Considering the arc of my life path, my closely held belligerence as even a small boy to bloviating psuedo-authority, and my refusal to even greet the world after a nine month pregnancy and deciding I would rather pop out when my stars lined up to Heaven’s Gate, a thirteen month experience for my blessed mother, I have probably started unplugged from The Matrix, as it were. My father was a Black Watch noncom who counted nuclear weapons for the Canadian Armed Forces, and had lied about his age to fight in World Warp Two against the Nazis. Through my youth, when he was not in some far off place, I would hear stories of the Nazi’s disappearing to South America and into the US Intelligence community. He was a big fan of military and spy thriller movies and I gained further background from movies like Night Of The Generals (1965). In this movie a Nazi top officer is serial murdering prostitutes and a German detective tracks him. He does prison time, to make a long story short, and when released waltzes into a meeting room at an old lavishly oak panel and brass accoutrement decorated hotel. The ballroom is decorated in full Nazi regalia. When the serial killer takes the podium he announces the New World Order. The next time I saw a man at a podium speaking those same words was George Herbert Walker Bush in his famous 1991 codeword laden speech. The ponerological disease had worked its way up to the head of the fish and the stench was beginning to get rank.
Around the same time I received a large packet of photocopied literature about the NWO, Operation Vampire 2000 by Arizona Police Officer Jack McLamb, The Constitution, the original Thirteenth Amendment, internal newsletters from Special Forces loyal to The Constitution and America and a number of other pieces of pertinent documentation. The keys were beginning to fit into the locks. It was becoming obvious what these bastards were up to and it was what my father had alluded to many times when I was a youngster. That though World Warp Two’s hot war phase was over since 1945 there was another war at the levels of high finance and intelligence factions for enslaving control or liberation of humanity. Since I wouldn’t back down as a 30 pound child threatened by my furious drlll sargeant of a father with a web belt i did not figure i would cotten too much to a bunch of self appointed plantation masters and their regimentation. Since these clowns like to insulate themselves with amorphous grey masses of suited attournement officers of the Bar (British Accredited Registry), jackboot stormtroopers and steroid pumped, sunglass sporting, earpiece wired bodyguard golems, have finnagled control of the weapons and soldiers of war in many major countries, there was no way you could take on these array of forces on the ground toe to toe. And they liked it like that and will do their best to assure this situation does not change.
But alas, as Yin waxes to full bitch mode to wane and have Yang return to proper fullness, there are agents of change afoot and they do not play with weapons of war but with words, artworks, musics and ideas. It is no accident that the Baroque and Renaissances greatest artists were conscripted into the Churches propaganda campaigns. These were men with intellect and capacity well beyond those whom they were hired to aggrandize with frivolous ego tripping paintings of the majesty of their divine rule. If one follows the arc of history one continually finds this certain class of mercantilists with a heavy boot on the neck of the public commons, conscripting their young to send them off to die in what are essentially gang wars between opposing criminal families and factions who have had the audacity to set themselves up as ruffian crowns over the people. These days we often refer to this class of people as “The Elites”. My problem with that can be expounded upon in the following metaphor.
An early Texan cowboy attending to his herd and soaking up some sunshine and fresh air is come upon by a dour British gentleman. The Brit, unused to the rugged individuality he has just come across and aligning it with internalised metaphorical analogy assumes the man to be a member of the serf class. Satisfied with his assessment of the cowboy before him he asks “Is your Master about so I may speak with him?” The cowboy looked left and then right and then over both shoulders and asked the Brit, “Are you speaking to me sir?” His face puckering as though he had just sucked upon the juice of an entire lemon, replied with an obstinate patina of contempt “Yes, of course I am for there is nobody else out here.”.. whereupon the cowboy replied “Well, I didn’t figure it was me ’cause I ain’t met the sonofabitch I was born downhill from yet.”
But alas, and regardless of the rugged individuals will, there is the upper crusting of clowns, more similar to barnacles hitching a ride on a sloop than the fine crunchy amber tan crust of fresh baked bread. Of course they imagine themselves and regard themselves, through mere accident of their birth and the trimmings of the roof over their head and the walls surrounding them that they are of a different mettle than those of the public commons. The main error in thinking is the bizarre presumption they are not and do not participate in the public commons. This fallacy allows their warped sense of social accommodation to promulgate an illusionary superiority when it is the merely the trimmings of a gilded cage acting as a barrier between them and the sharing of their humanity. The unfortunate incidentals arise not because inherently this class of people is evil, but that in an effort to maintain an ensconced position within the artifices of society, allows the psychopaths who bubble like so much hydrogenated oil to the surface of a boiling vat within their inner spheres of influence to chart the course and uses of vast accumulations of wealth. And therein lies the genesis of the issue we, as the public commons of various lands across the face of our Big Blue Marble as we find our path into the new millennia and turning of the ages.
Now. I suppose I could prattle on and on, providing reams of data and facts, but the facts of the matter is that the evidence for my claims can be deduced by a cursory study of the histories of the money centers, movements of wealth and control and the unending strings of wars. If one was to chart bloodline connections you would end up with a cats cradle of chaotic twistings, incestuous psuedoknots and strung webwork, all connected in a gordian knot of prevaricating obfuscation, dirty deals and untimely death with the ubiquitous jackbooted foot and inquisitors dungeon a continual feature of their stage set, props and cast. It is quite similar to an Artificial Intelligence simulation in that the same gambits with different graphics get played over and over to subjugate and remove points from their gaming opponent and only learn new strategies through rote repetiion of error, followed by error correction.
At the forefront of the steaming mass of cultural putrefaction oozing mendaciously from every possible square inch of eyespace and droning, blithering and shilling endlessly from broadcasting outlets is a gussied up two dollar hooker who will grovel for a pennies tip behind closed doors and defend her streetcorner lamppost, from whence her pecuniary needs are replenished, by tooth and bloody claw. This creature of societal artifice and unnatural relations is what is commonly called a politician. In the US we have at the federal level both Compressional Reprehensatives and SenileTours, neither of which have much interest in anything beyond the glamour of egpophreniacally bent public expositing , issuing incendiary promulgations of incendiary rhetoric from their gaping fumarole of a pie hole. There are exceptions to the standard fare and drossage outlined shortly above such as the much esteemed and brilliant Dr Ron Paul, but we will get more to that later after we nail a few more ego bloated hides to the wall in posts to come.