BRUTAL Rare Interview: Top IRGC General Just Revealed TRUMP'S TOTALLY FUCKED

Brigadier General Mohammad Reza Naqdi, supreme adviser to the IRGC Commander in Chief, sat down for an interview with PBS NewsHour in Tehran. And let me tell ya folks, this mofo made the Iceman look toasty.

Monday. Gut-with-less U.S. President hides from potential terrorist attack inside airport catering truck. Like RAMBO but with a fucking meal cart. Clumsy hydraulic elevator, rear hangar entrance of Air Force One, crew of aides scooped up, unceremoniously lowered to the tarmac and driven away like a soggy chicken pasta.

Traveling press pool boarded the plane he just escaped on, shades drawn at military request, sure they were flying aboard with the President. Already our fearless Mr Boneless Spurs had calculated his odds. Get one missile on the wrong plane and all that’s hitting the ground in Ankara International is press passes.

Tuesday. Iranian general, age 65, sat in Tehran–under missile attack by that American plane’s country for 5.5 months now–and calmly gave an in-person interview to an American news network. Profile up. Name endorsed. Sunglasses rested. No security detail. And yet: No fucking catering truck.

One of these guys is doing something right, and it’s not the dude who steals rides in catering trucks.

▶️ The full Naqdi interview, PBS NewsHour, 11 August 2026

Let’s be dead set clear about who we’re dealing with, because this masthead doesn’t launder war criminals. Naqdi is a Treasury-sanctioned human rights abuser who ran the Basij, the outfit that beats Iranian women in the street and interrogates protesters in rooms without windows. He’s a bastard of the first order and there are women in Evin Prison who could tell you exactly what this arseholes career was built on.

None of that changes one syllable of what he said folks. And what he said should be putting ice down the spine of every fucking galah in the West Wing.

Because this bloke has Trump by the fucking nuts, and he knows it, and the flex is that he never once squeezed Genghis Tans puny little ping pongs. Nine minutes. No notes. No shrieking about the Great Satan, no fist on the desk, none of the pantomime we were promised. Just a career officer with rat cunning and a stopwatch, kicked back like a man waiting on a bus he knows is coming.

Look up confidence in the dictionary and you’ll find this bloke in a plastic chair with a glass of tea. Look up delusion and there’s a bloke in a smoking jacket with a Cuban and a bottle of cognac, hiding in a food cart.

He never insults Trump. Not once. He doesn’t have to, and that restraint is the most brutal thing in the whole transcript. Why would you sledge a man who’s doing the demolition himself, for free, on camera, daily?

Asked if Iran’s winning, he doesn’t gloat. He marks homework. America stated two objectives: topple the leadership, break up Iran. They assassinated the Supreme Leader on day one, flattened the building where his replacement was to be chosen, and the regime appointed a new one anyway and kept the state standing. Both objectives: failed. He’s not spinning. He’s reading Trump’s own mission statement back to him with a red pen.

Then he describes the American campaign, and this is where the sun-damaged Sun Tzu gets done like a cheap TV dinner by the genuine article:

It became a war without a strategy. Every two or three days, they announced a new objective.

Invade Kharg Island. Open the Strait. Mobilise the battleships. All of it on the record, all of it announced, none of it finished. Trump told the press in March it’d take four to five weeks. It’s been five and a half months. The whole campaign is all piss and wind and the enemy said so, politely, on PBS, between sips of tea.

Asked if the plan is to wait Trump out, any other general on earth gives you three minutes of God and glory. This mongrel gives you a timetable:

prolong this war until we get to the next term of the presidency

A sitting IRGC general, on American television, announcing he intends to outlast the President of the United States like a bad smell outlasts a rental inspection. Not beat him. Outlast him. And the White House can’t even call it a bluff, because the bloke saying it works for an organisation that’s been planning this exact war since 1979. Forty-seven years of hard yakka, waiting for an opponent this stupid to finally walk through the door.

Now the missile maths, and I want you to sit with these numbers, because this is the part nobody in the American press will say in plain English.

the number of missiles we manufacture every day is more than the number we launch

Is he gilding it? Probably. Doesn’t matter a pinch, because the other side of the ledger is an abattoir. CSIS says America started the war with about 2,330 modern Patriot interceptors. End of July: somewhere between 759 and 827. THAAD went from 452 to fewer than 278. CBS says the long-range missiles are nearly all gone. CNN says commanders are calling the stockpile dangerously low.

Iran is banging out a reported 10,000 Shahed drones a month at about thirty-five grand each. The PAC-3 missile America fires to swat one costs four million dollars. That’s 114 to 1, every single engagement, in Iran’s favour. It’s not a war, it’s a bloke feeding pokies with someone else’s mortgage.

And here’s the detail that tells you the empire’s buggered: NBC reports American commanders have started letting Iranian projectiles land in the empty corners of their own bases, because they can’t afford the interceptor to stop them. The most powerful military in human history is standing there copping it in the car park to save ammo. Lockheed builds 96 THAADs a year. Replacement stock arrives in three to four years. Naqdi’s entire strategy is that by then, it’s somebody else’s problem. He said it out loud. Nobody flinched.

They’re making more bombs than they’re using. America is literally running out of bullets. That’s not IFLA’s take, that’s the arithmetic, and the arithmetic is why he can afford the plastic chair and the tea.

Then he leans in and the temperature drops through the floor:

If there comes a day when Iran has no more missiles left, that’s when we will be even more dangerous for America.

Read that as a threat and you’ve missed it. That’s a man telling a superpower its own global footprint is the ammunition dump. Ports. Pipelines. Cables. Shipping. Every dollar of American capital parked anywhere on earth. He’s not warning you he’ll run out. He’s telling you running out is when the fun starts. Delivered in the tone of a tradie quoting you for a bathroom reno.

And then, the knife. Asked to put himself in Pete Cocksbreth’s shoes, he declines, calls him a criminal who killed 168 children, a figure that sits, word for word, in letters American legislators sent the Pentagon about the Minab school strike that the Pentagon has spent five months refusing to explain. Then:

If I was in the place of the American Congress, I would call for an investigative committee to compare the assets of Mr. Trump, his family, and his inner circle before the war to their assets after the war.

A sanctioned Iranian general just proposed better oversight of the President than the actual United States Congress has managed. And the receipts exist: the DOJ and CFTC are probing trades that netted $2.6 billion, placed minutes before Trump’s own war announcements, and blockchain analysts found accounts calling 80 war events at 98 percent accuracy. “Luck alone cannot explain those numbers,” said the bloke who found them. The whole thing is on the nose from the strait to the Situation Room, and the only person saying it plainly on American telly is the enemy.

Here’s the lesson eighty years in the making. Since 1945 America has run on one promise: we have more, we make more, we’ll outlast you. Naqdi just sat in a bombed city and repossessed the entire premise. Iran learned to fight America by fighting America, five months of free tuition, and found, in his words, that the American military is weaker than they perceived. Meanwhile the Pahlavi of the Putting Green, and remember, the Shah is the last bloke Iran outlasted, is discovering that the strait is shut, petrol’s over four bucks a gallon, the arsenal’s on rations, and the man on the other side has a calendar where America has a Truth Social account.

Trump was warned. Everyone from the Pentagon to the pub told him this was a honey trap with a flag on it. He walked in anyway, announced it’d take a month, and got snookered by a bloke in a plastic chair who’s been rehearsing since before half of Congress was born.

He wanted Iraq 1991. He got the Bay of Pigs in Blankets.

And when PBS took Naqdi’s comments to the White House, nine minutes of doctrine, a war crime with congressional letters behind it, and an insider trading accusation with two federal probes attached, the entire response was: it would be wise for Iran to agree to a deal, otherwise they know what will happen.

They know what will happen. Mate, for fuck sake, they’ve watched what happens for five and a half months. What happens is the Sook of the Sandwich Lift leaves his own alliance summit hidden in the entrée trolley while a 65-year-old bastard in Tehran pours another tea and checks the date.

The campaign was cactus by April and everyone in CENTCOM knew it. Iran isn’t fucking around. They’re planning to win, they’ve told us how, they’ve told us when, and the man they’re planning to beat needed a forklift to leave fucking Turkey.

What an unmitigated, cataclysmic clusterfuck.

IFLA ~ Gman

THE AUSSIE-TO-YANK GLOSSARY

A standing feature for our American readers, who keep emailing to ask what the bloody hell half these words mean. Australian and American are technically the same language, in the way a general in a plastic chair and a president in a catering truck are technically both leaders: one of them sat still for nine minutes and terrified a superpower, and the other one left a NATO summit disguised as the entrée service. Below are today’s terms, decoded for Washington. Use them wisely, or at least loudly.

All piss and wind: Loud, blustering and completely hollow. A bloke who talks an enormous game and delivers a wet fart. Announcing a four-week war that runs five and a half months is the platonic ideal of all piss and wind.

Buggered: Exhausted, broken, or finished. A knee can be buggered, a ute can be buggered, and so can a national missile stockpile that has been fired off at four million dollars a shot to swat drones worth thirty-five grand.

Cactus: Dead, broken, finished, beyond repair, and there is no coming back. Nothing to do with the plant, everything to do with the vibe of one: dead-looking, prickly, and standing in a desert of its own making. A war campaign can be cactus by April with the fighting still going, which is somehow worse.

Dead set: Genuine, true, no exaggeration. “Dead set, he left in a food cart.” Deployed to signal that the ridiculous thing you just said actually happened, which in this line of work is most days of the week.

Done like a dinner: Comprehensively beaten, and beaten so thoroughly there is nothing left to argue about. Not a narrow loss. A carve-up. The steak is cooked, sliced, eaten, and the plate is already in the sink.

Galah: A loud pink-and-grey parrot, and by extension a loud foolish person who makes an enormous racket and achieves precisely nothing. “You flaming galah.” Any resemblance to anyone currently hiding in a meal cart is purely ornithological.

Hard yakka: Genuine physical work, the sweaty kind. Yakka comes from Yagara, an Aboriginal language of the Brisbane region. Spending forty-seven years quietly preparing for a war is hard yakka. Posting about the war is not.

Mongrel: Literally a mixed-breed dog. Applied to humans as insult or grudging compliment depending purely on tone. “That bloody mongrel” is resentment. “Tough mongrel” is respect. When a general announces his timetable for outlasting a president, that’s the second one, through gritted teeth.

On the nose: Stinking, literally or morally. Fish left in a hot car is on the nose. So is a federal investigation into who exactly was betting on the president’s social media posts fifteen minutes before he made them.

Rat cunning: Low, sharp, entirely self-taught intelligence. Not education, instinct. It is grudging praise and a blunt warning in the same breath, and it is the only compliment an Australian will pay to a bloke he would never turn his back on.

Snookered: Trapped with no shot available. From the billiards table, where your ball sits behind another and every legal move you have makes things worse. The cruelty is that you can see the whole table. You simply cannot reach any of it.

Sook: A crybaby, or the act of being one. To “have a sook” is to whinge and snivel. When a grown man flees his own alliance summit in the sandwich lift rather than face the tarmac, that is sook behaviour at head-of-state level.

STFU CUCK