Don't Do Politics No More

It's time to rededicate to staying off the particular
rancid toxic sauce of Politics. Tryin' desperately
to stop. It's a Mug's Game. We can't win. The
US is doomed. Between the Damns and the
Rethugs, it's all over. No Mas. The distributor
cap is missing, and the parts store is closed.
Forever. Don't make that model any more. The
China Man is smiling at you, an' it ain't a friendly
smile.

It's Imperative that we find something Positive
to focus on. Thinking about our Political situation
is suicidal. I can't read the newspapers; they
disgust me. These politicians, they've sold us
out. What are we gonna do? Armed Insurrection?
I don't think so. It was always a battle in men's
minds, and it's a battle we've either lost a long
time ago or haven't yet begun to fight. But in
any case, I see little evidence anyone has got
the Idea.

What do these kids know today? Empty headed
dolts, sexting away on their blackberries, their
thumbs about to fall off. Worried about what
they're gonna buy at WalMart, utterly oblivious
to History, Philosophy, Ethics... ya gonna fight
for these feebs? They don't deserve it. Pearls
Before Swine. These Fucking Swine are Angry
at you for trying to point out the pointlessness
of their lives, the doomed dead end they cling
to with such passion, their moronic Bleating...
if the Masses weren't always Asses they sure
as Hell are now, and they demand their ignorance,
they are militant passionate jihadists for Radical
Stupidity and Empty-Headed Foolery.

Too Damned Late. Our Father's generation
fought the War, came back, married Suzy
Housecoat, bought the six-pack, busted ass
down at the Plant. Thought they'd won.
Thought it was over and it was all OK now.
Went to sleep. By the time we came along, it
was Too Damned Late, yet we thought we'd
change things, Fix things, right the ship,
wake people up, return to Basic Principles.

Not gonna happen. Don't let it get ya down.
Plenny Empires rose and fell. We're not the
first, nor will we be the last. The Twentieth
Century was the American Century, and we
squandered it. It's China's turn now, or
somebodies. Let them take their shot.
Ours is about done.

Save your passion for something better. Dogs.
Hunting. Eating well. Friends. A good honest
drunk on. Race dirt bikes, fuck sweet women
that don't care about anything but having a
good time and not getting caught. Anything
but politics.

That train has gone, the race was run, the
ship sailed long ago, with a broken rudder
and out of date charts. It was an Insurance
Job, destined for the rocks. The Captain, he
was bought and paid for, he stayed drunk in
his cabin the whole time. The crew knew
what was coming down, they had the lifeboats
well stocked and ready to be swung out. But only
enough for them. The Passengers? Fuck them.
Doomed and damned. Too Stupid To Survive.
They partied the whole time, Oblivious. Didn't
wanna do no lifeboat drills. Didn't wanna wear
no life jackets. Didn't wanna think their whole
cruise could be a fucking charade. It ain't gonna
be pretty on Lord of the Flies Island, but these
cretins don't care. They gonna have a great time
getting there.

Zombie 2010

"Anyone who's read The Illuminatus Trilogy knows
there are hordes of Nazi Zombies waiting for us in
the watery depths of a lake in Ingolstadt. It is for
these reasons that I avoid large music festivals..."
-- posted by khanti, September 17, 2009 11:20 AM
----------------------------------------------------
Apparently it's an entire sub-genre of Zombie
movies, Sub-aquatic Nazi Zombies... and what a
perfect Metaphor for post-WWII US of A...
Sub-aquatic Nazi Zombies are bad, Mafia ones not
so much; the cement overshoes tend to make them
less mobile.

And the CIA-Cowboy zombies end up in the
White House... or with hit TeeVee or Radio Talk
shows and Vatican/Jesuit Mafia/Nazi Zombies as
their allies in the Dope/Guns/Souls racket... not
to mention the S. American/Nazi/Assassination
Torture/Narcotrafficing Zombies. it's just Bidneth.
The Zombie Bidneth.

It's whut makes this Poor Old Mortal Coil Go
'Round, here in this Foul Twenty-First Century,
obviously NOT of Our Lord. So far it's the Devil's
Own Century. And by all signs looking like it's
gonna stay that way, barring that return visit
Jesus talked about.

Look how good the Goldman-Sucks Zombies are
doing, wandering around Wall Street, gnawing on
passersby... no one even says a word. They've
even taken down the "Do Not Feed The Zombies"
signs that used to be up there... Christ, you can
freakin' buy Zombie Feed in the Financial District
for a dollar, just watch your fingers as you're
feeding them...

Dreadful, Dreadful Sarah Palin, DIE DIE DIE!

I fucking hate you. You are a white trash moron with
delusions of grandeur. You have no integrity. You
have no intelligence, save for the kind of cunning
usually found in a chicken-killing dog.

You are an ugly, ugly person. Your warped and
twisted personality shines forth so strongly anyone
with the right kind of eyes can see. Greedy grasping
amoral self-serving narcissist you are the Perfect
follow on to that hideous little creep George W. Bush.

The only thing about you is that you are extremely
frightening. There are apparently enough
"Conservative" fools out there that you actually have
a following. It's as if Hitler lived and moved to the
United States and became a popular politician, after
having lost 90% of his brains.

You would cheerfully sell us all out to whatever
criminal gang would install you, just as long as you
got yours. I SO hope you do get yours soon, in Hell,
where you belong. You are a disgusting horrible
wretched excuse for a person, much less a leader.

Eat Shit, Ms. Palin, and Die. Please. You are a mortal
danger to this nation. But next time I'll tell you how I
Really feel.

Seemed like as good a time as any to post an old "Uncle Dave" piece from June 4, 1996:

**Uncle Dave's Celebrity Profile**

Michael Jackson slumped back in his lounger, aiming his remote at the television to flip idly through the channels. An advertisement for "Baywatch" caught his attention and he stopped to watch Pamela Lee run across the beach in slow motion, her hydraulically-enhanced attributes suspended in a slow-bounce silicone ballet.

He laughed. Not the shy, girlish giggle he affected in public, but a lusty horselaugh that he reserved for his truly private moments. Jackson drained the last of his Michelob and let the tapered amber bottle drop to the floor. He glanced over the edge of the lounger at the litter of bottles that had accumulated so far. Laughing again, he stopped counting at ten, then rose to fetch another cold one from the refrigerator.

Scratching at the edge of beer gut peeking from underneath his stained t-shirt, Jackson wobbled into the kitchen. He stopped in front of the refrigerator, pointed at the door and proclaimed, "The King of Pop would like another beer."

The refrigerator did nothing. Jackson snorted and chuckled. "Guess I'll get this one myself."

The King of Pop. Of all the nicknames in the world, why did he have to pick the King of Pop? Jackson shook his head as he twisted open his beer and wandered back to the living room. An edge of a reflection caught his attention, and he stopped at the mirror in the hallway to stare.

A middle-aged black man stared back, the light-complexion makeup washed away, the wigs in storage, the fake eyelashes in their special boxes in the dressing room back in California, a lifetime away. His own hair was cropped close, groomed in a short natural style, his cheeks and chin peppered with two-days-worth growth of beard.

The one-bedroom apartment in Huntington, West Virginia had been a masterstroke of genius, the perfect place to hide, to be himself. Jackson could come and go as he pleased, to wander the riverbank, to walk along Third and Fourth avenues. He had become an adept dumpster diver, able to retrieve trashed treasures from the bottom of the most fully packed receptacle. The winos called him "Jack," and they appreciated his dumpster diving skills as well, sending him in time and time again for food and salvageable bits of metal and glass.

The crack whores on Hal Greer Boulevard called him Jack, too. Jackson was a regular in the tattered project housing that lined the avenue, and he knew all the women who worked that part of town. They would do incredible things for a rock and a fresh butane lighter, and Jackson kept a supply of both. His appetites required that these women be capable of bizarre things. Sometimes they disappeared altogether after a long weekend with Jackson, but nobody asked questions about these types of women. They seemed to be transient by nature, and the ability to disappear seemed to be one of their talents.

Back to the television, Jackson eased the recliner back and resumed his surfing. Comedy Central was replaying an episode of "Absolutely Fabulous," while the USA network was showing some bad made-for-TV suspense film.

But A&E was broadcasting a biography on Jeffrey Dahmer, and Jackson stopped there. Transfixed by the details, he watched the file footage of police officers and ambulance crews outfitted in hazardous material suits carrying away the blue 55-gallon drum that contained three partially-dissolved human torsos.

He sat forward to watch as a white-suited officer in a gas mask wheeled Dahmer's refrigerator down a flight of stairs. The voice-over narration said there were preserved heads and genitals in the refrigerator, and the King of Pop wondered aloud what it would look like if the icebox door suddenly flew open on the way downstairs, scattering the gruesome contents like human confetti.

Then Dahmer's image flashed onto the screen. A tall, slim, blue-eyed blond with a faint shadow of beard. Jackson stared, thinking how easy it would be in a few years for Macauley Culkin to portray Dahmer in the movie based on his life. A sharp wave of paranoia took his breath for a moment as the documentary showed the court scenes, the replay of anguished family and friends of the deceased lashing out at Dahmer.

Jackson settled back and took another long drink of his beer. This would never happen to him. Neverland is too secure, the freezers locked and hidden away in the dark sub-basements of the mansion. The children would not be missed, the homeless waifs who wandered the streets in Los Angeles. They appeared on and disappeared from those streets every day.

Soon, it would be time to go back to Neverland, time to prepare for another concert tour. He would have to lose weight, to don the makeup and wigs, to practice talking in that high, breathy voice that the media expected. And, of course, there would be the trips to Disney World, the fantasy land where the media and the world believed Jackson belonged.

As long as there were children there, they were half right.

Jackson laughed and went to the refrigerator for another beer.


More later,
uncle dave

© 1996 by D.L. Swint. All rights reserved.

"The ones you want to fuck want to be loved and
the ones you love just want to be fucked. When
your woman leaves you this is probably the best
song ever."
-- comment on "Can't Find My Way Home"

I'm ancient now, 48 times this old orb has made
it's twisted way around the long circuit. But I'm
still a lusty young man, and the fires still burn.
I've been through the crucible. In my misspent
youth I seemed to have a lot to prove, and prove
it I did. I've still got the scars and broken bones
to show for it.

I ran 127mph on the Harley on a black night on a
flat highway with the Highway Patrol out on the
prowl for me. I jumped in full combat equipment
in the dark from a C-130 aircraft with my face
painted and dressed in camouflage, a killer ready
to kill, Airborne Death From The Sky.

I've tripped, I've loved, I ran hard and fast and
crazy with no regard for life or limb, utterly
unconcerned with the very real possibility I'd be
maimed or killed, a life well established ending
suddenly and violently.

So here I am, miraculously still around, a little
older, slower, not so fast to heal, but much wiser. I'm
the Ram, impetuous, headstrong, charging blindly
into the ambush. Recon, the point man. The
Penetrator, the Gimlet. Now just older and wiser
enough to know when to pull my horns in. Plenty
just like me aren't around any more to tell you
about it, but I am, and I will.

I got my bona fides the Hard Way. I've seen the mean
streets, the dive bars, the alleyways. I was
lucky, and that's no exaggeration. Measure twice, cut
once. I learned that. It's especially true when you're
about to change lanes on a lean low fast Sportster
traveling over 100 miles per hour. There's only one
chance to do it right and if you muck it up, well, there
will be plenty of time to regret it while you lay in the
bed of pain and contemplate the place where your
femur came out the side of your leg. Or no time at all,
catapulted forever into that great mysterious Other
Side, off to explore whatever Next Adventure awaits
each of us in that place where no one gets to come
back and tell you how it is...

I'm a film noire detective working on the greatest case
ever imagined. Only one problem, it doesn't pay. Not
even expenses. Not in sheckles anyway. The payoff is
all metaphysical, and that don't make the nut when
rent is due or the bottle of rye is empty and you need
a refill to getchyer head right.

But it's exciting, exhilarating, somedays, between the
bouts of extreme boredom. I've got a Harley, but not
a big fat one like so many guys ride. Mine's slim and
sleek and built for speed. Everything not necessary
for going fast has been stripped off, like the horn and
the turn signals and the mirrors, except for the one
bar end mirror perched way outside of my elbow
where I can check for pursuing cops. Not that I really
need a mirror. Worry about what's in Front of you,
I say. But I make that one concession to the Law. You
don't need turn signals so long as you make all the
proper hand signals, but you must have a mirror.

You're obviously built for speed too, Honey. You'll
look great, a beautiful tail ornament on the back of
the Sporty. Be sure to wear a little pleated short short
skirt and give all the citizens a thrill. Let the vibrations
off that big 74 cubic inch motor percolate and
permeate and get you all wet and hot and sultry
sweaty stanky so when we get back into those trusty
trails and there's no one around and you're stretched
out under that tree with my face buried in your
luscious little snatch you taste so good I'LL be
moaning with pleasure just lapping up your sweet
hot cum as I shove my thumb up your ass and you
buck your hips and arch and dig your nails into my
back and catch your breath with a little squeal of
pleasure, grinding that hot little box into me...

Memo From The Sports Desk

Johnny,
Listen you brutal savage, you've scared the shit out
of the cleaning lady for the last time! It's bad enough
you call the editorial offices at all hours, raving in the
phone and frightening the cleaning staff... but the
faxes have gone too far.

Bleeding Christ on a broken crutch that shit isn't even
legal in most states! Plus she's heartbroken. She's
gone all to pieces, she mopes around here for days,
listlessly polishing the meth cookers and mumbling
'Mista Brock, he come soon?' You really got her
hopes up, you evil sot.

I had to take the 12 gauge away from her the
other morning after she woke me up racking shells
into it at the foot of my bed. She struck out at me
like a cornered dog and screamed 'Mista Brock, he
come for Milena, he gonna buy Milena a hat!'
Then she collapsed in the corner, sobbing.
I couldn't get any work out of her all day.

Don't call here! The police have the phones tapped.
Call Sparks, or TS. They've got your shit. It's not
here! We keep the FCN offices clean! Rick Himes
told me he's not returning your calls and to tell
you he's dead.

Robbie Parker is in hiding, the fucking Mounties
have a dragnet out for him and his wife and they
blame you. They said you tried to perform some
kind of king-hell 'medical experiment' on them
and that it turned their skin permanently blue.
The only place they can hide is in the Blue Man
Group -- oops, sorry Robbie, I just blew your
cover...

SS Minnow maritime disaster

SS Minnow (Maritime Disaster) was a faked shipwreck
engineered in order to set up a Mind Kontrol Gulag
on Gilligan's Island.

The Island was a Mind Kontrol experiment. The test
subjects were lured to the Island with promises that
"a good time will be had by all" and "Relax, Honey,
you'll be back to the dock by 4 pm. It's only a three
hour tour". They were also told there would be a
dolphin show on the Island and drinks with little
umbrellas in them.

The entire operation was financed just for kicks by
jaded plutocrat Thurston Howell III, who offered up
his wife "Lovey" as a test subject. She was a
brainless socialite who never produced anything
in her life so she kinda had it coming. She abused
her servants and hated poor people and minorities.

Amoral Kink "The Professor" aka "Roy Hinkley" aka
"The Doktor of Death" [real name thought to be:
Rheinhardt Hinnkler] administered the experiments.

He had formerly worked in the Eugenics programs,
lobotomizing and sterilizing any patient unfortunate
enough to fall into his hands. He also worked with the
Public Health Service giving syphilis to unsuspecting
black men in Tuskegee, Alabama and leaving them
untreated.

On The Island he specialized in creating multiple
personalities through rape-based trauma, and also
used sensory deprivation, electroshock, and massive
doses of LSD. The Professor was a full blown
sociopath who achieved sexual arousal by torturing
people and animals. He later served as adviser setting
up prisons in Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib. He is
believed to be a close confidant of Dick Cheney.

Brutal Bull-Fruit Screw "Skipper" Jonas Grumby,
ex-Office of Naval Intelligence, ex-OSS. He ran a
lucrative black-market operation in the South Pacific
during World War II, together with Lieutenant
Commander Quinton McHale. He later smuggled
guns into Cuba and drugs into Miami. He worked
as a mercenary in Africa and was accused of
crimes against humanity for his role in massacres in
Biafra and the Congo.

On The Island he provided security and muscle. A
vicious sadist, he loved to inflict pain and suffering
on his hapless charges. Skipper had a mean streak a
mile wide. Nobody ever crossed him twice. So mean
he once killed a man for snoring. He was finally killed
by Sendero Luminoso guerrillas in South America
after serving as a torture instructor to Right-Wing
death squads allied with the CIA. At his funeral,
Danny Quale called him "a great American".

Mary Ann Summers was a test subject, a mind
controlled zombie assassin sex-slave courier. As a
test subject she represented the virginal, wholesome
innocent farm-girl. Mary Ann was a Dorthy Gale clone,
another troubled young Kansas farm girl far from
home in a strange land, involved in horrible things
she's unequipped to understand. She later changed
her name to Squeeky Fromm.

Ginger Grant was also a test subject. She was
recruited while a member of Anton LaVey's
Church of Satan and a dancer at the Carousel Club
in Dallas, TX. She was the opposite of Mary Ann,
representing the Whore, the Diva. She was a
cheap Marilyn Monroe clone.

Ginger was later found bleeding and incoherent along
a Texas highway, babbling "they're gonna kill the
President". Her warnings were not given credence
and two days later John Hinkley attempted to kill
Ronald Reagan.

Gilligan was the Shaman, the Trickster, The
Huckster Witch. He posed as a test subject but
was secretly one of the Kontrollers. His main
technique was to allow the victims to think they'd be
released and then at the last minute smash all their
hopes. He was obviously always high on drugs, and
had a secret double life as a beatnik.

He later committed suicide by shooting himself in
the back of the head twice, after repeatedly stabbing
himself and gargling drano while hanging by the
neck in his garage.

Aftermath
When the Island's cover was blown during a
trip by Congressman Leo Ryan in order to discover
what had happened to his constituents, the subject
population was liquidated in a fake mass suicide
and the remaining mind-kontrol zombie assassin
sex-slave couriers were turned loose on the
unsuspecting American public to wreak havoc as
serial killers, forcing the American public to
demand a police state to protect them.

Master Kontroller Sherwood Schwartz went on
to create further Mind Kontrol Psychological
Warfare programs loosed on the American
psyche , such as the Nazi-inspired "Brady Bündch"
and the blatantly gay "My Favorite Martian",
used to push the homosexual agenda of sneaking
up behind you and sticking it in while you're not
looking, like they do.

The SS Minnow was eventually repaired and used by the
CIA for gunrunning and drug smuggling. It was later
loaned to Gary Hart for use during his Presidential
campaign, renamed "Risky Business".

The Island became a transshipment point for
weapons and drugs by Oliver North during Operation
Screw-Worm and Operation Cordoba, part of the
Mena, Arkansas/Iran-Contra drug and weapons
operations. It was later resettled by transplanted
Hmong Tribesmen from Laos.

Ethics 101

Torture is wrong and nothing ever justifies it. When
it’s staring you in the face and you can’t recognize
it, that’s a clear indication that you are a sick,
degenerate, WRONG individual. Any normal, decent
person can correctly label torture as wrong. So
given your position that torture is just a-ok,
where does that leave you?

If you can’t recognize torture for what it is then
you possess a malformed conscience; you are a
moral dwarf, a stunted, misshapen less-than-human
creature.

You reflect a loss of moral function, a distinct
inability to recognize evil. Your moral compass
is broken. You cannot discriminate crucial
differences. The difference between good and
evil. Wake The Fuck Up!

It's something any freshman ethics student can
tell you. Torture is wrong. As a side issue, it
doesn't work. But that's not the issue. The issue
is that you can't be the good guys and do wrong.
Don't bother telling me that we're at war with
terrorism and we've got to torture. We didn't even
torture the Nazis or the Japs.

It's illegal to torture. It's illegal to order torture.
It's even illegal to try to amnesty torturers. It's so
simple and plain and right out there in front of you.
The United States of America cannot torture people.
And Bush and Cheney had us doing it. And for that
they must be held to account.

Lindy England rots in prison for the sins of Evil Dick
Cheney. Dick can whine all he wants that torture kept
us safe, but it doesn't fly. Our use of torture destroys
us. We cannot use the methods of evil to fight evil.
The ends do not justify the means.

Sorry. It's just the way it is. And nothing can change
it. Just like nothing can erase the guilt of George W.
Bush and Dickie Cheney. That criminal duo tried to
destroy the very foundations our nation is built
upon. And if we don't hold them to account now
then they succeeded.

A Man of Wealth und Taste

Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Oskar Dirlewanger, M.D. -- and Dick Cheney's Heart Specialist

I also assisted in setting up Lord Cheney's Own SpecialOperations unit, the Einsatzgruppen Kommando for the purposes of guarding Amerika's "Interests" organized by Erich Prinz and his "BlackWater" [SchwarzeWasser] Organization, along with DickCheney,Halliburtonandthe Karlyle Gruppen. We also help to deal with those who are disloyal or inconvenient, such as Paul Wellstone or Deborah Jeane Palfrey, the DC Madam who knew too much.
We also liquidated her associate, Brandy Britton, an accused escort, who " killed herself" before she went to trial. Britton was a professor at the University of Maryland in addition to being a hooker.

Dr. Kissinger assists where he can. He's a modest man, a simple technocrat with simple tastes. A nice glass of beer, the feel of a new stiff starched pair of lederhosen against your naked skin, the sound a puppy makes as you crush his windpipe with your bare hands...

ah, for the Gut old days, back in 2004, when we really had things going. Abu Gharaib, Guantanamo, torture, rendition, secret flights to secret prisons! Arrest without warrant, indefinite detention without habeus corpus. War of Aggression, mass destruction, Shock and Awe. Old Adolf is giving us his blessing from hell. And it's fantastically profitable! We are looting the World as we go. Ah, it's all gone now. These bastards, that Schwartze half-breed and his
Communist pals... we should have bayoneted them all while we could have. I was never for this timeshare agreement we have with them. I just don't like it.

The Joint Special Operations Command: We Take Care Of Business

http://www.minnpost.com/ericblackblog/2009/03/11/7310/investigative_reporter_seymour_hersh_describes_executive_assassination_ringDominatrice Who Claimed to Have S&M Sex with Bush Is Said to Be Missing
“In 1984 I watched George W. Bush enthusiastically and expertly perform a homosexual act on another man, one Victor Ashe,”-Leola McConnell

http://noworldsystem.com/2007/11/18/dominatrice-who-claimed-to-have-sm-sex-with-bush-is-said-to-be-missing/

Afghan Opium, Commie Plots and Repug Snuff films

Hiding in Plain Sight:
Afghanistan has record 2006 opium crop.
Despite the destruction of the economy
and infrastructure of the country,
Coca-Cola has just opened a plant there.

In S. Vietnam bottling plants were key
Heroin refineries. In all likelyhood, the
reason this new bottling plant has been
opened is to refine heroin.

See also: Alfred J. McCoy, The Politics
of Heroin.
See also: Air America (book and movie)

Given the war going on in Afghanistan,
nothing else makes sense to explain why
Coca-Cola would suddenly build a new
plant there. The great new market? Not!

In the late 1960s the Russian and Chinese armies
fought a series of border engagements. Some of
these were very bloody, and involved heavy
weapons and artillery.

In 1968 the KGB attempted to start a war between
China and the US. The KGB hijacked a Soviet missile
submarine and tried to launch a nuclear attack on
Pearl Harbor. The missile exploded on launch, sinking
the sub and killing everyone on board.

The US learned of this. Nixon and Kissinger used the
information to get the Soviets to the SALT I bargaining
table. They also used the information to get
rapprochement with China.

The US raised the sunken sub using the Hughes
Glomar Explorer, which was specially built for
the purpose.

Thinking about the story that HST made a snuff
film at the Bohemian Grove: It's either true, or a
rumor Hunter made up, or a rumor someone else
made up about Hunter. Or someone using Hunter's
name made a snuff film at the Bohemian Grove.
Or appeared to. Given HST's reputation, it's
something you can say and get away with. Who's
gonna doubt it? It's like saying your brother
is in the Blue Man group. Who can tell? Do you
doubt that the world's elite would do human
sacrifice if they thought they could get away
with it? Given the human sacrifice practiced
every day through policy and program, what's
the difference? Do you think Hunter
would film such a thing? He may have been welcome
at such elite gatherings, but he was certainly not one
of them. His last book is largely a rant against the
evil ruling elite, as was his whole beat, 'The Death
of the American Dream'.

At least one of HST's assistants has said that she got
fired for refusing to come in the house and watch a
snuff film with Hunter. So there is at least one small
other connection between snuff films and HST that
we know of. Here is a link to a scan of the account of
the snuff film, which claims it happened in January
of 1984.

http://www.thelawparty.org/FranklinCoverup/FranklinBookGrove.htm

The Bohemian Club was founded by San Francisco
newspapermen. It includes elites from government,
banking, media, etc. Hunter Thompson was a San
Francisco newspaperman, as well as night manager
of the notorious O'Farrell Theater in San Francisco
('The Carnegie Hall of Public Sex in America').
Thompson also ran with the Hells Angels in and
around SF. He was active in politics, he knew
the movers and shakers. So all this adds up to
one thing -- Hunter had to have known of the
Bohemian Club. He would have known many
people who attend the Bohemian Grove.
It's very possible he attended the Grove.

The Bohos claim they do not practice human
sacrifice. They do however admit they sacrifice
a human effigy they call 'Dull Care'. This is
supposed to symbolize their casting off of
work and care during their annual two week
long anything-goes bacchanalia out in the
woods.

So the Grove is a place where the corrupt
elite plays out it's fantasies. The human
effigy they sacrifice to the huge Moloch
Owl God represents the toilers, the little
guys, the shlubs who have to actually work
for a living, unlike the parasitical
Overlords. And it really doesn't matter if
the human sacrifice is real or not, when
your system sacrifices humanity every
day by war, pollution, slavery, drugs, debt. . .

... and Hunter has perpetrated his greatest
boastful lie ever -- that he filmed the unholy
rite at the Bohemian Grove where the uberRich
perform a grisly offering to their dark god. From
beyond the grave Hunter exposes the very
people he referred to as Nazis. Hunter hated
the elite, even while they welcomed him to
their secret exclusive gatherings. This is
HST's most ambitious jake ever. So where is
the purported snuff film anyway? Why can't
we see it? It doesn't exist. It doesn't need
to. Hunter Thompson didn't have to make a
snuff film at the Bohemian Grove; he just had
to say he did. Once again he beat us to it --
that's why he was such a genius. Or not. This
could all be just another internet rumor
spread by credulous dupes and started not
by HST but by anyone. Or it could be all
true on the face of it.

Snuff films themselves are the stuff of
legend. Even as you watch one, how do
you know it's real? Stage tricks are ancient.
FCN could make a very convincing snuff
film without anyone being harmed. The
even bigger theater of our public spectacle
features real snuff films every night. The
gullible public eats up the crap the elites
serve with little question of whether or
not it's real. Phoney reasons to go to
war, phoney reasons to pony up the
man's vig, phoney reasons to forgive
the latest outrage they perpetrate on us. . .
the real snuff film rolls every night at six,
when the stuffed fake heads spew the
nightly poison of lies, half-truths and obvious
cons. The mainstream official news outlets
will never tell you the truth. Their lies
are pervasive. Their lies are lies of
omission, they ignore the 3000 pound
elephant in the room as they throw out
their worthless puff pieces . . . the job
of the mainstream media is the same as
the educational system: to keep the
people ignorant and amused.

"All journalists are liars' -- Hunter S. Thompson

"There is no such thing, at this date of the
world's history, in America, as an independent
press. You know it and I know it. There is not
one of you who dares to write your honest
opinions, and if you did, you know beforehand
that it would never appear in print. I am paid
weekly for keeping my honest opinion out of
the paper I am connected with. Others of you
are paid similar salaries for similar things, and
any of you who would be so foolish as to write
honest opinions would be out on the streets
looking for another job. If I allowed my honest
opinions to appear in one issue of my paper,
before twenty four hours my occupation
would be gone.

"The business of the journalists is to destroy
the truth, to lie outright, to pervert, to
vilify, to fawn at the feet of mammon, and
to sell his country and his race for his daily
bread. You know it and I know it, and what
folly is this toasting an independent press?

We are the tools and vassals of rich men
behind the scenes. We are the jumping jacks,
they pull the strings and we dance. Our talents,
our possibilities and our lives are all the
property of other men. We are intellectual
prostitutes."

(Source: Labor's Untold Story, by Richard O.
Boyer and Herbert M. Morais, published by
United Electrical, Radio & Machine Workers
of America, NY, 1955/1979.)

So just where is the truth of this story? Here's
a link to a site asking the same questions:
http://abelahsimmons.gnn.tv/links/660/GOP_child_rapists_and_Hunter_Thompson

As for me, I'm leaning toward this being
Hunter's greatest jake ever, and from beyond
the grave to boot. But I really don't know.
There is some great shit out there on this
story. Here's a link to one of the best sites
I've seen. They've got a REALLY creepy
quote from HST's last book:

"The autumn months are never a calm time
in America. . . . There is always a rash of
kidnapping and abductions of schoolchildren
in the football months. Preteens of both
sexes are traditionally seized and grabbed
off the streets by gangs of organized
perverts who traditionally give them as
Christmas gifts to each other to be personal sex
slaves and playthings."
http://portland.indymedia.org/en/2005/05/317430.shtml

Was HST hinting at something? Did he KNOW
something?

The End of Morality Policing in America

The End of Morality Policing in America: Part I







The End of Morality Policing in America: Part II