'Are We Alone?' - Donald Trump To Declassify Roswell UFO Files

Every American who has gazed at the night sky and wondered at the billions of stars twinkling in the universe has asked the question, 'Are we alone?' Now, with the President's order to declassify and make public The Roswell Files, we may know.

  

There have been sightings galore in America. Hundreds of pilots have reported strange-looking objects, festooned with lights, crossing their paths and then disappearing just as suddenly as they appeared; and hundreds more observers on earth have reported incidents of unexplained lights travelling across the sky, object hurtling from one end of the horizon to the other, silent, hovering craft which would disappear in an instant. 

There have been simply too many such reports for the Army to deny any such thing.  Veteran Air Force captains with hundreds of hours in the cockpit of F-16 fighter jets, seasoned commercial pilots who have flown every approved world flight path, and responsible private pilots in their Pipers and Cessnas who had traversed the United States from east to west all have reported unexplained, unidentified flying objects. 

The reports of actual earth sightings of space aliens and even abductions have been fewer but not inconsiderable; and although they were discounted as the science fiction fantasies of mentally disturbed people, there have been enough of them to at least shelve them for future reference. 

Billy Ray Parsons of Aberdeen, Mississippi, was coming home from a Mississippi State Bulldogs football game when he saw a large, illuminated, flying object land on the prairie between Starkville and Columbus, and strange, sylph-like, attenuated figures descend from it and approach him.  He stopped his car, got out, and shaded his eyes against the bright lights of the ship from which the figures had come.

He said he wasn't frightened, and on the contrary felt a sensation of peaceful happiness.  He smiled and waved to the creatures, welcoming them.  

Then, as suddenly as they had come, they disappeared.  They and their ship were gone, the prairie was again silent, dark, and empty, and Billy Ray wondered if he had imagined it all. 

This 'sighting' was of course dismissed as pure fantasy.  The event was no different than the thousands portrayed in pulp fiction and sci-fi comics.  Wraith-like aliens descending a brightly-lit space ship and walking gracefully towards the observer? Straight out of Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind, stock footage, personal outtakes from hundreds of pages of comics and hundreds ore B-films. 

And yet....what if the reality were the reverse?  That the films and comic books were accurate depictions of a collective consciousness? Unlikely, but epistemologically quite possible.  Wasn't it Karl Jung who wrote extensively about this phenomenon? That we all are part of a universal perceptual experience that transcends time and history?

The stories of abductions were noted (as the Roswell Files would show) and recorded but with less patience and even less credibility than any other reported alien contacts.  Nevertheless, the archives were filled with tales of star travel. 

Not only the casual observer but the theoretical mathematician both come up with the same conclusion.  If the universe is infinite and expanding, and if it is filled with untold fantastical numbers of galaxies many of which have planets, the chances of intelligent life on any one of them is good.   Only a blind faith in the uniqueness of thee human race and an all-knowing, omnipotent, and omnipresent God have stood in the way of the facts. 

Perhaps the most telling sign of credence - that is belief the existence of extraterrestrial life - was the convocation of the Southern Baptist Convention to discuss Christianity's response to alien life.  Can they be saved?

 

At the convention may hypotheses were proposed - Jesus is God for the universe, and he will be known throughout it, so no need for evangelism.  Aliens are godless creatures in need of salvation and should be treated no differently than the tree-worshipping savages in Africa.  Aliens have their own God who is even more powerful than the Judeo-Christian one; and many more.  The only point being that these pastors who have long contemplated God and his Creation were seriously considering worlds beyond this one. 

Perhaps even more telling is the fact that deep in the underground warrens of the Pentagon, there is an ET (Extra-Terrestrial) unit.  As slight as the chances are for a hostile alien invasion force, it cannot be ignored.  Semper Paratus, the famous Marine Corps logo, was not meant only for earthly enemies. 

Philosophers, psychologists, and sociologists have long studied the possible impact of an alien arrival on earth.  In one fell swoop it would deny the millennia-long assumption that we are God's specially-favored creatures, that we are the intelligent life in the universe, and that we therefore rule.  What if the aliens were more intelligent? Not just quicker at calculations but able to do unimaginable things with their intelligence, create things out of nothing, be in two places at the same time, transform themselves from substance to light to energy? Act like God?

Alexander Hamilton argued long and hard with Thomas Jefferson about the nature of governance of the new American republic.  There must be some intermediary between the masses and supreme leadership - a body not unlike the British House of Lords filled with men of absolute rectitude, intellectual sophistication, and aristocratic principles which would filter the expected fol-de-rol coming from the unwashed.  Jefferson disagreed.  Nothing, he said, should interrupt or impede the will of the majority. 

Of course Hamilton was right. America is a morally chaotic nation, one without a central, guiding ethos, irretrievably scattered and politically balkanized into meaningless categories, and hopelessly ignorant about the workings of the world. 

Which is why United States governments - even those in power during progressive, socially caretaking years - have kept the Roswell Files secret.  If knowledge that a superiorly intelligent alien race was alive and well in the universe and had ideas for earth were known to this admixture of unschooled Americans, disaster would follow.  If COVID was any example - store shelves depleted in hours, rampant hoarding, frightening lockdowns and horrific pronouncements of doom - then imagine what things would be like if the existence of an extraterrestrial race were known. 

So it with expectation and not some trepidation that the President is about to declassify and publish The Roswell Files.  The nation is already abuzz with the likely release of the Epstein files and that's nothing compared to this.  Who cares who consorted with that buggering pedophile anyway?  Washington has always been a moral sinkhole; but this is a different story altogether. 

 

'Either there are or there aren't', said the President with his usual sangfroid, referring to extraterrestrial beings. 'Man up, deal with it', he said as anxious hands shot up from the press corps. 'What could be worse than four years of Sleepy Joe?'. 

The President vowed no editing, no redacting, no black Sharpie deletions.  The American public has a right to know, he went on.  My administration is all about transparency. 

There were of course alleged leaks of the files - unconfirmed reports that declassification would finally confirm the existence of non-human beings, that they had already been among us and had mated with us, beginning a new hybrid race that would populate Mars, etc. - but Americans were told to sit tight and wait. 'Trust me', the President said. 

The day of revelation is not far off, and we will not have to wait much longer.  Epstein, AOC, Putin, Iran, and bad Canadian air will soon be off the front page.  Most of us are convinced that we have been visited before, and if the Roswell Files tell us anything different, we won't believe them anyway; but all in all, we can't wait.  

The Journey Of An Unscrupulous Woman - From Simple Girl To Washington Comer, A Very American Success Story

Summer Forsythe - her name was thanks to the beautiful July day on which she was born - had been a precocious child, good at everything she tried her hand at but easily bored by the effort.  All the pliés, turnouts, and balletic steps of Mrs. Linder's dance class were a colossal waste of time, she thought, too young to articulate her growing feelings of special destiny and the frustration caused by nonsensical things put in her way. 

 

She was good at math - surprising for a girl, her teacher Mr. Grady suggested to Mr. Steege, the Headmaster of Muirwood Country Day School who had some ideas of his own for the precocious little girl who sat in the front row of his history class. 

 'A nymphet', he mused, thinking of Nabokov's Lolita, a delicious young thing that Humbert Humbert pursued to the very end; but of course Steege, principal of a school for well-behaved and brought-up children of New Brighton's upper classes, couldn't allow himself such thoughts and quickly turned to Reconstruction and the harsh punishment the radical Republican Congress inflicted on the South. 

Steege was a closet apologist for the Cavalier South, lover of antebellum mansions, hoop skirts, magnolia blossoms, and mint juleps. 'Now, those were the days', Steege was often heard saying about the glorious days of ladies and gentlemen, long allées of live oaks, grand lawns sweeping down towards the river, carriages, elegantly dressed men and women coming to dine.  Yet these sentiments, he felt, were contrary to the censorious sentiments of the day, so he stuck to the facts and figures of slavery, servitude, and free labor. 

In any case, and despite Steege's somewhat unconventional views, he was right about Summer. She was indeed a nymphet, a pre-pubescent girl with very post-pubescent desires, a dangerous girl, a girl to be reckoned with, a girl to be avoided at all costs. 

She was dismissive of boys her age, too infantile to know any better, and was seen with the upper form soccer players, going off in their Jaguars and Mercedes to road houses and raves in Wethersfield without her parents' consent of course, but destiny being what it was, Mom and Dad were kindly but insignificant. 

The exclusive New England school where she prepped for college wasn't quite sure what to do with this obviously brilliant but seductively devious girl.  They prided themselves on diversity, but weren't prepared for the kind Summer represented - a willful, demanding, girl seemingly untethered from any moral principle; arrogant to the point of dismissal but headed for some kind of recognition, her teachers all agreed. 

 

So, Harvard it was, la creme de la creme, only the best for her, and she whizzed through advanced calculus, number theory, and abstract mathematics so quickly that there was nothing for her in the undergraduate curriculum, so she took classes at MIT. 

Far too 'geeky' a place for her, she returned to her Cambridge apartment in the evening, dressed for a night out, and headed to Boston - Charlestown to be exact, the neighborhood which has produced more bank robbers and thieves than any community of comparable size, a tough place with the kind of tough guys Summer wanted to try out. Her life would be filled with men like these, perhaps not so crude, but with the same violent misbehavior to which she was drawn. 

She took up with Albert Flannagan, 'construction worker' hoodlum, known to the FBI but elusive enough to remain on the streets.  She met him in a bar, and he, a sucker for beautiful blonde townies like her, made a move to which she responded quickly.  They would teach each other things, special things. 

Of course Charlestown and Flannagan were just whistle stops on her way ahead, so after a few years at MIT - the most promising PhD in theoretical mathematics the university had ever seen - she headed to Washington for a position with Defense Intelligence.  Code breaking, the stock in trade of smart mathematicians since Alan Turing, was her assignment; but it wasn't long before that became a sidelight.  She hadn't come to Washington to fiddle with numbers. 

All well and good, except that the casual observer could not really believe that any woman could possibly have the combination of a precocious, demanding sexuality and intellectual brilliance.  One or the other would be enough in anyone; but here was the exception to the rule.  A woman of remarkable intelligence, irresistible allure, and Nietzschean will.  God did not make many like her. 

This, however, is exactly the kind of woman that Washington thrives on - an amoral, ambitious, highly intelligent and sexually savvy woman who will stop at nothing to get what she wants; a woman that Washington Type A men found irresistible.  After all sexual challenge was no different than geopolitical conflict, both requiring degrees of insight, calculation, and intimidation. 

Her job at the Defense Department was her entree to official Washington.  Such a high-level appointment to a clandestine service was her key card.  Enough said, doors opened; and so it was that Summer's real career began. 

It began with a Western Congressman in whose district was vast wealth - millions of tons of the rare earth elements that are essential for all cell phones and computers.  Although he was a rube, a simpleton who was elected thanks to his homespun offerings long before lanthanum was discovered in the ground, he was treated like royalty after its discovery.  Any politician sitting on that treasure would be sought after, and because of his eager ingenuousness, he was an easy mark.  

Summer wanted his attention, and because of her calling card bypassed the supplicants crowding into his antechamber and met the man in private.  Intelligence and quickness of wit were not the issue with this clueless man but sexual interest was.  Pulling out her divining rod, Summer knew after a few passes what his heart desired, and in a marvelously-woven fantasy of sexual innuendo and promise, she hooked him and reeled him in. 

The affair was managed well and surprisingly for Washington was never suspected let alone found out; and before long she was privy to the most profitable arrangements the Congressman had with Zephyr Mining, Inc., the principal company selected to mine, process, and sell the increasingly valuable earth elements sitting under the Congressman's feet.  Not only was she privy to them, she was invited to share the wealth.  

 

Her code-breaking was excellent cover.  If needs be, her moonlighting for Zephyr could easily be explained as a national security enterprise; but there was no need, and with the occasional sexual favors provided to the Congressman and the promise of many more to the CEO of Zephyr, the deal was as locked tight as could be. 

Why is this story so troubling to many? Washington is known for its amoral venality, for its unabashed ambition, and its limitless hunger for power and money; so why the fuss about a young, attractive, brilliant woman who took advantage of all of it?

Feminists should be happy that such a woman existed - a woman of brilliance, independence, and will who used her feminine allure to good advantage over men.  Men of power and ambition should be happy to cross swords with an equal, regardless of gender.  All of Washington should be pleased to welcome one of their own. 

Only the governed, the credulous Americans who vote in the likes of Congressman X and ignore the shenanigans in the Capitol and on K Street, would be unhappy to hear of Summer's cavorting.  A nice girl like that, imagine. 

Like most comers, she came, made her fortune, and left the bank.  Her whereabouts are unknown although there have been alleged sightings in Coeur d'Alene, Biloxi, and Martha's Vineyard.  The only unfortunate part of all this is that this marvelously American story will never be told. Few people will ever know of the genius of Summer Forsythe and how she took official Washington for a ride they will never forget. 

The Epstein List - No Surprises There Except One

Of course Donald Trump's name is on the Jeffrey Epstein list as well as a hundred others of the Washington establishment. There is nothing new or surprising about the sexual affairs of state, the basic perk of office, the sine qua non of political life.  Why would one get into politics if there were not some reward?

 

The list of philanderers, adulterers, cheats, and cads is endless, from the high-end JFK who bedded starlets and spies, to the low-end LBJ who used the Secret Service to pimp for him, an easy job because the busy President simply wanted sex, any sex, as often as an African man for whom, to paraphrase the old Italian adage, 'Una giornata senza sesso è come una giornata senza sole'. 

Former Governor of New York, Eliot Spitzer, enjoyed weekend trysts with call girls in the honeymoon suite of the Mayflower.  When outed and asked why, he said he said as a busy man doing the nation's business, he had no time for love. He was dunned out of office for his indiscretions, but insisted that he had done no wrong. 

Dominique Strauss-Kahn, an important French politician in line for the presidency, outed for having orgiastic sex with prostitutes at all night Paris parties. 'How was I to know they were prostitutes?', he replied. 'All women look the same with their clothes off'. The glorious chutzpah of the man!

Every President in US history with the possible exception of Jimmy Carter who admitted that he lusted after women but never acted on his desires has had affairs.  Even the jowly, humorless Richard Nixon had his cinq a septs and joined the Roosevelts, Taft, and old, pinched, sour Calvin Coolidge in infidelity. 

'Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac', said Henry Kissinger, an elixir for the men who have it and for the women who want it.  Former French Presidents Sarkozy and Mitterrand were not shy about their affairs.  Sarkozy's lover had a bedchamber in the Elysees Palace, and Mitterrand's mistress and illegitimate daughter stood grieving by his grave along with his wife and children.

The one surprise on the Epstein list was that of Macdonald Roberts who because he was far more adept at bald chicanery than Frank Abagnale, Jr., Ferdinand Demara, The Great Imposter, Rudy Kurniawan, wine fraudster, and Bernie Madoff all put together, was unheard of and unknown.  And yet he was Epstein's pimp extraordinaire, his go-between, his fixer, a man in the shadows, slipping in and out of the light, working his seductive magic, without which Epstein's stable would have been empty. 

Roberts was a magician, a trickster who sold twenty-volume phantom sets of the Encyclopedia Britannica when he as a college student, made thousands as a tin man, conning homeowners into imaginary aluminum siding, graduated into Glen Garry, Glen Ross investment fraud, and then worked his way into Washington where the real money was as a comer, a political genius, a campaign strategist, and - to the point of this story - high-class gofer for Jeffrey Epstein. 

Yes, Epstein was a pedophile, sex magnet, Barnum & Bailey showman with  mansions, yachts, five-star everything as honeypots for young girls and fabulously exotic weekends for the rich and famous. 

However, without Macdonald Roberts, he never would have had the company of the best and the brightest.  You see, Roberts in addition to being the master impersonator and the consummate con man, was also a brilliant sexual intermediary.  At a glance he knew exactly what Congressman X wanted in bed, or what Senator Y dreamed of, or what West Wing Aide Z had once imagined but never had.  

Macdonald had a divining rod, an almost magical sense of finding human weakness and making the satisfaction of prurient desire seem as normal as buying a loaf of bread.  He was a genius and was recognized by Epstein early on.  The unidentified man in the background of photos with the young Donald Trump and Epstein was Macdonald as was the one on the private plane bound for the Epstein manor in the Caribbean.  

 

Invisibility was part of his con, part of the necessary subterfuge to keep a fantastically successful business going.  Epstein showered millions on him, and he was gifted millions more by grateful johns. 

To be honest, it didn't take much for Macdonald to play the part of brilliant sexual entrepreneur.  Washington has always been the locus of sexual desire - the place to be to feel the testosterone surge and the heady aphrodisiac of power.  Politicians cheated, lied, and misinformed to hide their indiscretions; but soon after their tearful apologies went right ahead with their sexual escapades and bald excuses. 

Senator John Edwards tapped a close aide to claim paternity of his bastard child, the Governor of North Carolina who went on a fugue to Buenos Aires to join his Argentine lover, said he had been hiking the Appalachian Trail.  Newt Gingrich left his wife to die of cancer in a Washington hospital while he cavorted with his paramour.  

Televangelists like Jimmy Swaggart bawled on prime time television, begging for forgiveness for his sexual wanderings, and promising to return to the righteous, holy path of Jesus; and no sooner did the wailing and rending of garments pass, then he was found in flagrante delicto with an Arkansas chippie.  Incorrigible, reprehensible for a man of God perhaps, but no man can resist the enticements of a beautiful young woman. 

Sexual meandering is Washington's perfect storm - men of power, older men, in the heady atmosphere of privilege and renown cannot possibly resist blandishment and seduction.  Men like Donald Trump who as a young real estate mogul enjoyed every last bit of the New York sexual free-for-all, partying like a trooper, loving sequins, tinsel, and faux diamonds, squiring the city's most desirable women and loving its libertine, anything-goes life, never thought much about consequences.  Rich men didn't have to. 

There have been high-class call girl rings in Washington since the beginning.  While Washington, Jefferson, and Hamilton managed their own sexual affairs - beautiful mulatto slave women were there for the having - it wasn't long before the business of selling sexual favors became a growing concern. 

The famous Madame X whose sexual empire was a Fortune 500-worthy enterprise, ran a successful high-end bordello for Washington's power brokers, and her lists which were made public were exhaustive.  Politicians went scurrying for cover during the scandal, but America forgives easily, and with heartfelt apologies, they were forgiven, pardoned, and welcomed back. 

Now, God only knows what awful things Jeffery Epstein and his wife arranged - allegations of child sexual abuse, pornography, sexual slavery, and worse have been alleged and some proven; and Epstein was likely murdered in prison to keep his mouth shut; but things sexual, like all things, occur on a bell curve.  There are minor peccadilloes at one asymptote, horrific happenings at the other, with most indiscretions falling under the big curve - nothing exceptional, weekends in the Shenandoah, 'working late' rendezvous, lazy indiscretions at best.  

 

Macdonald Roberts never cared about the bell curve - the ups and downs, slides and elisions of sexual behavior.  He only wanted to profit from it - that is to service through the offices of Epstein clients who were of every possible sexual ilk.  It was because of this marvelous confluence of power, eternal male sexual desire, and the sense of invulnerability that power confers that Macdonald became a rich man. 

When the Epstein list is made public and Macdonald's name appears on it, the press will only say, 'Macdonald who?'.  A surprise revelation, but since he was not a player, not a recognizable face in the Washington pantheon, not even a backroom influencer of any note, his page was turned, and the yellow journalists salivated over the biggies, the men of power caught with their pants down with the most smarmy man ever. 

After Epstein's death Macdonald faded away which took little doing since he was never in the spotlight and because he was a natural chameleon, and to this day there have been imagined sightings of him everywhere.