People keep talking about “the good old days”—that magical time when every institution was supposedly aboveboard, every politician was a man of the people, and the news was a shining beacon of truth hand-delivered by a haloed anchorman. As if Walter Cronkite was broadcasting straight from the right hand of God, free from anything resembling bias. “Honest to a fault,” they’ll say. Right. Pull the other one—it plays “Jingle Bells.”

Sure, maybe back then the commercials telling you to smoke filtered cigarettes to keep your lungs “healthy” were just an innocent oversight. Maybe the headlines reading “Everything Is Fine, Trust Your Leaders” were purely coincidental. We wanted to believe it. And you know why? Because it’s cozy to think the past was all organic and unsullied. People love that cozy feeling—it’s like wearing footie pajamas made of denial. But let’s face it, folks: those footie pajamas have holes in the toes.

Suddenly, we realized these big media outfits weren’t in the truth business. They were in the “let’s keep the advertisers and politicians happy” business. They were in the “our sponsors prefer we leave that part out” business. You think the evening news was telling you everything? Nah. They told you the official story—whatever kept the money rolling in. They hammered it into your head with carefully selected words that left out the stuff you really needed to hear. Meanwhile, the reporters who dared to press for that missing information—those feisty little sniffers of actual truth—got shoved into the broom closet where the light bulbs burn out, told to shut their pie holes if they wanted to keep a job. “Don’t rattle the cage,” the bosses said, “or you’ll never see another press conference again.”

And we wonder why most people end up hypnotized by the bright shiny nonsense bouncing around on their screens. Because that’s what they show you: nonsense. It’s astroturf, folks—fake grassroots. They’re telling you it’s fresh-cut Kentucky bluegrass, but it’s really green plastic from the discount bin at Fake Reality R Us. And guess what? They’re proud of it. “Look at our pristine lawn,” they say, while ignoring the stench of hot plastic melting in the midday sun.

But they don’t just deliver you phony fluff. Sometimes they hand you high-stakes fluff—like war, elections, or any juicy scandal that helps somebody in office. Suddenly, the newscasters become part-time carnival barkers, peddling illusions. “Step right up, folks, watch this story swirl in front of your eyes, and pay no attention to the man behind the teleprompter!”

Meanwhile, if you or I dare to point out the holes in their stories—“Hey, maybe we’re not hearing the whole story?”—they tighten the clamps. They “cancel” you. It’s like that old mafia movie line, “Nice livelihood ya got there, be a shame if something happened to it.” And so, whammo, you’re out of the conversation. Your mic goes off, and the lights go down. They do it loudly enough so everyone else sees it happen, too. Because nothing says “free speech” like a big sign reading “Speak at Your Own Risk.”

The next day, the talking heads skip right over your version of events. Doesn’t exist. Never happened. They roll out the top story—some fluff piece about a celebrity adopting a new puppy or a press release from Senator So-and-So about “moving forward together.” And that’s the game: bury the real stuff under a thick, sticky layer of trivial sludge, and boom—no more problem, folks! Cue the jingle and cut to commercial.

So here we are, waking up to the fact that maybe the “golden age of honesty” was more fool’s gold than 24-karat. The shocker is that the entire carnival has been chugging along for decades, and we’re only just now peeling back the painted canvas to see the chipped plywood underneath. And it’s a bit depressing to discover how deep this rabbit hole goes. But hey, that’s what we get for trusting the official story from people whose job it is to not tell us the real story.

Then we discovered how got the government was forcing social media companies to play “thought police” shutting down accounts left and right, slapping “disinformation” labels on anything that smells a little too real, or is a little too blunt, or might be a little too close to someone’s uncomfortable truth. It’s like they decided the internet was a loud party, and they got hired as the uptight neighbor banging on the wall at 9:00 p.m. yelling, “Hey, keep it down! We can’t have free expression in here!”

But hey, they didn’t stop there. No, no, no. They had to really go for the gold, so they trotted out the big guns: debanking. Because if muting your voice online doesn’t work, maybe emptying your wallet will. Suddenly, people with “unacceptable” opinions found themselves shoved outside the financial system. Bank accounts? Frozen or closed. Payment platforms? Bye-bye! Getting put on a “no-bank” list for something you said—that was legal, I might add—because the government in power decided to flush your free speech rights down the toilet. That’s like punishing a kid for sneezing in class. “Oh, you sneezed? That’s it, no lunch for you for the next ten years!”

The politicians love this, of course. Politicians are like the Wizard of Oz. They hide behind curtains made of propaganda and paper-thin narratives, pulling levers labeled “CENSOR NOW” and “DISTRact!” all the while screaming, “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” They’ll deploy any means necessary to keep the show going—rights, truth, the Constitution be damned. The Founding Fathers said “free speech,” but apparently that was only if your speech doesn’t ruffle the wrong set of feathers.

Then along comes Elon Musk buying Twitter. People started saying, “Wait a second, do we really need all this top-down censorship and narrative massaging?” Suddenly, open discussion sprouted up again like wildflowers after a drought. And just like that, the corporate media’s pants fell down around their ankles. That’s right, we all got to see that big naked truth: The so-called “news” outlets weren’t news at all. More like stilted bedtime stories for grown-ups, read by people with perfect hair and toothy grins.

Days behind on current events—you ever notice that? Something happens in the real world, and corporate media’s still reading last week’s teleprompter. No wonder their ratings went down the tubes. You had Twitter beating them to the punch by a full news cycle (hell, sometimes more). Not only that, the folks on social media were asking the tough questions corporate journos wouldn’t—like “Why the hell are we ignoring the real story?”

It’s not surprising that when people started accessing unfiltered information, they realized that the mainstream press was basically a bunch of mannequins in suits, parroting the official line over and over: “Breaking news—We’re not allowed to ask real questions or deviate from the script.” They might as well be wearing big red clown noses.

And guess who stayed tuned in to the corporate media anyway? The obedient, the complacent, the ones who want their worldview served on a sanitized tray, with no lumps or surprises. The rest of us? We flipped the channel—or better yet, threw the TV right out the window. Once you see behind the curtain, you can’t unsee it. It’s like being told how sausage gets made. You won’t look at that breakfast plate the same way again.

So here we are: Society’s astroturf is peeling at the edges, the seam is tearing, and the real dirt’s beginning to show. People are talking, asking questions, sharing ideas. Naturally, the powerful are freaking out, trying to patch the holes with more censorship, more sensationalized nonsense, more “Let’s just pretend everything’s normal, shall we?” And the rest of us are standing around saying, “No thanks, we’re good. We’ll find our own way, skip the plastic grass.”

You see, once open discussion gets a foothold—once people realize you’re allowed to say things that might upset the big shots—it’s over for the old guard. The corporate networks become about as relevant as a landline phone in a smartphone world. Sure, some folks still dial in out of habit, or because they can’t imagine life beyond the official broadcast. But for the rest of us, we’re done taking cues from the puppet show. We’d rather see the strings being pulled and figure out the real story for ourselves.

Now we’ve got the people waking up—rubbed their eyes, took a good long look at corporate media, and said, “You know what? I don’t think these guys represent me. In fact, I’m not even sure they represent anybody.” People realized the flashy networks were just big, shiny megaphones screeching the same half-baked story over and over. You know, the one that says: “The world is exactly as the authorities describe it, so shut up and stop asking questions.” It’s all astroturf, folks—fake grass, plastic daisies, and the promise that if you stand still and smile, everything’s gonna be just peachy.

And it worked…for a while. We swallowed it, because it looked so official, so professional. We thought, “They can’t all be lying, right?” Right—just the ones with microphones and suit jackets! Because once the public started chatting among themselves—especially online, away from the gatekeepers—they found out the official narrative was a half-rotten onion. Peel back the layers and you’d better have some tissues handy. Corporate media got smoked out; the public realized these networks weren’t telling them the truth, or even a slightly bruised version of it. They were telling them stories that their wealthy sponsors wanted them to believe, propped up by a little something called “patronage networks.”

Ever heard of these cozy little patronage networks? They’re like a mafia for official narratives—only instead of carrying tommy guns, they haul around government grants and hush money. Here’s how it goes: The politicians take your tax money, funnel it to a bunch of NGOs that do the “dirty work” they can’t admit to, like importing millions of random third-world migrants that the citizens don’t want at all, and then pretend it’s all for charity and the greater good. “We’re saving the planet, folks!” or “We’re promoting peace and harmony.” Sure. Meanwhile, if the public in any given nation says, “Uh, we have a problem with millions of unknown immigrants rolling in all at once. Maybe we should talk about this,” these well-funded NGOs spring into action to do the exact opposite of the public preference. Because that’s their job—shut down the conversation, call everyone xenophobic or hateful, and pat themselves on the back for a job well done.

The NGOs revealed themselves as just hired guns. Their “cause” is whatever the paycheck says it is this week. You don’t believe me? Look at what happens when the money dries up. The second those government funds get yanked—poof! The harm stops! The NGOs are gone, out of town faster than a traveling circus with no ticket sales. This is not about compassion or moral duty; it’s a business transaction. They might as well say, “He who pays the piper calls the tune.” And if the tune is “flood the country with people the locals never asked for,” well, these NGOs will jam along like it’s Woodstock.

When the spigot is turned off they’re not chanting Kumbaya anymore, are they? They’re packing up their banners and clipboards and calling it a day. Because it turns out they weren’t in the business of championing noble causes at all—they were in the business of staying paid. And once those sweet, sweet taxpayer dollars stop flowing, so do the heartfelt press releases.

Meanwhile, the corporate media tries to spin this, too. They’ll say, “Oh, these organizations suddenly lost support—tough break.” Not quite, folks. The only thing they lost was the gravy train. If they gave a genuine damn or served some public need, they’d be out there continuing the work anyway, perhaps on a shoestring budget or volunteering. But no—when the finances vanish, so does their holy crusade. It’s like pulling the plug on a neon sign; the storefront goes dark in a heartbeat.

All the while, these same media outfits keep trying to push the narrative: “Look, these groups are essential, and anyone saying otherwise must be a hateful bigot.” They parrot the line like well-rehearsed puppets, hoping we won’t notice how quickly the NGOs boarded up their offices once the government checks stopped coming. Kind of suspicious, right? But the media folks don’t like that angle—it’s not part of the authorized script. You never hear a sane voice contemplating the consequences of allowing public harm for decades and having politicians forcefully make it policy against public demand.

And that, my friends, is the shell game of patronage. The politicians use your money to fund organizations that do precisely what the politicians can’t openly do themselves. The corporate press covers for the racket, and anyone who complains is labeled “intolerant,” “conspiratorial,” or “some kind of menace to society.” Meanwhile, the majority of people sit back thinking, “Are we crazy, or are they crazy?” The answer, of course, is a little of both.

The good news is that the jig is up. People are noticing that these narratives were about as genuine as a $20 Rolex. They were forced upon us through media muscle, PR campaigns, and oodles of public money poured into so-called “nonprofits.” The public saw right through it: “Hold on a second—these stories don’t match what’s actually happening!” That’s when they rejected the mainstream storyline and looked elsewhere for real information. And guess what? They found it.

Money doesn’t lie—it’s a better detective than any anchor on primetime. Follow the cash, and you see exactly who’s pulling the strings and why. And guess what? They’re the ones building all those astroturf illusions we’ve been harping on. You think these plastic narratives come cheap? Hell no! It takes trillions of our collective dollars to create a make-believe reality so big it blocks out the sun.

Nearly all of that smoke-and-mirrors show is against what most of us actually want or need. The money that could be fixing roads, schools, hospitals, or maybe even tossed back into your own damn pockets is being hurled into these illusions. It’s like throwing gold bars into a furnace just to keep the fakery going. Because when the show stops, the “VIPs” at the top of this carnival get nervous. They need you dazzled by the bright neon. They need you hypnotized into thinking every blowhard reading off a teleprompter has the secrets to the universe.

Once we pry the plug out of the socket—yank the corporate media’s funding, stop paying for nonsense-laden NGOs that do far more harm than good, and quit endorsing so-called “solutions” that no one asked for and solve absolutely nothing—guess what happens? We regain a shred of sanity. We wake up one morning and realize, “Hey, the sky didn’t fall because we stopped funneling trillions into propaganda. In fact, the air’s a little clearer.”

Suddenly, with the illusions gone, you see a simpler path: use public tax money for actual public needs. Novel idea, right? Imagine taking all that green they used to shovel into phony campaigns and half-cocked “awareness” projects—where the only thing they made you aware of is that your wallet got lighter—and directing it toward what citizens genuinely want. Streets that don’t crumble under your car tires, schools that teach kids how to think, not just pass standardized tests, and healthcare that doesn’t cost your right kidney. They created trillions in debt just to enrich themselves and punish you with misery they pretended was inevitable rather than their design.

Once the astroturf is pulled up and tossed in the dumpster, we don’t need to sell our souls—or our bank accounts—to keep the dream alive. We can live within our means, because we aren’t paying for illusions that benefit a handful of well-connected operators. Go figure—when you stop lighting your money on fire, you actually have money left.

It’s almost too obvious, isn’t it? And that’s the real inflection point of clarity: The powers that be don’t want you seeing that big, neon obviousness. It ruins their script. They want you thinking, “Well, maybe we do need another trillion spent on a brand-new PR campaign to promote the other PR campaigns.” Meanwhile, the rest of us say, “Hang on—maybe not.”

Here we are and the final act of this grand performance. The stage lights are flickering, the illusions are cracking, and that big wad of cash you thought was allocated to something productive? Turns out it was fueling the fantasy. But the good news is, once you rip the plastic grass out by the roots, the real soil underneath can breathe. And maybe, just maybe, something honest can grow there. Something that doesn’t cost a trillion bucks to maintain and doesn’t lie right to your face.

And that, my friends, is how we get back to sanity. We stop paying for the illusions. We stop believing the illusions. We stop working overtime just to afford more illusions. And guess what? When all that nonsense goes away, we find out we might actually like each other’s company, enjoy a little fresh air, and maybe even come up with real solutions to real problems—using all that money we’ve been flushing down the propaganda toilet.

It’s a crazy thought, isn’t it? But then again, maybe it’s the most normal idea we’ve had in decades. And that’s the end of the astroturf saga, —the final curtain call for the biggest, fakest show on Earth.