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A segment on MSNOW’s The Last Word with Lawrence O’Donnell focused on yet another missed deadline for the release of the Epstein files under the Epstein Files Transparency Act. O’Donnell noted that Friday, 01/16/26, was the date by which Trump’s Department of Justice was required either to release the documents or explain to a federal court why it could not do so. Even as he laid out the requirement, O’Donnell expressed skepticism that the administration would comply.
#BREAKING: Lawrence: "Tomorrow is the deadline for Donald Trump's justice department to explain to federal judge Paul Engelmayer why they are in violation of the #EpsteinFiles Transparency Act law that required the justice department to hand over all of the #Epstein files to the… pic.twitter.com/fkRMIHRMOg
That skepticism proved well founded. The DOJ did not release the Epstein files by the deadline, nor did it offer a straightforward justification for continued secrecy. Instead, it submitted a filing advancing a far more provocative claim: that the federal court itself lacks the authority to impose disclosure deadlines on the DOJ under the transparency law. In effect, the department argued that judicial oversight does not extend to enforcing Congress’s mandate for public release.
The filing struck many observers as both evasive and revealing. The DOJ had no shortage of familiar excuses it could have relied upon. It could have requested additional time, citing the need to review millions of Epstein-related files it now claims to have “discovered” years after Epstein’s death—an explanation that few in the public find credible, but one that would have followed the well-worn script of bureaucratic delay. Instead, the department chose to challenge the court’s authority outright, a move that signaled a deeper resistance to transparency rather than a temporary logistical problem.
That posture stripped away any remaining doubt about the administration’s intentions. From the beginning, critics warned that Trump’s DOJ would engage in procedural gamesmanship—offering symbolic compliance while ensuring that the most consequential material never sees the light of day. The latest filing suggests those warnings were prescient. By disputing the court’s power to impose deadlines, the DOJ is effectively asserting the right to delay disclosure indefinitely, regardless of statutory language, judicial orders, or public demand.
At this point, what once sounded like cynical speculation is hardening into an unavoidable conclusion. Despite sustained public outcry, congressional action, and repeated court-imposed deadlines, less than one percent—one percent—of the Epstein files have been released. That figure alone tells the story. At this pace, full disclosure is not merely delayed; it is effectively being denied. The administration appears content to manage optics rather than deliver transparency, releasing token material while the core of the record remains sealed. With each missed deadline, the promise of accountability fades further, leaving the public with a grim realization: the dream of a full Epstein files release may never be realized, and the cynics may have been right from the very beginning.
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An interesting segment on MSNBC’s Last Word dug into what it described as a familiar pattern in U.S. military history: deny wrongdoing first, then slowly acknowledge pieces of the truth once outside evidence becomes impossible to dismiss. Lawrence O’Donnell used the current controversy surrounding Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth’s alleged “boat strikes” in the Caribbean as his launching point, arguing that the initial denials and evasions coming from the Pentagon echo earlier moments when U.S. officials misled the public about military actions that later proved indefensible. O’Donnell’s implication was unmistakable—that when the dust settles, investigators may conclude not only that the strikes were unlawful, but that Hegseth or those operating under his authority initially misrepresented what happened.
#BREAKING: Lawrence opener: "First, they lie. That's what has happened in the American military after every war crime committed by the American military. First, they lie. Somewhere in the chain of command, they lie. That's what President Donald Trump's incompetent Defense… pic.twitter.com/eQyEFpr1Xw
O’Donnell’s framing draws on a long and painful history. From the My Lai massacre in Vietnam, to the Pentagon’s early false account of Pat Tillman’s death, to the denials surrounding the Kunduz hospital airstrike in Afghanistan, the United States military has repeatedly issued confident, categorical explanations that later unraveled. The pattern is not merely that the military gets things wrong; it is that it often knows its initial explanations are incomplete or misleading. In the Kunduz case, commanders first claimed that the deadly strike on the Doctors Without Borders hospital was an accident caused by bad intelligence. Later investigations revealed systematic procedural violations and inconsistencies in the official story. In other incidents, the military has been accused of cleaning up sites, withholding footage, or pressuring witnesses—all in the name of preserving institutional credibility. These reversals feed the larger concern O’Donnell was highlighting: when allegations of war crimes arise, the public’s first encounter with them is often a narrative shaped to minimize responsibility.
That context matters in the current debate over the so-called “double tap” strikes. The term refers to a practice—widely condemned by human rights groups—where an initial strike is followed minutes later by a second one timed to hit rescuers rushing to help the wounded. International law experts have long argued that the tactic constitutes a war crime because it intentionally targets medics, civilians, or anyone giving aid. According to MSNBC’s reporting, the controversy swirling around Hegseth includes allegations that at least some of the Caribbean boat strikes may have followed this pattern. Early statements from Defense Department officials reportedly downplayed or denied this, but as often happens, additional footage and testimony have begun to contradict the earliest claims. O’Donnell suggested that even Hegseth’s own language has shifted—initially presenting the strikes as precise, justified, and unambiguous, while later remarks seem more cautious, as if acknowledging that the official story may not hold under scrutiny. Critics note that this rhetorical drift mirrors earlier cases where U.S. officials’ first instinct was to shield themselves rather than openly confront what occurred.
The pressure is not only coming from television pundits. MSNBC has also reported that the family of a Colombian fisherman killed in one of the “narco-terrorist” drone strikes has filed a formal complaint with a Washington, D.C.–based human rights organization. The filing seeks monetary compensation but also demands an end to the drone campaign altogether. More significantly, it accuses Secretary Hegseth of authorizing extrajudicial killing—an allegation that, if taken up by international bodies, could draw the attention of the International Criminal Court or other tribunals. While the ICC rarely targets officials from powerful nations, a complaint of this nature can still generate diplomatic headaches, congressional scrutiny, and sustained media investigation.
What stands out even more is that, despite the deep polarization in Washington, these boat strikes have triggered bipartisan unease. Lawmakers in both parties have struggled to accept the administration’s rationale that small vessels thousands of miles from U.S. shores pose such a grave and imminent threat that the only viable response is to blow them out of the water. Even some Republicans—normally inclined to defend a Republican administration reflexively—are questioning whether the intelligence behind the strikes is as airtight as officials claim. The complaint filed by the fisherman’s family underscores the fragility of the administration’s narrative; if one case unravels, others may follow, and with them the assertion that all strikes have been lawful counter-narco operations rather than disproportionate uses of force.
The open question is whether Secretary Hegseth will adjust course. Will he dial back the strike policy to accommodate bipartisan concerns, or will he press forward under the belief that forceful action now will be vindicated later? The political calculus is complicated by the reality that former President Trump, as a former head of state, will almost certainly remain shielded from any serious war-crimes prosecution; the ICC has historically avoided pursuing former U.S. presidents, and legal scholars widely agree it is unlikely to break that precedent. Hegseth, however, does not enjoy the same protective aura. Officials below the level of head of state have faced international legal jeopardy before, and those in the Trump administration who assume they are untouchable may discover that this confidence is misplaced.
Whether the unfolding controversy becomes another entry in the long ledger of U.S. military denials followed by partial admissions—or something more legally consequential—remains to be seen. But as O’Donnell’s segment underscored, history has taught observers to pay close attention not only to what officials say at the beginning of these crises, but how their stories change once the evidence emerges and the truth becomes harder to hide.
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On the December 3, 2025 edition of MSNOW’s Last Word, host Lawrence O’Donnell made a striking allegation: that President Trump’s recent moves toward a potential conflict with Venezuela are part of a deliberate effort to divert public attention from what has become the most politically explosive vulnerability of his administration—the Epstein files. As dramatic as that claim sounds, the idea that a president might reach for military action to overshadow damaging domestic troubles is far from unprecedented in American politics.
#BREAKING: Lawrence opener: "Donald Trump will continue to talk about waging a Vladimir Putin-style invasion of Venezuela every day that Donald Trump's old friend, the sex trafficker and rapist Jeffrey #Epstein, continues to make life difficult for Donald Trump."😳 pic.twitter.com/A2B5agXavR
History offers several examples of presidents facing crises at home while initiating or escalating military operations abroad. In 1999, as the Monica Lewinsky scandal and impeachment fight threatened his presidency, Bill Clinton authorized U.S. and NATO airstrikes in Kosovo. While the Kosovo intervention had legitimate humanitarian and geopolitical motivations, critics at the time argued that its timing conveniently shifted the national focus away from the turmoil engulfing Clinton in Washington. Similarly, George W. Bush’s 2003 invasion of Iraq—authorized with congressional approval and publicly justified as a necessary step to eliminate weapons of mass destruction—has long been viewed by some political observers as a campaign that also helped neutralize criticism of the administration’s intelligence failures surrounding 9/11 and other mounting domestic issues. In both cases, military action absorbed media bandwidth, elevated presidential authority, and stirred a sense of national unity that could blunt domestic scrutiny.
The pattern, then, is an old one: foreign conflict can serve as a political reset button, even if the strategic and humanitarian stakes are genuinely complex. It is also a risky gamble, because wars rarely unfold according to plan. setbacks can deepen public dissatisfaction instead of alleviating it, and the use of military force for political cover remains one of the most controversial charges that can be leveled against any commander in chief.
Against this backdrop, if President Trump were to sidestep Congress and launch a military operation in Venezuela under the banner of fighting “narco-terrorists,” it would not emerge in a historical vacuum. It would more closely resemble a familiar—and troubling—pattern in presidential behavior. Yet recognizing a pattern does not mean the public should accept it as inevitable. Trump campaigned in 2024 on promises of “no more foreign wars” and “no more regime change,” commitments that resonated deeply with voters weary of costly, open-ended U.S. interventions. Many of his supporters viewed him as the candidate who would finally break the cycle of manufactured or opportunistic foreign entanglements that so often coincide with moments of domestic political stress.
That alone should give the president pause. If he truly intends to differentiate himself from past administrations, he must resist the temptation to use military force as a political distraction. The public—and especially the voters who backed him on the promise of a different foreign-policy era—deserve a leader who resists the cynical logic of war as domestic cover, not one who repeats it.
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A recent segment on MSNBC’s The Last Word with Lawrence O’Donnell sparked intense debate by suggesting that the Trump-era Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE)—until recently led by Elon Musk before the agency was disbanded this month—has triggered devastating humanitarian consequences through its rapid cuts to USAID programs. The report cited estimates—hotly disputed by DOGE supporters and independent analysts alike—that hundreds of thousands of Africans, many of them children, could die or may already have died as a result of withdrawing funding from health and nutrition programs that had long relied on U.S. support. Whether these figures represent confirmed deaths, worst-case projections, or something in between has become central to the wider political and moral argument.
#BREAKING: Lawrence: "Former USAID official…who joined us on this program last night reported, it is estimated that USAID's dismantling has ALREADY caused the DEATHS of 600,000 people, two-thirds of them CHILDREN. That's 400,000 children dead."😢 pic.twitter.com/KMTKrL0mOK
Critics of DOGE argue that even the lowest plausible estimates of harm would constitute a profound moral failure by the United States. They contend that the speed and scope of the cuts all but guaranteed instability in regions where U.S.-backed programs had become essential to basic survival. From this viewpoint, fixating on the precision of the numbers risks missing the larger point: that preventable suffering—even at a fraction of the projections mentioned on air—would still be catastrophic and vastly outweigh any budgetary savings DOGE hoped to achieve.
Supporters of the cuts offer a very different narrative. They argue that the United States cannot indefinitely shoulder the burden of funding core public-health systems across developing nations while grappling with its own severe fiscal challenges. They also question the reliability of the projections referenced in cable-news segments, noting that models built on incomplete data often produce dramatic but speculative results. To them, MSNBC’s framing is an example of worst-case scenarios being treated as established fact, while years of inefficiency, redundancy, and poor oversight within USAID’s global operations go unaddressed. Critics respond that this fiscal-responsibility argument is undermined by the Trump administration’s willingness to approve major financial packages elsewhere—such as the recent $40-billion bailout for Argentina—which suggests that affordability may be less a constraint than political preference.
Overlaying all of this is an uncomfortable personal dimension involving Elon Musk himself. Born and raised in South Africa during the apartheid era, Musk’s early life and the advantages associated with that system have long been scrutinized in discussions of race, privilege, and inequality. For many Africans, the symbolism of an African-born billionaire—one whose family benefited from a racially stratified society—having overseen cuts that disproportionately harmed the continent is hard to ignore. Even though DOGE is now dissolved and Musk no longer holds that position, the optics remain deeply fraught, and skepticism among African observers is understandable.
Despite these tensions, nearly everyone agrees on one central point: USAID has indeed faced problems with waste, inefficiency, and poorly evaluated programming. But acknowledging these flaws does not require dismantling the lifesaving work that competent aid can deliver. With thoughtful reforms, stronger accountability, and better targeting of resources, the United States could address the system’s shortcomings without abandoning vulnerable populations who depend on these services. The real challenge lies in balancing fiscal discipline with global humanitarian leadership—while keeping the human consequences, not just the spreadsheets, at the center of the conversation.
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On the 11/12/25 edition of The Last Word with Lawrence O’Donnell, host Lawrence O’Donnell made a striking observation: current Vice President J.D. Vance’s near-silence on the swirling Jeffrey Epstein files scandal mirrors the posture then-Vice President Gerald Ford assumed as Richard Nixon’s presidency was collapsing under the weight of Watergate. O’Donnell pointed out that Ford, sensing the sinking of Nixon’s Presidency, deliberately kept his head down—he knew the ghosts of Nixon would dog his tenure if he didn’t distance himself.
I did two media interviews literally today, one of which is airing in a few hours. https://t.co/xsldmacKe4
By the same logic, O’Donnell argued, Vance appears to be doing exactly that: he knows the Epstein files may blow up and run Donald Trump out of office, and thus is doing everything he can to not get sucked into the scandal, to avoid becoming the next Ford.
As expected, social media erupted following O’Donnell’s segment. I posted a clip of the show, and to my surprise the reaction came from none other than the Vice President himself. That’s how provocative the comparison proved.
In his response, Vance strongly objected to O’Donnell’s suggestion that he was intentionally silent about the Epstein scandal. Vance pointed out that he had addressed the issue in prior TV appearances—citing his interview on Hannity scheduled for 11/13/25, which coincided with the date I posted the segment.
Interestingly, in that very 11/13/25 show O’Donnell claimed Vance had in fact ignored the Epstein issue entirely—and reaffirmed: “He’s still Gerald Ford.”
Now that the “Gerald Ford” comparison has caught Vance’s attention—and by implication, the President’s—it will be fascinating to watch how it plays out going forward.
