An Open Letter to Waltine Nauta:
Dear Waltine,
You don't know me. And admittedly, I don't know much about you.
But here you are under the red hot glare of a nation's attention for your part in the espionage activities of our former "president" who stole Top Secret Classified documents, kept them in unsecured facilities and paraded them around with blatant bravado to any Tom, Dick and leggie Lady in a skirt.
I do like your name, Waltine, sounds like saltine, which I understand is good for treating upset stomachs. I have a gut that's sturdier than the 50 year old cast iron skillet handed down to me from my father. As heirlooms go it's not very sentimental, but it is incredibly functional if not difficult to clean.
I've done a little "research" on you and discovered you were born in Guam. You know where Guam is. I know, generally, where Guam is. But I'm willing to bet the equity in my house that the ignorant schmuck who dragged you into this criminal mess couldn't find Guam on a map, anymore than he could find Syria, North Korea, or even China.
To his credit he does know the whereabouts of Georgia and Arizona and the trunk full of phony Biden ballots from 2020.
Furthermore, I'd further up the ante and suggest the man illegally in possession of SCIF-worthy military invasion plans can't even spell GWAM. And when he's shouting about Making America Great Again, he's certainly NOT including Guam -- even though it's an unincorporated US Territory -- in his neo-fascist jingoistic wet dream.
Let's also be honest, he doesn't really have any MAGA plans, he just needs to say it over and over and over again because his supporters are not very discerning. They're spellbound by his array of ugly red ties.
Back to the situation at hand.
Today is July 5th. From what I've read on Wikipedia, the lazy man's unofficial source of facts, the drop dead deadline for your federal arraignment is tomorrow July 6th. Apparently you could not be properly arraigned in South Florida as your Trump-appointed lawyer, that is the one being paid for by Trump's PAC meaning Joe Sixpack and Betty Bag O'Donuts, is not permitted to practice in the "great" state of Florida. Necessitating the hiring of a new lawyer.
This little legal unforced error seems par for the course for the Trump team who, to this day, still claim the 2020 election was STOLLEN.
By the way, Waltine, I'm no lawyer (though I was waitlisted for admission at Southwestern University here in Los Angeles), but I'm not sure your legal interests are best served by lawyers who answer to the man who can't even put am old windbreaker on by himself. (See photo above)
This tactic is often employed by the mob. Or by huge corporations seeking to ply unwitting witnesses (that would be you) in their client's favor. If you haven't seen George Clooney in the movie Michael Clayton, I suggest you do so. It's highly underrated.
When you're done watching the movie you should also read the book by Rick Wilson titled, Everything Trump Touches Dies.
And it does.
Ask Manafort, Cohen, Giuliani, Powell, Flynn, Stone, Weisselberg, Pence, Gates, Easton, Lev and Igor, or the 1000+ "Tourists" who visited the Capitol building on January 6th, 2021.
What I'm saying Waltine, is you have an opportunity. You stand at the proverbial Fork in the Road.
You can stand your ground as the former president's loyal Coffee Boy, in this case, Diet Coke Boy, and take your lumps, serving a couple of years at Leavenworth, while he continues to cheat his way around the hilly course at Doral. And scarf up omelettes at his fleabag hotel in Mara Lago.
Or, you can write your name in the history books, and cement your reputation as an American hero who followed in the singular path of John Dean, told the Truth, and took down an American president who sullied the walls of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. A man who perverted the notion of public service and served only the interests of one traitorous sad sack of shit who is long overdue for the accountability and karma he deserves.
Do the right thing, Waltine.
Make the deal with Jack Smith and put Guam on the map.
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