The Peanut Farmers Curse

I’m sitting in a hotel room in Incheon, South Korea. I’m tired. I’m jet-lagged. And I made the mistake of turning on the TV.

CNN International is on. And what do I see? A parade of Americans—governors, pundits, “journalists”—standing on foreign soil, ripping the President of the United States to shreds.

It started with Jimmy Carter.

Before Carter, there was a Code. It was like the Mafia. It was Omertà. You could fight like dogs at the dinner table, you could scream and throw plates in the kitchen, but when you walked out the front door, you were a United Front. You never, ever talked ill of the Family to strangers. You didn’t badmouth America overseas.

But Carter? That little peanut-farming saint with the hammer? He normalized it. He made it “virtuous” to apologize for America. He made it acceptable to undermine a sitting President on the global stage. And the Democrats took that ball and ran with it straight off a cliff.

The Win-At-All-Costs Lobotomy

Now? We have guys like Gavin Newsom—Governor Hair Gel—flying to Europe or China, sitting there with foreign leaders, and openly trashing Donald Trump.

When you trash the President of the United States to a foreign power, you aren’t just attacking a man. You are attacking the Brand. You are devaluing the currency. You are telling the world, “We are weak. We are broken. Don’t trust us.”

These people are loony bins. They have adopted a persona where hating Trump is more important than loving the country. They are willing to burn down the house just to smoke out the rat.

The Propaganda Machine

And let’s talk about the amplifiers. The Media.

Journalism isn’t dead; it was murdered and replaced by a PR firm for the DNC. It feels like the industry has been taken over by “Empathy Activists”—mostly female, mostly woke, mostly allergic to objectivity. They are bought and paid for by corporations that need a compliant population.

Turn on CNN. It is a 24-hour infomercial for American Failure. “Trump is bad. Trump caused the measles. Trump appointed Kennedy, so now kids are dying. Trump ate a baby.”

They don’t realize that when they make Trump look bad to the world, they make America look bad. They are broadcasting our dysfunction in high definition to people who are looking for a reason to stop buying our bonds.

The Organic Lie

There is nothing organic about this.

The riots? Not organic. They are “protests” when it’s their team, and “insurrections” when it’s yours. The outrage? Manufactured.

When that Ukrainian girl got beat down on a bus? Silence. No riots. No hashtags. Why? because she doesn’t fit the narrative. She’s an immigrant, sure, but she’s the wrong kind of victim. Nobody cares about the women murdered left and right unless it serves a political ad buy.

There is no “both sides.” The ratio of destruction, of cities burned, of statues toppled, is about 80/20. And the 80% is coming from the side that claims to be “saving democracy.”

The View from Seoul

Sitting here in Korea, watching this filth on the screen, I feel a profound sadness.

When I watch Fox News back home, I feel good. I feel like there’s a fight left in the dog. I feel like America is still worth saving. But when I watch the international feed? I see a country that is committing suicide by self-loathing.

We have propagandists working inside the borders who are doing more damage than the KGB ever dreamed of. The Soviets didn’t need to nuke us; they just needed to wait for us to start teaching our kids to hate their own history.

It’s disgusting. It’s sad. And frankly, it’s one of the main reasons I packed the bag.

I’m tired of being in a family that talks shit about itself to the neighbors.

So, thanks, Jimmy Carter. You built some nice houses for the poor, but you tore down the roof that protected the rest of us.

I’m changing the channel.

Icon Cray

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James O

Born behind a Tommy’s Burgers to a mother I had to divorce at thirteen, just to survive. I was homeless in Los Angeles by sixteen, armed with nothing but a backpack full of rage. I clawed my way out through a crooked high school diploma and a failed stint in the Navy that got me ninety days in the brig and a boot back to the street.

I decided the world wasn't going to give me a damn thing, so I took it. I went from the shipyards to drafting rooms to building my own engineering firms. I learned the game, held my ground against the suits, and became a self-made millionaire with an office in Singapore before I was thirty. I chased the American Dream and, for a while, I caught that bastard by the throat.

Then I did the stupidest thing a man can do: I retired at thirty-five. Thought I could buy peace. I built a fortress of money and success on a yuppie ranch in Oregon, a monument to everything I’d survived. But the cage wasn't to keep the world out; it was to keep me in. And the one person I handed the key to, the one I trusted inside my walls? She turned out to be a ghost, wearing the face of the same damn madness I’d spent my whole life trying to outrun.