Rob - Male - United States » WIMKIN - Free Speech Social Media

Rob shared

February 13, 2026 1:57 pm

February 13, 2026 1:05 pm

The EPSTEIN Affair: Like it or not, this is how I see it. The Epstein affair, long the subject of being a sophisticated intelligence operation designed to compromise global elites through blackmail (... View MoreThe EPSTEIN Affair: Like it or not, this is how I see it. The Epstein affair, long the subject of being a sophisticated intelligence operation designed to compromise global elites through blackmail (ie., grotesque, demonic, pure evil “honey traps”) in order to control what they do and how they behave, now appears to be another “conspiracy theory” turned true. SO PUHLEEEZE, stop telling me and everyone else in the nation to move along, nothing to see here. AND our own intelligence community via a certain intelligence agency is clearly implicated along with their counterparts in other nations. FOR ALL—WHAT THIS IS ABOUT!!! This “AFFAIR” is about CLEAR sexual abuse of CHILDREN; murder, rape, mutilation, other weird psycho sh!t behavior by people who clearly believe they are untouchable. The overwhelming evidence (and more to come out) also paints a horrific picture that Epstein did not act alone. He was a critical node in a dark web of predatory intelligence activities aimed at compromising the global elites (and many were easy prey because of their sick existing proclivities for child & other human and non human sacrifice). It is impossible without even more transparency to determine the full scale and scope of the compromise. Is every world leader compromised? Doubtful, but… Controlling the world takes a lot of effort, and that is the ultimate goal of Satan (or whichever of this elite club wears that hat currently—someone does). All of this madness and moral depravity highlights how influence and espionage often blur in elite circles. But when they want to get you, they will unless you understand what they’re doing and are able to stand against it. I have said in warfare a commander should NEVER state a RED-LINE…it gives away an option an enemy will exploit and that is true in the annals of warfare. However, in life, a RED-LINE (and my personal red line) for humanity MUST be to protect children at all costs from those who would commit grotesque criminal acts against them. It’s time for good men and women, at least in the United States of America, to stand against this abuse of children. We must! What is it the Bible says about placing a millstone around someone’s neck?

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General Flynn on GETTR: The EPSTEIN Affair: Like it or not, this is how I ...

gettr.com

The EPSTEIN Affair: Like it or not, this is how I see it. The Epstein affair, long the subject of b...

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Rob shared

February 13, 2026 1:43 pm

Hope this goes somewhere.

Lori Veronica shared a photo

February 13, 2026 1:12 pm

🔺PAM BONDI JUST SPRUNG THE ULTIMATE POLITICAL TRAP—AND DEMS STUMBLED RIGHT INTO IT. (Revised) Congress thought they were calling the shots. Instead, they handed the DOJ a roadmap to their deepest fea... View More🔺PAM BONDI JUST SPRUNG THE ULTIMATE POLITICAL TRAP—AND DEMS STUMBLED RIGHT INTO IT. (Revised) Congress thought they were calling the shots. Instead, they handed the DOJ a roadmap to their deepest fears. On February 11, 2026, Attorney General Pam Bondi appeared before the House Judiciary Committee for what seemed like a routine oversight hearing. Questions flew about the massive Epstein files release—over 3 million documents, 2,000 videos, and 180,000 photos now in the public domain. Then Bondi casually flipped to a bombshell document. Titled: “Jayapal Pramila — Search History.” The chamber froze. ⚠️ THE SETUP EXPOSED This week, the DOJ granted Congress access to the unredacted Epstein files under the Epstein Files Transparency Act. Each member received a secure login, a dedicated computer, and a private session at DOJ headquarters. What the lawmakers didn’t realize? Every keystroke was monitored. Every search query logged. Every file opened, noted. The DOJ tracked it all—and Bondi brought the printouts to the hearing, complete with file numbers and descriptions. 🔺 DEMS’ PANIC MODE ACTIVATED Rep. Pramila Jayapal slammed it as “spying on members of Congress,” calling Bondi’s binder a “burn book.” Rep. Jamie Raskin decried it as a “blatant abuse of power.” Rep. Jared Moskowitz labeled it “suspicious and inappropriate.” Reps. Robert Garcia, Mary Gay Scanlon, and Suhas Subramanyam piled on, furious about the surveillance. Even House Speaker Mike Johnson called it “not appropriate,” though he questioned if it was intentional. But the real question lingers: Why the outrage over transparent searches? If you’re hunting for justice in crimes against children, flaunt that history. Unless you’re checking for names like Bill Clinton, who appeared over 50 times in the files and logged 26 flights on Epstein’s jet—far more than previously admitted. ⚡ THE BRILLIANCE OF BONDI’S TRAP Bondi didn’t just hand over the files. She served them on tracked systems, turning curiosity into confessions. Now the DOJ knows precisely: • Which names sparked frantic searches (hint: not just random victims) • What connections they’re scrambling to confirm • Who’s probing crimes vs. who’s shielding allies Searches for “island flights” scream investigator. But hunting specific politicians? That’s cover-up territory. Bondi revealed it all—on camera, with receipts—and smiled as the Dems squirmed. 🔺 DHS SHUTDOWN: NO COINCIDENCE As Congress reels from the search scandal, DHS is grinding to a halt this Saturday, February 14, 2026. Senate Democrats blocked the funding bill on February 12, falling short 52–47, with only Sen. John Fetterman crossing lines to support it. They demand curbs on ICE’s immigration crackdown, but the timing? Suspicious. The same Dems fuming over Epstein oversight refuse to fund the agency that combats human trafficking? DHS handles border security and investigations into exploitation rings—exactly the kind tied to Epstein’s network. They’re not blocking for “reforms.” They’re halting probes that could expose more. ⚡ THE TIMELINE TELLS ALL Monday: Congress dives into unredacted Epstein files. Tuesday: Frantic searches ensue. Wednesday: Bondi drops the tracking bomb at the hearing. Thursday: Democrats torpedo DHS funding; Congress bolts for recess. Friday: Shutdown looms. One week of chaos. One clear pattern: DEMS IN FULL RETREAT. They strutted in thinking they’d grill Bondi. They limped out realizing she’s got the goods—every query, every red flag, every desperate click. The predators are now the prey. And they trapped themselves. ⟁ DARK TO LIGHT. *Donald Trump for President

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Dwayne

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1 February 13, 2026

Rob shared

January 30, 2026 2:26 pm

phunkejay

January 30, 2026 1:02 pm

I shake my head sometimes with Trump and Twitter, BUT to all those who say..."I'd vote for anyone but TRUMP... I can't stand him!!" or "I can't believe you're voting for Trump!" Well folks listen up! ... View More

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Rob shared

January 21, 2026 12:28 pm

How true it is....

Dadovate shared a photo

January 21, 2026 11:56 am

Barrowed When the quietest kid in senior year picked up a two-pound mallet and started shaking, looking ready to put it through a window or a skull, I didn’t call security. I locked the door, turned ... View MoreBarrowed When the quietest kid in senior year picked up a two-pound mallet and started shaking, looking ready to put it through a window or a skull, I didn’t call security. I locked the door, turned off the band saws, and handed him a block of rough-cut oak. "Hit the wood," I said. "Not the world." I’ve been teaching Woodshop at North Creek High for thirty-two years. I have sawdust in my lungs and scars on every knuckle. I’ve watched this country change from the vantage point of a workbench. I’ve seen the boots get cleaner and the eyes get sadder. Back in the nineties, kids came in here with dirt under their fingernails, talking about cars and football. Now? They walk in like ghosts. Shoulders hunched, eyes glazed over, thumbing glass screens as if their lives depend on the next notification. They are the most connected generation in history, yet I have never seen a group of young people so profoundly alone. This semester is different, though. There’s a heaviness in the air that smells worse than burnt clutch. The news cycle is a constant scream of division. I hear them whispering before class, repeating the angry talking points they heard their parents shouting at the dinner table. They categorize each other before they even say hello. Us versus Them. The rich kids with the new trucks versus the kids on free lunch. The ones with the flags versus the ones with the signs. And then there’s the administration. They told me last week that this is it. The end of the line. Next fall, Room 104 won’t be a woodshop anymore. They’re selling the lathes and the drill presses to buy 3D printers and VR headsets. They call it an "Innovation Hub." I call it a tragedy. We are forgetting that before you can code the world, you have to know how to build it. That Tuesday, the tension was thick enough to choke on. It was raining, that cold, gray Midwest rain that seeps into your bones. The class was restless. You could feel the anxiety vibrating off them like heat off a radiator. I looked at the curriculum. We were supposed to be making birdhouses. I looked at their faces. A birdhouse wasn't going to fix this. "Put the tools down," I barked. My voice is like gravel, worn down by decades of shouting over planers. "Everyone. Sit on the workbenches. Now." They looked confused. A few rolled their eyes, but they hopped up, legs dangling. I walked to the scrap pile in the corner. I pulled out a crate of "rejects." These were the ugly pieces. The knots, the warps, the twisted grain, the stuff full of splinters that usually goes into the incinerator. I walked down the line and dropped a piece of ugly wood in everyone’s lap. "Look at it," I said. "It’s trash, Mr. Miller," a boy named Jason said. He was a varsity athlete, terrified of losing his scholarship, terrified of not being perfect. "It’s not trash," I corrected. "It’s honest. Run your hand over it." They did. A few flinched. "Rough, right? It snags. It cuts. It’s uncomfortable." I leaned against my desk, crossing my arms. "That piece of wood is exactly how you feel right now. I see it. I see the stress. I see the anger you’re carrying because your dad lost his job. I see the fear that you’re not smart enough, or pretty enough, or rich enough. You carry that stuff around like gravel in your pockets, and it’s tearing you up." The room went dead silent. The hum of the ventilation system seemed to get louder. "In the digital world," I continued, gesturing to the phones banned in their pockets, "when you don't like something, you block it. You swipe left. You filter it out. You pretend it’s not there. But in here? In the real world? You can't swipe away a splinter. You have to deal with it." I went to the cabinet and pulled out the sandpaper. Not the fine stuff. The 60-grit. The coarse, angry red paper that feels like rocks glued to a sheet. I tore it into squares and passed it out. "No power sanders today," I announced. "Just you, your hands, and that ugly block of wood. I want you to sand it until it’s smooth. Every time you push, I want you to think about one thing that’s making you heavy. Every stroke is a fight. If you’re angry, put it into the wood. If you’re scared, put it into the wood." "This is gonna take forever," a girl named Sarah muttered. She was the one who always wore long sleeves, even in May. "Then you better get started," I said. At first, the sound was tentative. A slow scritch-scratch. They were bored. They were skeptical. They looked at me like I was a senile old man clinging to the past. But then, the rhythm took over. There is something primal about manual labor. It bypasses the brain and talks directly to the nervous system. The sound grew louder. Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. It became a drone, a collective heartbeat. I watched Jason. He wasn't just sanding; he was attacking the wood. His jaw was clenched tight. I knew his family was losing their farm. I knew he felt helpless. Now, he had something he could control. He could force his will upon this object. I watched Sarah. She was crying silently, tears dripping onto the oak, darkening the grain. But she didn't stop. Her arm moved back and forth, a hypnotic motion. She was grinding down the sharp edges of the wood, and maybe, just maybe, grinding down the sharp edges of her own thoughts. Thirty minutes passed. The air filled with the smell of oak dust—a dry, earthy, sweet scent that I will miss until the day I die. Sweat was beading on their foreheads. They weren't looking at each other’s clothes or phones. They were all covered in the same fine, beige dust. They looked like a team. The boy with the mallet—let’s call him Leo—was breathing hard. He had been the one ready to snap earlier. He had sanded his block so hard his knuckles were white. He stopped, panting, and ran his thumb over the surface. I walked over to him. "How is it?" He didn't look up. "It’s... hot." "Friction creates heat," I said quietly. "And heat changes things." I reached into my apron and pulled out a tin of beeswax and oil—my own mixture. I opened it and scooped out a dollop with a rag. "You’ve done the hard work," I addressed the class. "You took the roughness away. You faced the ugly parts. Now, look what happens when you treat it with care." I handed the rag to Leo. "Rub it in. Circular motions." He hesitated, then applied the wax. As the oil hit the wood, the transformation was instant. The dull, dusty gray exploded into a rich, deep amber. The twisted grain that looked so ugly before now shimmered with complex beauty. The knots looked like character marks, not flaws. "Whoa," Leo whispered. I looked at the class. "We spend so much time trying to be perfect, trying to present a polished image to the world before we’ve done the work. We want the shine without the friction. But life doesn't work that way. You are not defined by the roughness you start with. You are defined by how hard you are willing to work to smooth it out." For the last ten minutes of class, nobody spoke. They were too busy waxing their blocks, marveling at the hidden colors they had revealed. When the bell rang, nobody rushed to the door. They wiped their hands slowly. As they filed out, the atmosphere had shifted. The heaviness had lifted, replaced by a tired but genuine lightness. They weren't checking their phones. Leo stopped at my desk. He held his block of wood like it was a gold bar. It was smooth as glass, smelling of honey and earth. "Can I keep this?" he asked. "You earned it," I said. "It's yours." He looked at me, right in the eyes—something he hadn't done all year. "Thanks, Mr. Miller." I watched him walk out into the hallway, into the noise and the chaos of the modern world. He didn't look at his screen. He had his hand in his pocket, clutching that piece of wood. A tactile anchor. A reminder that he could change things with his own two hands. Next year, this room will be full of servers and plastic filaments. They say that’s the future. They say we need to prepare these kids for the digital economy. Maybe they’re right. I’m just an old man with a table saw. But I know this: You cannot download resilience. You cannot 3D print character. And sometimes, the only way to heal a fracture in the soul is to get your hands dirty, feel the friction, and sand it down until the true grain reveals itself. That is the one lesson I hope they pack in their luggage when they leave this place. We are not machines to be programmed. We are wood to be worked. And the most beautiful grain is always found in the trees that withstood the strongest storms.

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Rob shared

January 19, 2026 9:38 pm

Love this.

Sinister Midget shared a video

January 19, 2026 8:58 pm

Dating and Marriage Matrix

237 views

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Rob shared

January 19, 2026 1:38 pm

Phillip Ray Ramsey shared a photo

January 19, 2026 11:18 am

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Wolf Track

Some of us have been addressing this kind of shit the government has been getting away with for decades and Taxes are the same way , all of it is ILLEGAL !!!

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3 January 19, 2026