Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Every once in a while, the most effective piece of military technology on the battlefield isn’t some billion-dollar weapons system. Sometimes it’s a $200 hobby airplane ordered off Amazon by a bored cavalry officer with an idea.
Modern war has acquired an odd new feature. It now comes with graphics, dramatic music, and a nightly highlight reel. Precision bombs streak across the screen. Drones glide in cinematic slow motion. Social media fills with grainy infrared footage of things exploding in the desert while commentators nod gravely and say phrases like “escalation dynamics” and “rules-based order.”
For most of history, lies moved slowly. A king issued a proclamation. A priest told a story. A rumor drifted across a village. Today, narratives move at the speed of fiber optics, algorithmically amplified and psychologically engineered. What once required an empire now requires a social media campaign.
The basic idea of unmanned warfare actually dates back more than a century. During World War I, armies experimented with remotely controlled aircraft and explosive “aerial torpedoes.” They were crude and unreliable, but the concept was already there: send a machine instead of a pilot into harm’s way. Through the Cold War the idea matured into reconnaissance drones used primarily for surveillance. The United States began using early UAVs over Vietnam and later refined the concept in the 1990s and early 2000s.
A couple years ago, when ChatGPT first exploded onto the scene, I was teaching at a Christian school. My philosophy with technology has always been simple: learn it before you fear it. Every major technological shift in history has followed the same pattern—first confusion, then panic, then acceptance once people realize it’s not going away. So I did what teachers are supposed to do. I explained the technology to my students.
The Founders built a system based on an assumption that now sounds almost quaint: government power would be limited by reality. Communication was slow. Information was scarce. The federal government had trouble collecting taxes, let alone tracking the daily movements of its citizens. If the government wanted to watch someone in 1790, it needed a horse, a spy, and probably a tavern receipt.
In October of 1961 the Cold War was already a tense, paranoid chess match played with nuclear weapons instead of pawns. The United States and the Soviet Union were staring each other down across oceans, missile silos, and enough megatonnage to turn the planet into a glowing charcoal briquette. But Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev decided the world needed a reminder of just how big the Soviet hammer could be. So the Kremlin did what any superpower with a bruised ego might do. They built the largest nuclear bomb in human history and lit it off over the Arctic.
AI bots are capable of theorizing millions of scenarios with billions of variables, to calculate probabilistic outcomes. But they can’t calculate the incalculable – the value of human life.
If you grew up on Austin Powers, you remember the joke. Dr. Evil didn’t want nukes. He didn’t want tanks. He wanted lasers. The audience laughed because lasers were cinematic nonsense. Fast forward to 2026 and Israel is fielding the Iron Beam, and the U.S. military has ship-mounted and vehicle-mounted high-energy laser systems actively burning small threats out of the sky. Turns out Dr. Evil was just early.
Some of the sharpest minds of the last century sensed the reductionist story was missing something. Carl Jung looked inward and saw conflict. The ego — the conscious “I” — wants control, moral self-justification, narrative dominance. It insists on sovereignty. Jung recognized the ego was not the whole self and that something beyond it pressed inward, demanding humility and reordering. He called that pressure the “Self.” He diagnosed the tension correctly. He simply refused to name the external authority behind it.
SMR stands for Small Modular Reactor. The concept is simple: instead of building massive, one-off nuclear cathedrals that take fifteen years, billions of dollars, and three generations of lawyers, you build smaller reactors that are standardized, factory-produced, shipped in modules, and deployed where power is actually needed. They’re designed to be safer, faster to build, easier to scale, and—most importantly—repeatable.
There’s a comforting little bedtime story we tell ourselves about Antarctica. Nobody owns it. Nobody fights over it. Scientists in parkas share data and hot cocoa while penguins waddle around like tiny tuxedo diplomats. It’s the one place on Earth where humanity supposedly agreed to stop acting like humanity.
For decades, the official story was simple: UFOs weren’t real, and anyone who said otherwise was either confused, lying, or needed to spend less time staring at the sky and more time paying their taxes. “Swamp gas.” “Weather balloons.” “Venus.” “Camera artifacts.” The script never changed—only the excuse did. But while the grown-ups in government played dumb and the media treated the subject like a late-night punchline, Hollywood kept doing something far more dangerous: it kept normalizing the idea that we are not alone.
Words matter. UFO became UAP. Sightings became sensor data. Rumors became congressional hearings. And then came the most carefully engineered phrase yet: “non-human biologics.” That term didn’t exist to inform you—it exists to prepare you. It introduces a category without evidence, certainty without clarity, and authority without accountability. It tells your brain, “Accept the possibility first; we’ll define it later.” That’s not science. That’s narrative conditioning.
Officially, the experts will tell you it means “small O.” Cute. Harmless. Like a Sesame Street vowel. And sure — in the Greek alphabet, that’s what it is. But that explanation is also the kind of tidy little classroom answer you give kids when you don’t want them asking follow-up questions. You know. Like the ones adults should’ve been asking in 2020.
I turn on Fox News for the same reason a man checks the weather before he goes outside: I want to know what’s coming, and I’d prefer not to be blindsided by it. Is the world on fire? Are we at war? Did Congress accidentally pass something useful? Did somebody somewhere do something so insane it requires a full segment and a therapist?
So if the Earth is flat, then Greenland is basically… what? A decorative corner of the map? The unused part of a board game? The place you accidentally fold over when you’re stuffing an atlas back into the glove box?
For most of modern history, saying you saw a UFO got you laughed out of the room and politely escorted to the cultural kiddie table. The government’s message was clear: Nothing to see here, citizen. Go back to work. Trust us. And for decades, that worked—right up until it didn’t.
Humans are obsessed with time. We measure it, slice it, monetize it, panic over it—and then act shocked when it doesn’t behave.
What makes The Elites think they will remain exempt from the the AI fate they are inflicting upon the rest of us? Methinks AI has further blinded them with hubris.