#bobmueller

As the volunteer activists of the #freepress #truthsquad pass the baton of knowledge 24/7 on our twitter threads, making reading hep again, one of our favorite Austrians with great compassion for America @euphoriceuler weighed in with this reminder today: if it’s free, you’re the product.

In other words, our data’s been auctioned by billionaire misanthropes with t’axes to grind aiming for an #roi of global domination, and quite frankly, those billions in free publicity that corporate controlled media gave the #meinshitshow (cuz rating$) have the fossilized globaldom set still winning right now.

As the #altwrong neodoosh trumpery paid for by billionaire creepers to run interference on truth continues, I do want to make one thing clear:

Our country’s immediate future comes down to the character of two men:

Robert Mueller III vs the Real Fake President (RFP).

So as altwrong info$lime efforts ramp up to discredit Mueller, the former director of the F.B.I. now appointed to investigate the Russian meddling in the 2016 election, and as those same efforts attempt to legitimize the RFP, I created this timeline so Americans can judge for themselves that thing that Eleanor Roosevelt taught us is so critical to a man’s true value: character.

ROBERT MUELLER III VS THE REAL FAKE PRESIDENT: A TIMELINE OF CHARACTER

1944 Robert Mueller III, born in Manhattan to Alice Truesdale and Robert Swan Mueller, a DuPont exec who was class president at Princeton before serving in the Navy during World War II.

1946 Real Fake President (RFP) born in Queens to Mary Anne MacLeod and Fred Trump, a real estate developer sued for housing discrimination, investigated for profiteering and an illegal bailout of his son’s casino; and the subject of eviscerating song lyrics by Woody Guthrie, a former Brooklyn tenant. 

1966 Mueller graduates from Princeton, marries his teenage sweetheart Ann Cabell Standish, and would go on to earn a Master’s in International Relations from NYU (he resumes his education post-Vietnam at UVA).

1968 Mueller enlists in the Marine Corps to serve in the Vietnam War, where despite receiving a gunshot wound, returns to duty to lead his platoon. He receives a dozen medals of valor, including a Purple Heart.

1968 RFP graduates from University of Pennsylvania and goes to work in the family business. He avoids military service during Vietnam War with five deferrals, one for bone spurs in his heel.

1973 -1993 Earning a law degree from UVA, Mueller embarks on a career where he excels to become a top white collar crime litigator in both public and private sectors, specializing in international money laundering and public corruption; serving in the United States Attorneys office and the United States Justice Department, where he oversaw the prosecution of Manuel Noriega and the Gambino Crime Family boss John Gotti.

1972-1992 RFP marries Czech model Ivana Zelnickova; opens a tower in his name in 1983, publishes books, board games; in 1987, he’s turned down by Australia to build Sydney’s first casino due to alleged mob connections; and by 1990, is $900 million in debt; in 1992, three casinos go bankrupt and he and Ivana divorce.

1995-1999 Mueller returns to public service as senior litigator in the homicide section of the District of Columbia and in 1998 is named the U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of California.

1995-1999 RFP goes public with more casinos and hotels, buys the Miss Universe Organization and in 1999, forms a model management company and divorces second wife; in 1997, tells Howard Stern he was a “brave soldier” for avoiding STDs in the late ‘90s, a period he describes as his “personal Vietnam.”

2001-2013 Mueller becomes the sixth Director of the FBI, serving under both President Bush and President Obama, who asked him to stay on another two years past his ten-year term making him the longest serving FBI director since J. Edgar Hoover.

2004-2015 RFP becomes a Reality TV Star; opens a “university” (shut down amid lawsuits of it being a scam, prompting the first multimillion dollar settlement of his real fake presidency); marries the Slovene in 2005; becomes a spokesman for a multilevel marketing company accused by multiple states and countries for operating as an illegal pyramid scheme.

2016 Mueller wins the 2016 Thayer Award for Public Service from the United States Military Academy.

2016 RFP accepts the Republican nomination for President and is elected after a campaign rife with misogyny, bigotry and catchphrases that 62 million Americans thought were funny, despite losing the popular vote by about 3 million votes; investigative reporters work 24/7 proving RFP involved with an international crime syndicate that enabled cybertreason but depending on where you get your news, you might not have heard about it. Or you might not care.

2017 Mueller appointed Special Counsel for Russian Interference in the United States Elections of 2016, leading the investigation into Russian meddling in the election and ties to the RFP campaign; he’s joined by a team of the nation’s top experts in fraud, cyber crime, white collar crimes, public corruption and money laundering.

2017 RFP has weak turnout for the inaugural carny (cuz bots are fake), which was overshadowed by the Women’s March, and he struggles to keep press secretaries, cabinet members and advisors as #meinshitshow ratings wobble in the coveted 18 to 49 demo. Despite efforts to distract with fear mongering and fake patriotism, people are seeing the truth.

****

So there you have it. A tale of Two Americans. One is a man with a long history of integrity; the other a cunning carny, who in a previous era would have been charged with treason the first time he invited a foreign enemy to hack one of America’s leaders, a women he cheated out of the presidency.

No amount of infoslime thrown at Robert Mueller will distract from the fact that America is still capable of seeing the truth once the ratings dip, and truth becomes the only thing left to sell.

****

Author Heidi Siegmund Cuda is an Emmy award-winning investigative producer,   columnist and filmmaker, who was recently awarded a film grant from the Orcas Island Film Festival. http://www.orcasfilmfest.com/rigged

Mueller steps back out into the drizzling street. In the distance, a furtive figure catches his eye. A man carrying a brightly colored umbrella, its pattern indiscernible at this distance, is leaning over a garbage can. The man straightens, seeming to feel Mueller’s eyes on him. He scurries off, his gait both unusual and familiar. Mueller follows, no longer noticing the rain. As he trails the mysterious man, he is reminded of Mr. Tumnus, the faun in The Chronicles of Narnia, who helped the Pevensie children. Or did he sell them out to the White Witch? Mueller isn’t sure. He breaks his stride to consider the story, in that instant, the man with the umbrella disappears.

A few yards ahead Mueller sees former White House photographer Pete Souza coming out of a laundromat.

“Hey there!” Mueller calls. “Did you see a man with a pink umbrella go by a minute ago?”

Souza is startled and almost drops his sack of laundry. “No, I didn’t see anyone.”

Mueller continues, “it was one of those really big umbrellas.”

Souza replies, “I think I would have noticed that, Mr. Mueller, it’s not even raining.” Mueller stares at him. Souza goes on, attempting to be conversational, “It hasn’t rained here in weeks, we could really use it.”

Mueller continues to stare, he is sure it was drizzling only a few minutes ago. Then he thinks to himself, you can’t trust a photographer anyway. He is about the push past Souza to try to find the umbrella-wielding stranger when Souza pipes up again. Souza, alarmed at the lack of focus in Mueller’s eyes and the fact that he is wearing two ties, asks, “Are you okay, Mr. Mueller?”

Mueller snaps to attention and begins to correct Souza on the pronunciation of his name. “It’s Mueller, like mule. No, I mean it’s like dull, but with an ‘M,’ I mean...what were we talking about? I can’t say anything about the indictments.” Mueller presses his knuckles into his temples. Souza, meanwhile, has begun to back away.

“Can I call anyone for you, Mr. Mue…” Souza pauses, now unsure how to pronounce the name, “Can I get call an Uber for you?”

Mueller is looking frazzled now, “Who have you been talking to?! NO CALLS!” Mueller steps toward Souza and stares down at him, and the full force of the jowly features ripple over the photographer’s face. Could it be a mask? Souza is torn now, he wants to get away from Mueller, but he also feels that the man needs help.

Just then Senator Baldwin comes back around from the Chipotle across from the shawarma shop. “Just spit it out, Bob,” she yawps, smacking Mueller in the middle of his back. The force of the blow throws Mueller to his knees. She continues to march down the street without looking back.

Souza takes the moment of confusion to slip across the street.

Mueller stands up, dusting off his knees. Better get back to it; lunch is over he thinks to himself but really says out loud to a gaggle of tourists from Revere, Massachusetts. “Go get ‘em, Bowbby!” they say in response. He walks toward a federal building at a gait that anyone would label as “teetering” or “goofy,” but he thinks of as “power walking” or “a heel-forward clip.”

Teetering by several pristine government offices, Bob Mueller opens a black door, which reveals a hallway that has not been renovated in decades. It smells musty. Homey. Honest. He unlocks his office door and blurts out “what’have’we’got,gang?” It is a hive of productivity. In the back there are several cork boards with yarn radiating out from many axes, connecting disparate pieces of evidence. Trusted agents click-clack away at laptop keyboards, while others dig through crates of documents. Phones ring. An old stereo sounds a restrained jazzy beat. There are murmurs of “Hey, boss.” “Nothing yet.” “Too much to process.” “Hiya.”

Special Agent Sandra Willard slams her phone down. “Boss, it’s another flurry today.”

“Don’t I know it,” Mueller says, shaking his head, loosening one of his ties.

“Aiming for another write up in the New Yorker?” Sandra or Sandy if you prefer, asks, looking at the ties.

“Let’s just say it’s all part of the plan,” Mueller responds, winking at a blank wall as if someone were there. Two agents see this and exchange knowing looks. “Sandy, I ran into Tammy Baldwin at lunch today and she said that I shouldn’t worry about the time, but that I should keep my eye on it too. What the hell’s that mean?”

Sharpie in hand, Sandy writes this down on an index card and posts it on a cork board. “Cryptic. It’s something. We’re getting more used to this confusion every day,” she says shrugging. Index cards cover the boards with various phrases like “All is still in the moonlessness,” “It’s Mueller time,” “Four in one isn’t quite three of nine,” “Botched nose job,” etc.

“All will reveal itself,” Mueller declares, tapping his lip for ten minutes. “I also saw Souza today. He was telling me it wasn’t raining out.”

“Sure wasn’t. Wish it was. We really could use it,” Sandy adds. “But, then again, you can never trust a photographer, even when they’re right.”

“Agreed,” Mueller nods, pinning Souza’s name on the board for good measure. Unwrapping a Charleston Chew, he takes a generous bite. He gnaws, sizing up the board. He stares, shakes his head, rubs his eyes, still chewing. He unbuttons his blazer and places his hands in his pockets. “This is going nowhere,” he sputters between chews. Swallowing, he turns to everyone and says “You are all doing the work this country deserves. I can’t thank you enough and this citizenry owes you all a debt of gratitude. I’m a little stuck right now and need to work through some of this,” he explains, gesturing at a cluster of cards and strings, letting the day’s events wash over him. “I’m going to the gym.” High-fiving everyone he can on the way out, he grabs a copy of The Hilltop, Howard University’s best newspaper, by his estimation, to check for leads.

He teeters down the hallway and stumbles out into the bright sunlight. “Gosh darn it, Souza,” he mumbles, using one of his stronger oaths. He takes a hesitating step out onto the sidewalk. He can tell there is something off about how he is walking. He tries a few steps on his tip toes, then a few hops, then settles into stomping with his left foot and dragging his right foot to meet it.

Halfway to the gym is when his best frenemy and doppleganger, John Kerry, bursts out of a boarded up Border’s. “Typical,” Mueller thinks, “Just what I need.”

“Heya, Three Sticks,” Kerry calls out, “How’s the weather up there.” Kerry runs up and hip checks Mueller. “What’s with the two-step?”

Mueller doesn’t understand the reference. “John, have you spoken to Senator Baldwin lately?”

“Sure, she’s in my improv group.”

“She told me something kind of cryptic today, off the record, ya know. Something about how time was short.”

“Well, sure, Bob. Time is like a hand slowly circling a clock face. But you’d have to talk to someone on the Budget Committee to really understand it.”

Mueller finds this statement to be completely unhelpful. He tries to lose Kerry in a gaggle of 7th graders, but it doesn’t work because they’re both much taller than the kids. “Listen John, I need to get to the gym to do some reading.” He stomps off before Kerry can react.

At the gym, the twenty-something at the desk says, “Good Morning, Mr. Mueller, enjoy your workout.”

“It’s Mueller,” Mueller snaps, “Like bugler, with an ‘M,’ I mean it’s like bowler, like that hat.”

In the locker room, Mueller removes his remaining tie. It has a golf theme, with tees, and ball, and putters printed all over it. “Where the heck did I get this thing? Have I ever even played golf?” He promptly ties it around his waist.

He goes out into the gym to use his usual bench press. There is a new motivational sign on the wall next to him. “There’s only one today until tomorrow!” it reads. Mueller is struck by this sentiment. Surely it was placed here for him to see. Is it a threat or a clue? Mueller can’t tell. He leans back on the bench, places The Hilltop over his head and falls asleep.