Somewhere, one day, a relic of our era will be found.
It will be a curtained icon, like the Wizard of Oz. Future archeologists will ask what it is.
“This is the podium where Hillary Clinton controlled things after she lost the election to Donald Trump,” they will discover.
“So how did that work out?” they might ask.
“Well they tried several versions of the recounts, first just a couple of states and she bribed that Jill woman to keep at it.”
“And how did that work out?”
Shrug. “Not so much.”
“Anything else?”
“Well they tried riots around the election.”
“And that worked?”
Shrug. “No”.
“Anything else?”
“Well they did try to bribe the electors to vote against Donald Trump. Told everyone there was a chance they’d keep Trump out of office.”
“And that worked out?”
Shrug.
“Well there was the inauguraton,” they would go on. “They spread the word that there would be riots, that the rains would come....”
“And that kept them from watching? Kept them home”
“They also did that big women’s march the day after the inauguration.”
“And that worked out well?”
Shrug. Not so much.
“They also released fake intelligence documents right before the inauguration that had Russia declaring Trump hired prostitutes to pee on a bed in Moscow.”
“And that worked out?”
Shrug.
Hillary is behind all this, the Clintons if you will.
But it will soon all go away....and they will find the great Wizard of Oz curtain and who is behind it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKbN6zcSm58
You mean like this what they are finding right now in Antartica,a frozen city in place,more pyramids?
Very good, you just summed it all up nicely and tied it with a big red bow.
The Wizard is not a wizard, but the devil named G. Soros...
“Somewhere, one day, a relic of our era will be found. It will be a curtained icon, like the Wizard of Oz.”
Not Oz - Ozymandias. That’s the face of HillaryBillery...
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear —
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’
Percy Bysshe Shelley