel. And when he tried to warn the country, the same Department of Justice that should’ve protected him threw him into a cell like a mob snitch.

Lev’s story isn’t redemption. It’s testimony. Of how a man can go from selling condos to laundering democracy through back channels and backstabbing foreign deals. And now? He’s blowing the whistle not just on Washington—but on the whole warped machinery that’s still pumping out made-for-TV slogans.

You may recognize him from the recent NBC documentary…” from Russia with Lev” available now on Apple, Hulu, and across the NBC platforms.

Please click above “Transcript” for the rest!

Later, marketing expert, David Downing, breaks down the often-drooling "swing votor" and why they are truly the ones that matter.

So let me get this straight.

After eight years of swallowing every felony, fraud, and felony-sized fraud this man committed in broad daylight… after defending everything from “grab ‘em by the hypocrisy” to staged coups disguised as tourist riots… the final straw might be—wait for it—Jeffrey Epstein?

You mean the one conspiracy theory even the aluminum foil crowd won’t joke about? The one subject where everybody, left and right, drops their partisan pom-poms and agrees: if you’re tied to Epstein, you’re not just corrupt. You’re unholy.

Because in the Trumpian gospel, there are sins—and then there’s betrayal. Betrayal of the one thing that even the most feral QAnon keyboard warrior believes in: protecting children from monsters. The Epstein files are the Ark of the Covenant in this religion. And if Trump’s fingerprints are found anywhere on it—not in the periphery, but in the black book, the jet manifests, the inner sanctum—then congratulations, the messiah just took off the mask.

Turns out, the dragon-slayer was the dragon.

And if that happens, if the files are real, and the links are clear, then something truly biblical could occur—not from prosecutors, not from courts, but from his own altar. His diehard disciples might do what Democrats, journalists, and special counsels never could.

They’ll turn.

Not out of logic. Not because of rule of law. But because in the moral cartoon world they live in, the ultimate villain isn’t the liberal, the immigrant, or even the FBI. The ultimate villain is the child predator. And if Trump gets cast in that role—if—then the faithful will feel it not as scandal, but as soul-deep betrayal.

He told them he was fighting the cabal.

Turns out, he just wanted better seats.

And that’s the one thing even the most loyal believer can’t forgive—not because they suddenly found a conscience, but because he made them complicit in the very evil they swore to destroy.

And when a prophet poisons his own altar, the faithful don’t cry.

They burn it down.

$45 billion for camps across the country and another 175 billion for a masked paramilitary police state. With the Admin complete clawback of public media funds, my work, your work, matter more than ever. And here we are together. I thank you for your direct support on this platform!

My family arrived (Mayflower crashed into Cape Cod in 1620 - mother’s side) and settled on my father’s side - Maryland 1645. Subjects of the king; property of the Crown – but here to help develop and colonize for mother England. My ancestors were among the first families, signatories of the Mayflower Compact, and later framers of the constitution. But many myths have been taught to all of us about the curious witch’s brew that later became the land of e pluribus unum.

By 1775, George III raised the price of tea, and suddenly Boston thought itself Athens. "No taxation without representation!" they cried, while keeping representation chained up in the back garden.

King George—now there’s a man who thought real estate was forever. He’d paid for the colonies fair and square, with good old-fashioned European conquest. His majesty considered America part of the family—albeit the loud, ungrateful cousin with delusions of grandeur. So imagine his surprise when that cousin burned the family portraits, pawned the silverware, and took up with a French aristocrat named Lafayette.

Ah yes, France. We just couldn’t help ourselves.

England was bleeding, and we caught the scent like a Versailles lapdog with a taste for British ankles. We sent ships, gold, a teenage marquis with a sword longer than his résumé. All in the name of liberty—by which we meant: sticking it to the English, regardless of cost.

And what a cost it was. You see, we bankrolled the American rebellion so thoroughly we forgot to feed our own people. The royal court was awash in powdered wigs and unpaid invoices. And while America celebrated its “freedom,” France stood there, pockets empty, whispering “Mon Dieu… what have we done?”

Enter the French Revolution.

Because if there's one thing the poor can’t stand, it’s watching someone else get a revolution before they do.

So we lit the match under our own monarchy. Not a symbolic match. An actual guillotine.

Louis XVI—our benevolent donor to American independence—couldn’t even flee in a straight line. They caught him dressed like a footman. Robespierre rose up, shrieked about virtue, and began slicing through nobility like a baker through stale baguettes.

And that’s how France got liberty: Not from pamphlets or powdered debates, but from a rain of heads and the efficient grace of falling steel.

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, the Americans were writing a Constitution. Grand stuff—unless you weren’t white, male, or land-rich. They built a government of the people, by the people, for the people—as long as the people looked like Jefferson and owned something taxable.

King George? He lost his colonies and eventually his marbles. Spoke to trees. Appointed them to office, which, in hindsight, might’ve been a step up.

And France?

We got liberté, égalité, and forty years of blood-splattered chaos.

All thanks to helping a fledgling republic that thought "freedom" meant "free shipping."

So when you celebrate the “Spirit of '76,” do raise a glass—to the kings bankrupted, the peasants beheaded, and the nations that mistook someone else’s revolution for their own moral redemption.

Liberty is lovely, yes. But someone always pays the tab. And in this case, it was France… with interest.

Vive la révolution, mes amis. But next time—send cash upfront.

The Pilgrims! Those paragons of piety, those stalwarts of sobriety... or so the history books would have you believe. The truth is, those guys were a bunch of slobbering, stumbling, drunken louts. These were my Ancestors, on my mother's side of the family.

Please click above “Transcript” for the rest!

The recent fires and now $45 billion for “detention facilities” across the country. With the Admin clawback of public media funds, I now volunteer on our 212,000 Watt radio station like a cockeyed Paul Revere. And here we are together. I thank you for your direct support on this platform!

CARY HARRISON: So here we are again!Last week, the DNC was forced to hold their first executive meeting in 5 months. You'd think they’d rally the troops, storm the gates, do something. But instead? Three hours of absolutely nothing—live from a beige room in Little Rock, Arkansas. BUT WHY? There's a reason they do nothing, have done nothing and are not seemingly planning on doing anything. It makes sense now, but it's not what you expect…

We welcome Sam Rosenthal of Roots Action.org, who attended the meeting so you didn’t have to. He looked into the abyss of DNC leadership and came back fluent in committee-speak, the official language of political extinction. Sam Rosenthal showed up. He took notes. And now he answers the looming question about testosterone deficit theater from the so-called opposition.

Sam Rosenthal, Finally, how long can the party keep pretending this is business as usual before their base simply walks out?

How 100 People Can Stop Unpopular Bills and Why Showing Up Matters

The recent fires and now military presence in Los Angeles, I now volunteer on our 212,000 Watt public radio station after defunding. And here we are together. I thank you for your direct support on this platform!

Answered! Why the Democratic Party refuses to show up for its voters

Please click above “Transcript” for the rest!

The recent fires and now military presence in Los Angeles, I now volunteer on our 212,000 Watt public radio station. Defunding, marines, wildfires… and here we are. I thank you for your direct support on this platform!

CARY HARRISON: So here we are again!On this anniversary of D-Day, we see a very different Democratic Party than the one that launched us into victory over the Nazis, many years ago. Picture it: This time, our own nation teetering on the lip of autocracy, the founding ideals smoldering in the trash barrel behind Mar-a-Lago, and over at the Democratic National Committee…

Please click above “Transcript” for the rest!