Thursday, September 11, 2025

Opinion: Unmasking the “Justice” Facade—Why Progressive DAs Threaten Our Society


Unmasking the “Justice” Facade 

— Why Progressive DAs Threaten Our Society


  Across America, a troubling trend is reshaping our criminal justice system under the guise of “reform.” Progressive district attorneys (DAs), backed by shadowy influencers like the Wren Collective and megadonor George Soros, are quietly eroding the foundations of Western civilization—law, order, and moral accountability. Their rhetoric of “justice” is doublespeak, cloaking an agenda that destabilizes communities, undermines safety, and aligns with broader globalist schemes like the UN’s Agenda 2030. It’s time for citizens to wake up, question these so-called reformers, and vote them out before their policies chip away at the clay feet of our society.

  The Wren Collective, a Texas-based consulting group, operates like a silent puppeteer, guiding over 40 progressive DAs across 22 states with free strategic advice, policy crafting, and even case-specific interventions. Founded by Jessica Brand, a former public defender, Wren embeds itself in DA offices, shaping everything from bail reform to lenient sentencing practices, often without public knowledge. Their influence, as uncovered by the Law Enforcement Legal Defense Fund’s Outsourcing Justice report, is a deliberate push for policies that prioritize ideology over accountability. In Bexar County, Texas, DA Joe Gonzales leaned on Wren to navigate high-profile cases, like the 2022 Erik Cantu shooting, raising questions about who’s really calling the shots.

  This isn’t about compassion or fairness—it’s about power. The Wren Collective’s mission, draped in terms like “transformational change,” mirrors the rhetoric of groups like the Justice Democrats, who openly champion socialist policies through figures like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Saikat Chakrabarti, the latter now eyeing San Francisco’s political scene. Their vision isn’t justice as we know it—fair trials, equal protection, and safe streets—but a radical redefinition that weakens law enforcement and emboldens lawlessness. Look at San Francisco under former DA Chesa Boudin, where shoplifting surged and homicides spiked, leading voters to oust him in 2022. Or Los Angeles under George Gascón, where violent crime rose 12% from 2020 to 2022, per LAPD data. These aren’t anomalies; they’re the fruits of a calculated strategy.

  The funding trail points to George Soros, whose Open Society Foundations have poured tens of millions into DA races, bankrolling candidates who push “soft-on-crime” policies like abolishing bail and decriminalizing low-level offenses. While Wren denies direct Soros funding, its fiscal sponsor, Social and Environmental Entrepreneurs (SEE), has received Soros grants, raising suspicions of indirect ties. This opaque network thrives under the radar, evading public discourse while reshaping our justice system. It’s no coincidence that their language—replete with “equity” and “reform”—echoes the UN’s Agenda 2030, a blueprint for global governance that prioritizes centralized control over national sovereignty. The agenda’s goals, like reducing inequality through systemic overhaul, align eerily with the Wren Collective’s push to dismantle traditional prosecution.

  This is where the doublespeak of “justice” reveals its true face. Critical theory, the intellectual underpinning of these movements, redefines justice not as moral fairness but as a tool to upend power structures. It’s why we see cultural flashpoints—like NFL stars kneeling during the anthem or figures like “Lady Justice,” the politically vocal partner of a prominent quarterback*—celebrated by progressive circles. These aren’t isolated acts; they’re part of a broader assault on Western norms of individual responsibility and civic order. By framing dissent as “justice,” these activists mask their goal: to destabilize the very systems that ensure our safety and prosperity.

  The election of progressive DAs is like a slow poison, weakening society’s foundations. When DAs refuse to prosecute shoplifting or reduce penalties for violent crimes, they signal that lawlessness has no consequences. This chaos serves a larger purpose: a fractured society is easier to control, paving the way for centralized systems like those envisioned by globalist agendas. The UN’s Agenda 2030, with its focus on supranational governance, thrives in environments where local institutions—police, courts, communities—are eroded. Progressive DAs, whether they know it or not, are foot soldiers in this long game, chipping away at the capitalism and individual liberty that define Western civilization.

  But we’re not helpless. Men and women who value safety, fairness, and moral justice must act. Question the candidates running for DA in your county. Dig into their funding—does it trace back to Soros’s network or groups like Wren? Demand transparency about their policies. Are they prioritizing victims or ideological experiments? Most importantly, vote against these candidates at all costs. Replace them with prosecutors who uphold the law, not ones who rewrite it to serve a radical vision. Look at the recall of Boudin in San Francisco—voters saw through the “justice” facade and demanded change. We can do the same nationwide.

  The stakes are high. If we let these progressive DAs continue unchecked, we risk toppling the pillars of our society—law, order, and accountability—in favor of chaos and control. Don’t be fooled by the rhetoric of “reform.” It’s time to reclaim justice, the real kind, and protect the civilization we hold dear.

Get informed.  Share the conversation around the table.  Help voters to avoid the trap of Blue No Matter Who.  Learn what the real police on the streets think about these DA's **  And support your local law enforcement where possible.  And help vote out the corrupted DA's or lax and corruptive Judges too.

Value your Vote.  Research and vote wisely.  The down ballot candidates matter a lot.  That is, if you do not want to get robbed regularly.

That is my 2 cents for today.  We must pick better Judges and DA's going forward.


 #  #  #  #

* Note:
The NFL lost approximately 8–10% of its viewership in 2016–17 (from 18.1 million to ~14.9 million viewers per game) during the height of anthem protests, with a third of fans citing political activism as a reason for tuning out.  Colin Kaepernick's girlfriend, Nicki Swift, was an evil Jezebel type dripping political activism into his ears when he should have kept his head in the game.  She still played him for a political pawn long after he lost his NFL job.  IMHO her idea of Justice may be the downfall of the Western Civilization.  As for me I'm still not watching the NFL on Sundays.
 - https://thenetline.com/things-didnt-know-colin-kaepernick-wife-nessa-diab/
 - https://www.nickiswift.com/148142/the-untold-truth-of-colin-kaepernicks-girlfriend/

** Followup research
The best source to start your own peek down this rabbit hole is: Law Enforcement Legal Defense Fund (LELDF) report titled Outsourcing Justice: How the Wren Collective is Remaking the American Justice System. This 2025 report (released in March) provides the fullest coverage. 
 - https://www.policedefense.org/projects/

*** Other: 
There are documented connections between the Wren Collective and Mary Carmack-Altwies, the District Attorney for New Mexico's First Judicial District (which includes Santa Fe). She slow walked her handling of the Alec Baldwin Rust shooting case.  Her reformist approach prioritizing "restorative justice" has weakened the system to the point where Alec got a walk and hardly a slap on the wrist for the brutal on set murder of Halyna Hutchens. #justiceForHalyna
 - 
https://www.kob.com/new-mexico-news/rust-shooting-da-says-criminal-charges-are-not-off-the-table/6321402/  Until they were off the table.

Wednesday, August 20, 2025

I Like fishing on Big Boats

I Like Big Boats
(To the tune of “Baby Got Back”)

  (Intro)
Oh my gosh, matey, look at that vessel!
It’s so… nautical, like, it’s got that square back end!
You know, like, it’s ready for the open sea!
I’m hooked, let’s reel it in!


  (Verse 1)
I like big boats and I cannot lie,
You other sailors can’t deny,
When a vessel cruises in with a big ol’ stern,
And a tuna tower that’ll make ya yearn,
You get sprung! Wanna cast that line,
‘Cause it’s built for fishin’ and it’s lookin’ fine!
Square back end, sittin’ wide and proud,
Holdin’ fishermen, haulin’ ice by the pound!


  (Chorus)
I like big boats! (And I cannot lie!)
Big boats! (Fishin’ on the fly!)
Big boats! (Rod holders to the sky!)
I’m reelin’ ‘em in ‘til the day I die!


  (Verse 2)
Got coolers stacked, full of ice, so cold,
Rod holders lined up, yeah, they’re solid gold!
Big boats have real bunks, where you crash in style,
Snooze like a king while you’re sailin’ a mile!
Tuna tower high, spottin’ fish from afar,
This boat’s a beast, it’s a nautical star!
No tiny dinghies, no skinny skiffs,
I need a hull that can handle the riffs!


  (Chorus)
I like big boats! (And I cannot lie!)
Big boats! (Fishin’ on the fly!)
Big boats! (Rod holders to the sky!)
I’m reelin’ ‘em in ‘til the day I die!


  (Bridge)
So, captain! (Aye, aye!)
Tell me, whatcha want? (Big boats!)
I ain’t messin’ with no rowboat junk,
Gimme diesel power, make the ocean thump!
My crew’s out fishin’, rods locked and loaded,
Tuna in the crosshairs, boat’s fully bloated!
With ice and gear, yeah, we’re set to roll,
Big boat’s my vibe, it’s good for the soul!


  (Verse 3)
So cast it out, reel it back, let’s go,
Big boats in the harbor steal the show!
From the bow to the stern, it’s a fisherman’s dream,
Square back end got me lost in the gleam!
No little kayaks, they just won’t do,
I need a boat that can power on through!
So dock it, rock it, let the fishin’ commence,
Big boats forever, that’s my common sense!


  (Chorus)
I like big boats! (And I cannot lie!)
Big boats! (Fishin’ on the fly!)
Big boats! (Rod holders to the sky!)
I’m reelin’ ‘em in ‘til the day I die!


  (Outro)
So get on board, let’s chase that tide,
Big boats, big dreams, it’s a hell of a ride!
Square back ends, bunks, they make me smile,
I’m a fisherman for life, that’s my style!  

 


Thank You to all who have taken me aboard.  And Thank You also to all who have come with me on my boat.   Time spent fishing is a blessing.  Sharing the catch with friends and family is the final reward of a great fishing trip.
 


Friday, May 09, 2025

A fishing poem, out of a Pirate Poem.

THE BOOK OF BURIED TREASURE
Opens with a Poem.


Of all the lives I ever say,
A Pirate's be for I.
Hap what hap may he's allus gay
An' drinks an' bungs his eye.
For his work he's never loth:
An' a-pleasurin' he'll go;
Tho' certain sure to be popt off,
Yo, ho, with the rum below!

In Bristowe I left Poll ashore,
Well stored wi' togs an' gold,
An' off I goes to sea for more,
A-piratin' so bold.
An' wounded in the arm I got,
An' then a pretty blow;
Comed home I find Poll's flowed away,
Yo, ho, with the rum below!

An' when my precious leg was lopt,
Just for a bit of fun,
I picks it up, on t'other hopt,
An' rammed it in a gun.
"What's that for?" cries out Salem Dick;
"What for, my jumpin' beau?
"Why, to give the lubbers one more kick!"
Yo, ho, with the rum below!

I 'llows this crazy hull o' mine
At sea has had its share:
Marooned three times an' wounded nine
An' blowed up in the air.
But ere to Execution Bay
The wind these bones do blow,
I'll drink an' fight what's left away,
Yo, ho, with the rum below!

—An Old English Ballad.



Re Make...  To go with my Love of Fishing.




Of all the lives I’ve come to know,
A fisherman’s for I.
With rod and reel, at dawn’s first glow,
I chase the sea’s wild cry.
For Calico Bass I cast my line,
For Halibut, my soul’s aglow;
In Marina Del Rey, my heart’s entwined,
Yo, ho, with the tide below!

From Avalon’s Harbor, sails unfurled,
We hunt the Striped Marlin’s gleam.
Catalina’s waters, a sapphire world,
Where White Seabass dance in my dream.
With Yellowtail’s fight, my spirit’s bold,
Yet I spare what the ocean’s owed;
Sunrise to sunset, her tale retold,
Yo, ho, with the tide below!

At Pyramid Cove, by San Clemente’s shore,
We anchor for Tuna, Yellowfin and Blue.
The fight’s a storm, their might I adore,
But fair play’s what an honest man’d do.
A nick on my hand from a Marlin’s spree,
I mend my gear and let it go;
The sea’s my home, her creatures free,
Yo, ho, with the tide below!

My weathered hull’s seen kelp and spray,
From Marina’s port to the deeps I roam.
For Bluefin’s chase or a Marlin’s fray,
Each wave’s a call to my sailor’s home.
Till my final cast by the sunset’s blaze,
I’ll honor the sea where my heart’s bestowed,
And fish with love through all my days,
Yo, ho, with the tide below!

Wednesday, May 07, 2025

5 - The Spark That Stays

 

The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok


Week 5 – Chapter 5: The Drudge of Dawn

Jake Tanner woke to the 5 a.m. ration buzzer clawing through the dark, a jagged wail that yanked him from a dream of open roads—roads he’d never seen outside Grandpa’s stories. It was 2045, and New Boise was a gray trap—towers looming like tombstones, drones humming like vultures, every day a slog that ground you down to dust. He rolled off his cot, the concrete floor chilling his patched socks, and shuffled into the kitchen. Mom was already there, hunched over their 2015 coffee maker, a relic she’d kept alive with duct tape and a coil scavenged from a junked toaster. “Power’s at 15%,” she muttered, pouring a thin trickle of brew into a chipped mug. No new gear had come since the “Green Lock” of 2030—UN rules killed imports, shuttered factories, left folks patching relics like Cubans nursing ‘50s Fords with wire and grit. Ingenuity was their lifeline, but it was a heavy chain. 

 

He grabbed his jacket—elbow stitched with an old shirt—and trudged out, the journal from Grandpa tucked tight against his ribs, its leather a quiet heat after last night’s close call with the drone. The ration line stretched two blocks by 6, 50 gray coats blending into the fog, boots squishing mud—no new ones unless you were a city suit with credits to burn. A drone hovered, its speaker crackling: “No meat until 2050—carbon compliance.” Jake’s stomach growled as he took his soy paste brick and vitamin pill—breakfast, lunch, dinner, a gray lump that stuck in your throat like regret. Back home, Dad was under the 2020 pickup, its bald tires patched with glue and a prayer, engine wheezing on biofuel brewed from scavenged weeds. “Used to haul scrap to Boise proper,” Dad said, wiping grease on patched overalls. “Now? Quotas say stay—or cough up credits we ain’t got.”

School was a patched cage—Jake dodged a drone by 7, its red eye docking five credits for “excess walking” before he hit the door. The classroom stank of damp concrete, his desk wobbling on a leg he’d wired up last month when the bolts gave out. Lunch was more soy, leaking from a thermos Mom had kept running since the grid started flaking—half the time, power cut out, leaving them to huddle by a basement solar rig patched from junkyard panels. He slumped into his seat, the journal itching under his jacket, its words—fight for the spark—a pulse against the gray. Yesterday, he’d roped in Tomas Rivera and Lila Nguyen with Mia Cruz—the crew was set, ready to dig into Grandpa’s map tonight. But this grind? It was a boot on his neck, every patched step a fight to breathe.

Tomas caught him at recess, his stocky frame hunched under a patched hoodie, dirt on his hands from tending secret carrots under his porch. “Line took an hour,” he grumbled. “Drone fined me for ‘loitering’—ten credits gone. Dad’s patching the tractor again—tires flat, no spares since ‘35.” His voice was rough, eyes hard—he’d lost his dad’s shop to gas quotas, and the gray was personal now.

Lila slipped up next, quiet, her sketchbook hidden under a coat patched with an old curtain—art was “non-essential,” banned since the suits decided beauty was a luxury. “They caught me sketching yesterday,” she whispered, holding up a pencil stub, whittled to a nub. “Took my last good one—said it’s wasteful. I’ve got stubs left, patched with tape.” Her dark eyes flickered—she’d been dodging drones to draw, keeping color alive in secret.

Jake nodded, the crew’s weight settling in. “This is it—the cage Grandpa wrote about,” he said, voice low. “Soy, fines, patched lives—they’re graying us out. But we’ve got something—they don’t control what we know.”

Mia joined, her hacked goggles glinting under the fogged skylight. “Basement tonight,” she said, sharp and quick. “Rig’s hot—off-grid, no Monitors. We crack that journal—Sadducees, Reds, suits. Tomas, you got those books?”

Tomas patted his bag, patched with an old tarp. “Dad’s stash—hid ‘em when they banned paper in ‘40. Old history, banned stuff—might fit.”

Lila slipped a sketch into Jake’s hand—a flower over Grandpa’s scrawl. “I patched it in—colors they can’t ban.”

Jake grinned, the spark flaring. “School’s our ground—kids hate this gray. We dig tonight, spread it tomorrow—quiet, smart.” He flipped the journal open, reading soft: “Elites thrive on drudge—keeps us down. Fight it with what you know.” The words hit like a hammer—this grind wasn’t random; it was their cage, built to break ‘em. But patched or not, they were still running—pickup, pencils, lives—and now they had a weapon.

The recess buzzer screeched—drones swept closer, red eyes cutting the fog. “Scatter,” Mia hissed. Tomas bolted, Lila faded into the crowd, Mia ducked low. Jake shoved the journal deep, sprinting for the alley. A drone hummed behind, too close—had it tagged Lila’s sketch? Monitors were fast—yesterday’s haul-off was still fresh, a kid grayed out for talking. The journal was a bomb, and this crew was lighting the fuse.

He hit the shadows, fog swallowing him, the spark pounding in his chest. Tonight, they’d dig—Mia’s rig, Tomas’s books, Lila’s colors. The gray could grind, but it couldn’t snuff this. Not yet. 

 

To Be Continued


Next Week: The crew cracks into history—blood’s on the page, and the fight’s getting real. Don’t miss it.

Dig Deeper: Look up “Cuba vintage cars”—see how folks patch through the gray. 

 



Tuesday, April 29, 2025

4 - The Spark That Stays

 

The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok


Week 4 – Chapter 4: The Crew Grows

Jake Tanner slipped into New Boise High with the journal burning a hole under his patched jacket, the morning fog still clinging to his boots like a bad dream. It was 2045, and the gray grind was in full swing—drones buzzing overhead, holoscreens blaring “Equity Day” slogans, and the ration line’s soy taste lingering in his throat. Last night in Mia’s basement had lit a spark—Grandpa’s words about freedom, the Ten Commandments, and elites like the Sadducees pulling strings. Now, he had to spread it, and Mia Cruz was already on it, her hacked goggles glinting as she caught him by the lockers. “Ready?” she whispered, voice sharp under the drone hum. 

Hmmmmmmm

“Yeah,” Jake said, scanning the hall. “Tomas and Lila—we need ‘em.” Mia nodded, her wiry frame tense—she’d cracked enough secrets to know numbers mattered. The school was a cage—patched desks, flickering lights, kids shuffling like drones themselves—but it was their ground now. Jake’s gut churned; that drone from two nights back still haunted him, its red eye too close. Monitors were sniffing, and time was tight.

They nabbed Tomas Rivera in the back stairwell, away from the holoscreen glare. He was 15, stocky, with dirt-streaked hands from tending carrots he grew under his porch—secret patches the UN quotas hadn’t sniffed out yet. “Elites again?” Tomas groaned, brushing soil off his patched jeans, the knees worn thin from crawling under floorboards. “My dad’s auto shop died—gas quotas choked it last year. Now I’m patching tires with glue and prayers.” His voice was rough, but his eyes were hard—fed up didn’t cover it.

“Same game, different suits,” Jake said, sliding the journal across the chipped stair. “Grandpa says it’s old as dirt—elites crushing us to stay big. We’re next unless we fight smart.”

Tomas squinted at the scrawl—“Freedom’s the West’s soul—Ten Commandments, fair laws”—then looked up. “Fair laws? Like not fining me for growing food? I’m listening.”

Lila Nguyen slipped in next, 14, quiet as a shadow, her sketchbook tucked under a patched coat—art was “non-essential,” banned since 2043’s “Resource Edict.” She traced a flower on her pad with a pencil stub, her voice soft but steady. “I’d kill for real colors—not this gray muck. They took my paints—said it’s wasteful.” Her dark eyes flickered; she’d been dodging drones to sketch in secret, a rebel with a pencil.

Mia leaned against the wall, goggles glinting. “That’s the cage—Grandpa’s calling it out. Sadducees started it—power over love, freedom, beauty. Now it’s UN, WEF, suits graying us out. History’s our weapon—let’s learn it, use it.”

Jake flipped the journal to the Sadducees bit, reading low: “Sadducees said, ‘One man dies, we stay kings.’ Rigged a mob, killed a guy—Jesus—to keep their throne. Temple’s dust by 70 AD.” He looked up. “They hated freedom—sounds like quotas killing your shop, Tomas, or banning your art, Lila. Same pattern—elites scared of the spark.”

Tomas cracked his knuckles, a slow grin breaking. “So they kill to stay big? I’m in—knowledge beats their drones any day. What’s the play?”

Lila’s pencil paused, her flower half-drawn. “They can’t ban what we know—colors in here,” she tapped her head, “stay alive. I’m with you.”

Jake felt it—a crew forming, a spark catching. “School’s our start,” he said. “Kids hate this gray—soy, fines, patched lives. We dig into Grandpa’s map—Sadducees, Reds, suits—figure who’s pulling strings now. Spread it quiet—Monitors are itchy.”

Mia’s grin was a blade. “My rig’s ready—off-grid, no traces. We crack it tonight—more history, more dirt. Then we hit ‘em where they don’t see—right here.” She tapped the stair, concrete cold under her finger.

Tomas nodded, brushing dirt off his hands. “I’ve got a stash—old books Dad hid when they banned ‘em. Might help.”

Lila slipped her sketch into the journal, a flower blooming over Grandpa’s words. “I’ll draw it—show ‘em what’s lost.”

Jake’s chest buzzed—four of ‘em now, a flicker against the gray. He’d patched the pickup with Dad last night, wire and spit keeping it alive, and this felt the same—rigging something real from scraps. But the hall buzzed—a drone patrol swept closer, its hum cutting through the fog outside. “Scatter,” he hissed, shoving the journal back under his jacket. “Tonight—Mia’s.”

They split—Tomas down the stairs, Lila to class, Mia blending into the crowd. Jake ducked out, the drone’s red eye glinting through a window. Had it tagged him? Monitors were fast—yesterday’s ration check flagged a kid for “excess talking,” hauled him off. The journal was a bomb—if they caught it, he’d be grayed out before the fight even started.

He hit the alley, fog swallowing him, the spark flaring hotter. Grandpa’s map was growing—Sadducees were just the beginning, and this crew was his shot. But that drone hum stuck in his ears, a shadow on the spark. How long ‘til it saw too much? 

 

To Be Continued

 

Next Week: The crew digs into the journal—history’s got blood, and the fight’s heating up. Don’t miss it.

Dig Deeper: Search “UN quotas impact” or “Cuba car repairs”—see how folks patch through the gray.