The world is in peril as a result of information warfare against Western Civilization. Saggezza Eterna defends the West. 🇺🇸🇮🇹🇨🇦🇬🇧
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NEW RELEASE + VIDEO TEASER
Read the Introduction of The Red Aristocrat free below:
If you like my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing my latest book, "The Red Aristocrat."
Available now in hardcover, paperback, Kindle, Kindle Unlimited (FREE), and audiobook!
I often get asked "where I learned all this stuff".
The Red Aristocrat explains it all...
My grandmother Omi sat by my bed on the bad nights and told me stories about clocks. My bed was made up entirely in red, and the maids began to call me "Our red boy." In their mouths it was the most tender name I have ever been given.
Years later, I heard that name again, and it meant something very different.
If you'd like to know the crucible that shaped me, and "what you do next" when the people closest to you turn against you, The Red Aristocrat is available now. It's a novel inspired by real events followed by over 200 pages of what you can do to avoid the catastrophe that I faced throughout my own life.
I paid for this knowledge with my own blood and my wish for you is that you and your loved ones will never have to go through what I did.
Sample:
Warning Signs That You Have Slipped Back into Prey
1. You are waiting for someone to rescue you.
2. You are hoping the predator will change.
3. You have stopped writing things down.
4. You are shrinking your ambitions so that others will feel comfortable.
5. You have let a single person become the gatekeeper of your money, your home, or your peace.
6. You feel guilty for protecting yourself.
7. You have told someone your plan before it was finished. And watch, too, for the opposite failure:
8. You have begun to feed on the weak. If you find yourself enjoying the pain of people who cannot fight back, you have become a scavenger, which is what my grandfather was. Turn back.
The Red Aristocrat is out now: amazon.com/dp/B0HND1P5VQ
Your generosity is directly helping fund the legal battle and attorney fighting to help me retrieve my rightful inheritance. Thank you everyone!
“The most lethal form of evil never breaks the law; it
operates strictly within it. It wears impeccable
manners, speaks with quiet refinement, and uses the
machinery of virtue to mask absolute cruelty. It does
not look like chaos. It looks like a beautifully managed
estate, a shared lawyer, and a signed ledger that leaves
you entirely dispossessed while the world applauds
their righteousness.”
—Nicola Rolando Francesco
INTRODUCTION
The Anatomy of a Trap
When I was four years old, I bled from my eyes in my sleep.
It came in the night, without pain, a thin dark thread from the corner of each eye that ran down my temples and into the pillow, and in the morning the maid who came to open the shutters would find me sitting up in a bed that looked like a crime scene. The doctors at the Allgemeines Krankenhaus had a Greek word for it, haemolacria, and a reassuring tone: rare, startling, harmless, likely to pass with age. My mother held me through every examination. My grandmother Omi sat by my bed on the bad nights and told me stories about clocks. And my grandfather, Opapa, a man who audited the household laundry bills the way other men read the morning paper, looked at the ruined white linen one week too many and gave an order.
From that day forward, my bed at Franziskanerplatz was made up entirely in red. Red sheets, red pillowcases, a red eiderdown, all in a deep oxblood damask that would never show a stain. He did it to save on bleach.
But the maids made it a kindness. They chose the softest cloth in Vienna. They ironed my pillowcases with lavender water. On the back stairs and in the warm kitchen, where I was fed bread and butter and spoiled by every cook in the house, they began to call me unser roter Bub. Our red boy. In their mouths it was the most tender name I have ever been given.
I was eight when I heard it again, in another mouth, on another continent, with a capital letter added. I will tell you that morning in its place. For now it is enough to say that my family was capable of taking a name given to me in love and turning it, in a single sentence over breakfast, into a diagnosis, a warning, and a sentence of exile.
That is what this book is about. There is blood in it, but the subject is the moment a thing given in love is seized by people who do not love you and turned into a weapon. And it is about what you do next.
The most lethal form of evil rarely breaks the law; it prefers to operate strictly within it. It wears impeccable manners, speaks with quiet refinement, and uses the machinery of virtue to mask cruelty so complete that the people standing closest to it cannot see it at all. It looks like a beautifully managed estate, a family lawyer, a signed will, a funeral notice in the correct typeface. It leaves you entirely dispossessed while the world applauds its righteousness, and when at last it does break the law, as it always does, it has arranged in advance for no one to believe you.
I was born into the center of that labyrinth: the first district of Vienna, the Innere Stadt, on a small square of red marble and old bells called Franziskanerplatz. My family possessed generational wealth, a collection of antique clocks worth more than most banks, chevron parquet floors, winters in St. Moritz and Lech, and the unassailable prestige of what society likes to call blue blood.
Let me dispense with the romance at once. Blue blood is stagnant water. It is buried secrets, backroom deals, and sheltered parasites who have never had to fight for a breath. My family believed their lineage made them untouchable. They forgot that when you cut an aristocrat, what comes out is the same rot that built the estate.
For thirty years I watched a patriarchal syndicate, led by my grandfather and his most obedient daughter, wage a war of attrition against my mother and me. You will meet them all. You will sit at my eighth birthday in a stone mansion in Montreal and wait for a gift that never arrives, and you will listen to the explanation, and you will notice, as I did, who asked no questions. You will stand in a stable on a cold afternoon beside a horse that knew something the humans did not. You will stand in the rain across from a townhouse on a Thursday night, watching a single lit window, and you will learn what I learned there about how far a polite man will go. You will walk with me into a church dressed for mourning, and you will feel, before I could explain it, how wrong the silence of that nave was.
And they nearly won. They isolated me and stripped away my birthright, and for two decades they told Vienna I was unstable, the bleeding boy, the boy who belonged in Steinhof. They had to make me a monster, because if anyone ever looked closely at me, they would see what was standing behind me.
I have not written a memoir of victimhood. Two other women stood in that house, and they are the reason I am alive to write it.
The first was my grandmother, Omi, who owned the fortune my grandfather spent, who wound her clocks with a brass key every Sunday of my childhood, and who pressed her foot against mine under the dinner table whenever his voice sharpened, in the only language she could afford. I see it. I am here. Endure.
The second was my mother, Constanzia. If you take only one thing from Part I, let it be her. She was the most loved hostess of her generation in Vienna, a woman whose Carnival balls and candlelit suppers of soup and Schubert became legends in a city that does not hand out legends cheaply. She painted. She played bridge like a mathematician and refused to cheat even when cheating would have been invisible. She went down into the snow in a ball gown to carry hot wine to the chauffeurs. Everyone loved her, from archduchesses to doormen, everyone except the people who shared her blood and could not forgive her for having what no money could buy.
And she trained me. “Shoulders back. Do not blink,” she whispered before every dinner. “Who was afraid tonight?” she asked after every one. She taught me to watch faces the way other children watched cartoons. She taught me that information was the only inheritance no one could contest. What she was raising was a witness, and a witness with enough time and enough paper becomes something far less forgiving.
They thought they were isolating a broken child. They were teaching him to keep a ledger.
This book is in two parts, and you need both.
Part I: The Bloodline Trap is the story of my life, from the red sheets, through the morning the federal police broke down the doors of Franziskanerplatz, to my thirty-seventh birthday. It is written as I lived it, scene by scene, because I want you inside those rooms: at the bridge table in Montreal, under the cathedral pews, in the paddock, on the servants’ stair of my aunt’s house, on the upper corridor of my grandmother’s.
Some names in it have been changed. Not to protect the guilty; they had every protection money could buy, and they used it. I have changed them for the people who were caught in the family’s machinery without ever choosing it: the staff who carried trays and kept their heads down because they had children to feed, the cook who risked her place to carry a note, the girl who ran through the rain, and the children who will one day inherit names they did nothing to earn. And I have changed them because some of what you will read is still before the courts, and because a family like mine does not stop reaching simply because it has been exposed. In my world anonymity is armor. I have issued it to those who need it.
Part II: The Doctrine of Defense is what I paid for with those thirty years. Fifteen chapters, each built the same way: a real scene from Part I, the principle it taught me, the warning signs, the exact words to say, the steps to take, and an exercise to do before you sleep. It will teach you to recognize a predator in your own family, office, marriage, or circle of friends; to decode the gift that is really a leash and the label that is really a cage; and to answer them with the one force they cannot survive: a person who is calm, documented, and done asking permission.
I will not apologize for Part II. It is cold because the truth about people is cold. It will tell you to amputate your grief, to scorn the desire to be loved, and to become the predator in the only sense that matters. You will find no comfort in it that has not been earned. The two women who taught me everything in it gave the best parties in Vienna, and they were the hardest people I have ever known. Those two facts were never in conflict, and by the end of this book you will understand why.
If you read these pages carefully, you will lose a certain innocence. A generous gift will never look quite the same to you again, and neither will a sudden apology. In exchange, you will gain sovereignty over your own mind.
The red sheets were meant to hide the stain. Opapa’s camp made them a brand; I have made the brand a banner.
Welcome to the abattoir.
The Red Aristocrat is out now: amazon.com/dp/B0HND1P5VQ
Video teaser:
The Nasdaq fell 5.5% Thursday, its worst day since April 2025. Reuters reported investor fears of tighter AI regulation after Democratic election wins. Valuation worries also weighed on tech stocks.
Texas Gov.-elect Gina Hinojosa meanwhile pledged to halt new data-center development until protections pass.
Protect residents. Make developers pay their infrastructure costs. But explain how freezing construction helps America compete.
Markets partly recovered Friday. The policy question remains: will Democrats make building cheaper and more accountable, or simply harder?
A moratorium isn't an energy strategy.
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
NEW RELEASE + VIDEO TEASER
Read the Introduction of The Red Aristocrat free below:
If you like my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing my latest book, "The Red Aristocrat."
Available now in hardcover, paperback, Kindle, Kindle Unlimited (FREE), and audiobook!
I often get asked "where I learned all this stuff".
The Red Aristocrat explains it all...
My grandmother Omi sat by my bed on the bad nights and told me stories about clocks. My bed was made up entirely in red, and the maids began to call me "Our red boy." In their mouths it was the most tender name I have ever been given.
Years later, I heard that name again, and it meant something very different.
If you'd like to know the crucible that shaped me, and "what you do next" when the people closest to you turn against you, The Red Aristocrat is available now. It's a novel inspired by real events followed by over 200 pages of what you can do to avoid the catastrophe that I faced throughout my own life.
I paid for this knowledge with my own blood and my wish for you is that you and your loved ones will never have to go through what I did.
Sample:
Warning Signs That You Have Slipped Back into Prey
1. You are waiting for someone to rescue you.
2. You are hoping the predator will change.
3. You have stopped writing things down.
4. You are shrinking your ambitions so that others will feel comfortable.
5. You have let a single person become the gatekeeper of your money, your home, or your peace.
6. You feel guilty for protecting yourself.
7. You have told someone your plan before it was finished. And watch, too, for the opposite failure:
8. You have begun to feed on the weak. If you find yourself enjoying the pain of people who cannot fight back, you have become a scavenger, which is what my grandfather was. Turn back.
The Red Aristocrat is out now: amazon.com/dp/B0HND1P5VQ
Your generosity is directly helping fund the legal battle and attorney fighting to help me retrieve my rightful inheritance. Thank you everyone!
“The most lethal form of evil never breaks the law; it
operates strictly within it. It wears impeccable
manners, speaks with quiet refinement, and uses the
machinery of virtue to mask absolute cruelty. It does
not look like chaos. It looks like a beautifully managed
estate, a shared lawyer, and a signed ledger that leaves
you entirely dispossessed while the world applauds
their righteousness.”
—Nicola Rolando Francesco
INTRODUCTION
The Anatomy of a Trap
When I was four years old, I bled from my eyes in my sleep.
It came in the night, without pain, a thin dark thread from the corner of each eye that ran down my temples and into the pillow, and in the morning the maid who came to open the shutters would find me sitting up in a bed that looked like a crime scene. The doctors at the Allgemeines Krankenhaus had a Greek word for it, haemolacria, and a reassuring tone: rare, startling, harmless, likely to pass with age. My mother held me through every examination. My grandmother Omi sat by my bed on the bad nights and told me stories about clocks. And my grandfather, Opapa, a man who audited the household laundry bills the way other men read the morning paper, looked at the ruined white linen one week too many and gave an order.
From that day forward, my bed at Franziskanerplatz was made up entirely in red. Red sheets, red pillowcases, a red eiderdown, all in a deep oxblood damask that would never show a stain. He did it to save on bleach.
But the maids made it a kindness. They chose the softest cloth in Vienna. They ironed my pillowcases with lavender water. On the back stairs and in the warm kitchen, where I was fed bread and butter and spoiled by every cook in the house, they began to call me unser roter Bub. Our red boy. In their mouths it was the most tender name I have ever been given.
I was eight when I heard it again, in another mouth, on another continent, with a capital letter added. I will tell you that morning in its place. For now it is enough to say that my family was capable of taking a name given to me in love and turning it, in a single sentence over breakfast, into a diagnosis, a warning, and a sentence of exile.
That is what this book is about. There is blood in it, but the subject is the moment a thing given in love is seized by people who do not love you and turned into a weapon. And it is about what you do next.
The most lethal form of evil rarely breaks the law; it prefers to operate strictly within it. It wears impeccable manners, speaks with quiet refinement, and uses the machinery of virtue to mask cruelty so complete that the people standing closest to it cannot see it at all. It looks like a beautifully managed estate, a family lawyer, a signed will, a funeral notice in the correct typeface. It leaves you entirely dispossessed while the world applauds its righteousness, and when at last it does break the law, as it always does, it has arranged in advance for no one to believe you.
I was born into the center of that labyrinth: the first district of Vienna, the Innere Stadt, on a small square of red marble and old bells called Franziskanerplatz. My family possessed generational wealth, a collection of antique clocks worth more than most banks, chevron parquet floors, winters in St. Moritz and Lech, and the unassailable prestige of what society likes to call blue blood.
Let me dispense with the romance at once. Blue blood is stagnant water. It is buried secrets, backroom deals, and sheltered parasites who have never had to fight for a breath. My family believed their lineage made them untouchable. They forgot that when you cut an aristocrat, what comes out is the same rot that built the estate.
For thirty years I watched a patriarchal syndicate, led by my grandfather and his most obedient daughter, wage a war of attrition against my mother and me. You will meet them all. You will sit at my eighth birthday in a stone mansion in Montreal and wait for a gift that never arrives, and you will listen to the explanation, and you will notice, as I did, who asked no questions. You will stand in a stable on a cold afternoon beside a horse that knew something the humans did not. You will stand in the rain across from a townhouse on a Thursday night, watching a single lit window, and you will learn what I learned there about how far a polite man will go. You will walk with me into a church dressed for mourning, and you will feel, before I could explain it, how wrong the silence of that nave was.
And they nearly won. They isolated me and stripped away my birthright, and for two decades they told Vienna I was unstable, the bleeding boy, the boy who belonged in Steinhof. They had to make me a monster, because if anyone ever looked closely at me, they would see what was standing behind me.
I have not written a memoir of victimhood. Two other women stood in that house, and they are the reason I am alive to write it.
The first was my grandmother, Omi, who owned the fortune my grandfather spent, who wound her clocks with a brass key every Sunday of my childhood, and who pressed her foot against mine under the dinner table whenever his voice sharpened, in the only language she could afford. I see it. I am here. Endure.
The second was my mother, Constanzia. If you take only one thing from Part I, let it be her. She was the most loved hostess of her generation in Vienna, a woman whose Carnival balls and candlelit suppers of soup and Schubert became legends in a city that does not hand out legends cheaply. She painted. She played bridge like a mathematician and refused to cheat even when cheating would have been invisible. She went down into the snow in a ball gown to carry hot wine to the chauffeurs. Everyone loved her, from archduchesses to doormen, everyone except the people who shared her blood and could not forgive her for having what no money could buy.
And she trained me. “Shoulders back. Do not blink,” she whispered before every dinner. “Who was afraid tonight?” she asked after every one. She taught me to watch faces the way other children watched cartoons. She taught me that information was the only inheritance no one could contest. What she was raising was a witness, and a witness with enough time and enough paper becomes something far less forgiving.
They thought they were isolating a broken child. They were teaching him to keep a ledger.
This book is in two parts, and you need both.
Part I: The Bloodline Trap is the story of my life, from the red sheets, through the morning the federal police broke down the doors of Franziskanerplatz, to my thirty-seventh birthday. It is written as I lived it, scene by scene, because I want you inside those rooms: at the bridge table in Montreal, under the cathedral pews, in the paddock, on the servants’ stair of my aunt’s house, on the upper corridor of my grandmother’s.
Some names in it have been changed. Not to protect the guilty; they had every protection money could buy, and they used it. I have changed them for the people who were caught in the family’s machinery without ever choosing it: the staff who carried trays and kept their heads down because they had children to feed, the cook who risked her place to carry a note, the girl who ran through the rain, and the children who will one day inherit names they did nothing to earn. And I have changed them because some of what you will read is still before the courts, and because a family like mine does not stop reaching simply because it has been exposed. In my world anonymity is armor. I have issued it to those who need it.
Part II: The Doctrine of Defense is what I paid for with those thirty years. Fifteen chapters, each built the same way: a real scene from Part I, the principle it taught me, the warning signs, the exact words to say, the steps to take, and an exercise to do before you sleep. It will teach you to recognize a predator in your own family, office, marriage, or circle of friends; to decode the gift that is really a leash and the label that is really a cage; and to answer them with the one force they cannot survive: a person who is calm, documented, and done asking permission.
I will not apologize for Part II. It is cold because the truth about people is cold. It will tell you to amputate your grief, to scorn the desire to be loved, and to become the predator in the only sense that matters. You will find no comfort in it that has not been earned. The two women who taught me everything in it gave the best parties in Vienna, and they were the hardest people I have ever known. Those two facts were never in conflict, and by the end of this book you will understand why.
If you read these pages carefully, you will lose a certain innocence. A generous gift will never look quite the same to you again, and neither will a sudden apology. In exchange, you will gain sovereignty over your own mind.
The red sheets were meant to hide the stain. Opapa’s camp made them a brand; I have made the brand a banner.
Welcome to the abattoir.
The Red Aristocrat is out now: amazon.com/dp/B0HND1P5VQ
Video teaser:
A federal planning commission approved Trump's proposed 250-foot Triumphal Arch, 8-4. Hours later, Judge Tanya Chutkan paused construction for 14 days at D.C. and Virginia's request.
Opponents dispute congressional authorization. Traffic disruptions also figured in the ruling. Those legal questions deserve answers.
Rep. Jared Huffman says the arch "would dishonor America."
That's a political judgment, Congressman. Disliking Trump's taste isn't a legal argument.
Paris has the Arc de Triomphe. Washington has planning approval, litigation and another argument about whether celebrating America is embarrassing.
A federal planning commission approved Trump's proposed 250-foot Triumphal Arch, 8-4. Hours later, Judge Tanya Chutkan paused construction for 14 days at D.C. and Virginia's request.
Opponents dispute congressional authorization. Traffic disruptions also figured in the ruling. Those legal questions deserve answers.
Rep. Jared Huffman says the arch "would dishonor America."
That's a political judgment, Congressman. Disliking Trump's taste isn't a legal argument.
Paris has the Arc de Triomphe. Washington has planning approval, litigation and another argument about whether celebrating America is embarrassing.
Washington voters approved Initiative 638, restricting girls' school sports to students born female. KIRO reports AP called it passed.
The ACLU of Washington opposes it. Reuters reports Washington also elected Democrats to a majority of its state and federal seats.
Apparently voting Democrat doesn't require buying the entire progressive policy bundle.
Girls' sports exist for a reason. A meaningful female category deserves defending, regardless of which party wins Congress.
The left can celebrate its seats. It still has to answer voters who rejected this part of its cultural agenda.
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
Trump declared the Oval Office a national monument Thursday, covering the Oval Office, Outer Oval and Cabinet Room.
His explanation: it should not be "destroyed, ripped down by stupid people, in order to build something in a slightly different shape."
Future presidents can redecorate. The proclamation aims to protect the architecture.
Good. The presidency belongs to the country. Its historic rooms should outlast the ambitions of whoever temporarily occupies them.
Win an election, change the policies. You inherited a piece of American history, not permission to erase it.
Socialism is theft.
Communism is theft.
Satanic globalism is theft.
Islam is theft.
THE LEFT IS THEFT.
Axios reports Vance has been pushing a new Iran deal. CENTCOM today announced Task Force Iron Gate to disrupt Iranian supply and revenue routes over land and through the Caspian Sea.
Its targets include advanced weapons, dual-use technology and sanctioned materials. CENTCOM says the aim is to constrain Tehran's ability to finance terrorism and rebuild its military.
Negotiation and pressure can coexist. A regime shouldn't get sanctions relief merely for showing up to discuss the conduct that earned the sanctions.
Talk from strength. Demand verifiable concessions. A meeting is no substitute for a result.
Jennifer Welch and Angie Sullivan read someone else's post about digging up Charlie Kirk "and doing it again." Mediaite reports they laughed for more than 20 seconds.
Cash App's response: "We do not condone violence of any kind, and we are no longer sponsors of this podcast."
Reading someone else's words doesn't make your laughter someone else's responsibility.
Conservatives hear plenty of lectures about dangerous rhetoric. Here's a simple standard: political assassination should horrify you even when you despise the victim's politics.
Decency that stops at party lines is partisanship wearing a halo.
Ayanna Pressley's post-election agenda: Medicare for All, reparations and abolishing ICE. On Friday, she added universal childcare, paid leave and "No more incrementalism."
That's a substantial wish list to attach to an affordability campaign.
Before Washington promises another benefit, ask who pays. Before it abolishes an enforcement agency, ask who enforces the law.
Conservatives should make the argument without flinching: taxpayers have limits, borders require enforcement, and winning a House majority doesn't settle either question.
A bigger government still has to send somebody the bill.
Democrats campaigned on affordability. Reuters now reports their House and Senate aides say increasing Ukraine aid will be a top priority in January.
The grocery bill is domestic. The spending ambition remains international.
Russia's invasion deserves condemnation. American taxpayers deserve a spending limit, a clear objective and an exit strategy before Washington signs another package.
America First means American families get first consideration. Supporting Ukraine doesn't give Congress unlimited access to your wallet.
Campaign on the kitchen table. Get elected. Start discussing someone else's tab.
Jason Reding Quiñones resigned Friday as U.S. attorney for Southern Florida. He led DOJ's "grand conspiracy" investigation into officials involved in earlier Trump investigations. NBC reports no charges have been filed so far.
National Security Division chief John Eisenberg also resigned.
Conservatives deserve more than personnel announcements and promises of accountability.
If officials abused their power, establish it with evidence. Bring cases that survive court scrutiny. Explain what the public can legally be told.
A dramatic investigation title isn't accountability. A resignation isn't a verdict.
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
If you like my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing my latest book, "The Red Aristocrat."
Available now in hardcover, paperback, Kindle, Kindle Unlimited (FREE), and audiobook!
I often get asked where I learned all this. Well, The Red Aristocrat explains it all...
My grandmother Omi sat by my bed on the bad nights and told me stories about clocks. My bed was made up entirely in red, and the maids began to call me "Our red boy." In their mouths it was the most tender name I have ever been given.
Years later, I heard that name again, and it meant something very different.
If you'd like to know the crucible that shaped me, and "what you do next" when the people closest to you turn against you, The Red Aristocrat is available now. It's a novel inspired by real events.
"When a predator commands the stage, the naive watch the performance. The sovereign mind watches the hands. If you have built the case correctly, your enemies will finish it for you."
The Red Aristocrat is out now: amazon.com/dp/B0HND1P5VQ
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
Los Angeles just traded Karen Bass for a Democratic Socialist.
NBC News projects Nithya Raman will be the next mayor. Bass conceded Thursday. Raman belongs to the Democratic Socialists of America, and its Los Angeles chapter endorsed her.
New York already has Mayor Zohran Mamdani. America's two largest cities will now be led by democratic socialists.
Conservatives should stop treating that label as campaign decoration. Ask the practical questions: how much government, whose property, which taxes, and who pays?
Blue America's answer to disappointment is another turn left. Keep the receipts.
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
The mid terms were "won" by cheating. President Trump told us election fraud would not be tolerated. Let the tribunals begin.
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
These mid terms have made one thing really clear. Voting for Republicans was voting for the Uniparty. Voting for Democrats was voting for the Uniparty.
The Uniparty has betrayed America and it's been like that for a very long time. MAGA was supposed to send the Uniparty packing. MAGA was supposed to arrest the EVIL bigwigs like Obama, Hilary, Fauci, Gates. Looks like the main thing MAGA has done
is get the good hard-working people of America to provide more taxes for the Uniparty to steal and give to their supporters.
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
Democrats won the House. Now a petition wants their own leader kept away from the Speaker's chair.
More than 666,000 people have signed a Changeorg petition opposing Hakeem Jeffries, Anadolu reported Friday. Launched in September, it urges Democrats to reject him in January and hold a competitive contest.
The petition challenges his donor record and establishment credentials.
Conservatives should watch what happens next: does the Democratic establishment hold firm, or does its left flank demand another concession?
Winning the gavel doesn't settle who gets to wield it.
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
Chuck Schumer told AP that Democrats will not allow a "right-winger" onto the Supreme Court. He also said they are "not going to allow any crappy nominees" for the federal judiciary or Trump's Cabinet.
Asked whether Democrats would hold a Supreme Court vacancy open until after the next presidential election, Schumer declined to say.
Remember the outrage over McConnell blocking Merrick Garland in 2016? Keep that standard handy.
The Senate can reject nominees. Conservatives can demand that the people who preached institutional principle explain when obstruction became respectable again.
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
Balkanization is the fragmentation or division of a larger region, state, or society into smaller, mutually hostile groups or factions, often based on ethnicity, culture, or political identity.
In contemporary politics, the Left actively drives the balkanization of society through the relentless enforcement of identity politics. By obsessively categorizing citizens into hyper-specific, grievance-based factions, progressive ideologies demand allegiance to a tribal group rather than the nation itself. This deliberate fracturing destroys shared cultural values and civic unity, replacing a cohesive society with a chaotic web of competing victimhoods that the Left manipulates for electoral power.
The term originated in the early 20th century following the aftermath of the First World War. It was coined to describe the geopolitical fragmentation of the Balkan Peninsula in Europe. The collapse of the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires left the region divided into several smaller, ethnically defined, and frequently warring states. Over the decades, the word evolved from a strictly geopolitical descriptor into a broader sociological term used to describe any unified system breaking down into antagonistic factions.
For example:
"By pandering to radical enclaves and refusing to demand assimilation, the Left's policies have guaranteed the cultural balkanization of our cities; their handling of the Muslim issue—cheering for parallel societies that openly reject Western values—proves they would rather fracture the country than admit their multicultural utopia is a complete failure."
Saggezza Eterna retweeted
If you like my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing my latest book, "The Red Aristocrat."
Available now in hardcover, paperback, Kindle, Kindle Unlimited (FREE), and audiobook!
I often get asked where I learned all this. Well, The Red Aristocrat explains it all...
My grandmother Omi sat by my bed on the bad nights and told me stories about clocks. My bed was made up entirely in red, and the maids began to call me "Our red boy." In their mouths it was the most tender name I have ever been given.
Years later, I heard that name again, and it meant something very different.
If you'd like to know the crucible that shaped me, and "what you do next" when the people closest to you turn against you, The Red Aristocrat is available now. It's a novel inspired by real events.
"When a predator commands the stage, the naive watch the performance. The sovereign mind watches the hands. If you have built the case correctly, your enemies will finish it for you."
The Red Aristocrat is out now: amazon.com/dp/B0HND1P5VQ