Brent Molnar: With a few opinions about Trump's alleged assassination attempts [View all]

[AStern]

I’ve read this a few times now, and I keep coming back to the same conclusion: I think both of these attempts were staged. People died—and? There’s literally nothing that can be said to change my mind at this point. The handling of it all—the silence, the speed, the surreal packaging—feels more like narrative control than national security. This is a discussion board, and we’re allowed to have unpopular opinions. This is mine.

When it comes to Donald Trump, reality always has to take the long way around. Because nothing—and I mean nothing—ever happens without a fog machine, a smoke bomb, and a parade of half-truths playing carnival games with our sanity.

So let’s talk about the two assassination attempts. Not one—two. And yet somehow, it all feels like a deleted scene from a rejected season of The Apprentice: Martial Law Edition.

Let’s start with Thomas Matthew Crooks—the alleged shooter at the Butler, Pennsylvania rally. The rooftop gunman with a long-range rifle, conveniently out of frame but well within striking distance of the most heavily guarded orange lifeform in America. Secret Service on the ground. Snipers on the roofs.

And yet this kid—with no military background, no known accomplices, no tactical training—is suddenly Lee Harvey Oswald 2.0, but better, because he managed to pull the trigger before anyone said, “Hey, maybe we should check the guy climbing up there with a rifle case.”

And then poof—his body’s gone. Cremated quicker than a hot dog at a July 4th cookout. No autopsy. No press conference. No time for questions. Just an official shrug and a fresh conspiracy theory for breakfast.

How does a high-profile suspect in an alleged presidential assassination attempt get turned into ashes before the paperwork cools? This isn’t a bad crime drama. This is the actual U.S. government pretending like they’re taking a “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” approach to a potential coup attempt.

Now fast forward to Florida. A man named Ryan Wesley Routh camps out for twelve hours inside Trump’s own golf course. This guy’s got a rifle, ceramic body armor, burner phones, GoPros, and a note saying he’s willing to die in a blaze of MAGA-glory.
Twelve hours. Hidden inside a place supposedly crawling with Secret Service. Was this a security breach—or an open mic night for aspiring domestic terrorists?

Both men had manifestos. Both had suspicious gear. Both were painted as “disturbed lone wolves” by the usual media puppets. But let’s be honest: if either of them had brown skin or a hijab, this country would be in 24/7 DEFCON 1 with tanks parked outside Trader Joe’s.

Instead, Crooks gets erased from existence before anyone can ask, “Was this guy even real?” And Routh gets tackled and cuffed like a protester at a Disney board meeting.

And somehow, through all this smoke, Trump emerges stronger, louder, and more unhinged. Waving trading cards of himself getting shot, autographing them like they’re little pieces of martyrdom merchandise. Peddling trauma like it’s a campaign bumper sticker.
He’s not just surviving these alleged attempts—he’s monetizing them. Turning bullets into brand equity. Trump isn’t the target; he’s the ringmaster of this American trauma circus.

So yeah, we’re supposed to believe these attempts are just run off the mill. I’m not saying they were staged, but the way they’ve been handled—from the bodies to the stories to the state-sponsored silence—should make every single person with a working brain cell step back and say, “Wait… what the hell is going on here?”

Because this isn’t security. This isn’t justice. This isn’t normal. It’s propaganda in a bulletproof vest.

Brent Molnar: Voice of Reason