You wrote Project 2025. You arranged the language of rollback and restraint so carefully that it could almost pass for a blueprint—if blueprints could choke. I told people what I knew, as best I could, hoping to prevent the role you now play. I tried to warn them. But your side thrives on deception, and people, being fallible, sometimes believe the lie that feels easiest. Lucky for you, I suppose. Not a life I’d find honorable, but we each serve a purpose.

You speak in the language of legality—plenary authority, sovereignty, law and order—as if vocabulary were virtue. You wrap tyranny in terminology, hoping Latin roots will absolve moral decay. But the truth is smaller and sadder than your jargon: your ideology isn’t faith; it’s hunger.

You may be Jewish by ancestry, as I am, and that’s where the truth begins and ends. Heritage is not governance. Yet some people still cling to the poisonous myth that “the Jews run everything,” using lineage as a shortcut to blame. That lie is old, tired, and dangerous—and it’s not the reason for your actions, or for the state of this country. I know it, but too many still don’t understand the difference. You don’t act from faith or culture; you act from ambition. Your ancestry doesn’t define you, Stephen. Your choices do—and they have nothing to do with Judaism.

And then there’s the matter of faith—the one you claim now, cloaked in performance. You wear Christianity like a credential, but not a conviction. I practiced the true faith once, Stephen. I know what it feels like to believe deeply and to be humbled by grace. Whatever divinity you think you’re channeling, trust me, that isn’t how most of us see you. What you’re doing isn’t ministry—it’s theater. Political theater with a D-list character. And it’s not going the way you hoped it might. It won’t end the way you imagine it will.

So we know what you are not. You are not a shadow president. You are not a secret mastermind. You are not an emblem of faith. So let’s talk about what you are.

You are a man missing the mark—by miles, not inches. You’ve confused intellect with insight and strategy with soul. You wield policy like a weapon, not stewardship. You build walls to keep fear out, and instead you trap yourself inside them. You mistake control for clarity, cruelty for conviction, and applause for purpose. The tragedy isn’t that you’re powerful; it’s that you’re hollow. You had the chance to make something better, and instead you made the world more afraid.

The danger of men like you isn’t only what you do—it’s what you normalize. You teach others that intellect is enough, that empathy is expendable, that victory proves virtue. You mistake the ability to manipulate systems for the right to own them. History is full of men in suits who thought they were saving civilization while quietly hollowing it out. They called their blueprints vision; it was a confession. Project 2025 is not a plan to govern so much as a manual for domination—every page revealing a fear of equality and a terror of progress. Systems built on fear always collapse; they devour their creators first. Power borrowed from lies rots the hand that holds it.

I remember watching you boast about “saying or doing what no one else will.” You wore that line like a medal—as if shock were courage, as if audacity were virtue. I do that too sometimes. I say or do the things most people won’t—but not to wound, to awaken. You do it to prove you can. You confuse defiance with depth. True strength isn’t in how far one dares to go, but in knowing why one goes there. That is where we must draw the line: I rise to awaken; you strike to silence. One day, when the cameras dim and your echo fades, you’ll realize that saying what no one else will say isn’t the same as having something worth saying.

And then there’s the nickname—Weird Stephen. When your own boss, a man who revels in spectacle, brands you that way, it’s not affection. It’s exposure. Power doesn’t respect you; it uses you. You’ve built an empire of influence around a man who laughs at you in private. That’s not authority—that’s servitude with better lighting. I don’t like you, Stephen. I can’t stomach J.D. Vance either, but at least he’s an original flavor of insufferable—Hillbilly Vanilli made me laugh. You’re the echo that thinks it’s the song.

Still, I wish you something real. I wish you luck—not the kind that buys headlines or influence, but the kind that wakes a soul. Waking up takes work. It demands humility, reflection, and the courage to admit you’ve been wrong. It requires facing the bodies attached to your abstractions and the families torn by your policies. You could choose to do that work. You could learn that the measure of a person is not the volume of his decree but the weight of his remorse.

The president may be in cognitive decline—not may be, is. We all see it. But you, Stephen, still have time. Time to reckon. Time to face what you’ve built and what you’ve broken. I won’t pretend I’m forgiving you lightly. I want accountability. I want consequences.

I couldn’t wish prison on a more deserving person—well, outside of that and your circle. I mean it: I wish you prison not out of petty vengeance, but as the consequence of choices that weaponized policy and punished the innocent. Let the bars you meet return every echo of the pain you caused, until silence is all that remains to answer you.

Until then, perhaps the quiet between your speeches will teach you what power never could.

—No one who matters