July 21, 2014
At the 4th Plenary Meeting of the One Size Fits All Global Planning and Distribution of Goods and Services Commission, it was pointed out by a member that one size does not fit all.
This member was later rebuked in private by David Rockefeller IX, who said, “We tell people they’re all equal, and meanwhile, we decide who eats and who doesn’t, who has water and who doesn’t, who works and who doesn’t, who can travel and who can’t, who lives and who dies. Don’t you see, you ninny? One size fits all is a cover story.”
“But,” the member replied, “what about the US Department of Love, Peace, and Lollipops? They do, in fact, pass out candy to every human in America. They’re transparent. They don’t need a cover story.”
Rockefeller IX stared at the member.
“Where did you go to school?” he said.
“Harvard,” the member said. “I was a Merit Scholar. I got my undergraduate degree in Everything for Everybody, and my PhD in Cooperative Learning K through 12.”
“I see,” Rockefeller said. “Are you aware that Harvard owns Lolly, Inc., a Boston-based company?”
“Why no,” the member said.
“Lolly, Inc. happens to be the third largest manufacturer of lollipops in the North American Union. They supply the US Department of Love, Peace, and Lollipops with a sixteen billion units a year. The contract is worth ten billion dollars over five years.”
“Yes. And that’s not all. The Harvard Pension Fund takes that profit and invests it in sixteen companies that manufacture electronic police batons, fragmentation grenades, laser-guided traffic tickets, NSA home-surveillance toilets and sinks, and smart-meter underwear.”
“My God,” the member said. “You’re talking about police-state accoutrement. But Harvard is a non-behavioral school. Students can do anything they want to.”
“Another cover story,” Rockefeller IX said. “It gets the College great press. Harvard is actually run by Biden, Rubio, and Himmler, the Washington PR firm. They write every single press release and text book for the College.”
“No!” the member said. “My uncle owns a company that produces Harvard text books. My own trust fund is derived from that company!”
Rockefeller IX laughed. “Well, there you have it. You’re contributing to the police state. Relax and enjoy it. Have a lollipop.”
A week later, when the member returned to his home in Scarsdale, he rushed over to his psychiatrist’s office and recounted his “Rockefeller conversation.”
The psychiatrist leaned back in his orthopedic recliner and said, “My boy, if you’re suffering from anything, it’s an excess of naivete. Look at me. I’m writing a paper on the effects of lollipop aspartame vis-à-vis neurotransmitter function, in young male adults who have received between forty and sixty nationally mandated vaccines. I’ll discover a beneficial effect called ‘profound serenity’, no matter what the data show. Do you know why? Because the US Army is funding my study. They pay Rumsfeld Family Trust Pharmaceuticals to produce sixteen tons of aspartame a year. The Pentagon is developing a delivery system that will enable them to spray a small nation with aspartame in six days, call it foreign medical aid, and induce widespread narcosis. I’m only seeing private patients to keep my hand in. The bulk of my income comes from the Department of Defense and IG Fluorides, a German chemical firm. That’s how I can afford to send my kids to Harvard and pay my alimony. Relax, kiddo. This is the world.”
The member went home. He called his cousin in Alaska and asked whether he could come and stay with him for a month or so. The cousin said it was a bad time. He’d just lost his job. By North American Union law, more oil fields were being shut down, to drive up the global price of fuel.
The member decided he needed a radical diversion.
He flew to the Sinaloa Air America Key, a small island off the coast of Florida, and signed up for the Run and Gun Workshop.
The idea was simple. Five Americans would pile into a bullet-scarred cigarette boat and try to make it to Miami with 300 kilos of weed.
US Customs and Immigration personnel, under contract to the Sinaloa Cartel and Disney World, would try to stop the boat and sink it. TNT-Lifetime boats and cameras stationed in the area were strictly off-limits to gunplay.
Halfway between Sinaloa Key and Miami, the member’s boat started taking heavy fire from US Customs.
The cigarette boat sank under the waves and the member found himself in a large dry cavern. Holographic Disney elves were marching to and fro playing instruments. Three men in suits grabbed him and took him into a room. They locked the door.
One of the men said, “You can be dead if you want to be. We can give you a new clean identity. You can go to work for the government.”
“Doing what?” the member said.
“You’ll be a volunteer in a medical study, which is planned to last sixteen years. We’ll fly you to Guam and feed you several new brands of lollipops and measure the effects. We’re trying to discover whether the population of a large city can survive on the nutrients we’ve embedded in the candy—no other food, just lollipops.”
The member felt rather excited. He would be contributing, in the long run, to the eradication of world hunger.
In Guam, at an abandoned Air Force base, he was put to work in an old office brushing dust from piles and piles of World War 2 paper documents.
After six months, he got up the nerve to ask his boss, who was in charge of afternoon naps for employees, when the medical experiments would begin.
“Oh, they decided not to run the tests,” the boss said. “They’re just going to say they did and publish the results. Go away, kid. It’s time for a nap.”
The member went back to dusting. He gritted his teeth and decided he would brush the dust off every single document in his office. No matter how long it took, he would finish the job. He would make a contribution to world society in his own way.
He suddenly realized one size did fit all on a cosmic scale, everything was everything, and even a police state had to be part of a Grand Plan from Above.
“Yes,” he thought, “I’ve been put here on this remote island for a reason: so I could experience being on the bottom. This is exactly what want; to look up and see something greater than myself no matter where my glance falls. It’s perfect. Thank you, Universe.”
He moved to a new pile and began dusting. He took a lollipop from his pocket, peeled off the plastic cover, and put it in his mouth.
A few days later, he realized this new rationalization for his existence wasn’t going to hold water.
He wandered off the base and into the jungle.
As it began to rain, he found a large cave and sat inside the entrance.
Under a rock next to the remains of an animal skeleton, he noticed a file folder. He slid the folder out, opened it, and saw a document under the masthead of the Defense Intelligence Agency. It was titled, “The Genetic Metaphor,” and stamped “eyes only, terrorism-related.” Someone had scrawled, “Find out who wrote this and initiate a full surveillance package on him. Dangerous.”
He read the document:
“In the grab-bag field of research involving human genes, some biologists have speculated that the 20,000 components of the genome are not enough to explain human function and behavior.
“They have gone to another level—there must be additional programming or other elements that direct the genes to carry out multiple tasks.
“This is all about cause and effect. In this case, the effect is everything a human does or thinks or feels. The cause would be genetic activity.
“When rare critics point out that explaining human life is different from explaining, say, a consecutive series of billiard balls striking each other on a felt table, researchers shrug it off.
“One biologist I interviewed several years ago told me, ‘This is the way science works. We start with a simple model of causation, and then, over time, we adjust that model so it can account for a wider range of effects.’
“I said, ‘But suppose you eventually run up against the idea that an individual has free will? He can unilaterally decide to take an action, without any prior genetic determination.’
“‘That’s impossible,’ he said.
“‘What makes you so sure?’
“For that, he had no answer.
“Genetic theory is just the latest in a long line of ideas proposed to lock the human being into a structure. The will of the gods, the divine right of kings, demons, Oedipus Complex, brain chemistry, etc.
“Every era and age has its preferred method of PR, to make its hypothesis about causation seem brilliant.
“And each of these explanations for human behavior is aimed at submerging the individual into an overall context that is far more important than he is.
“Now, in the first flush of widespread computer use, many people have concluded that ‘the human species’ is basically a design group. We build machines that think and solve and collate and organize. Soon, those machines will themselves design other devices. And so on and so forth.
“If you follow this line of reasoning far enough, you will come to the place where human beings are pictured as machines whose final function—without a shred of free choice—is to re-design themselves…to become Machine B instead of Machine A.
“Then the absurdity is complete.
“But the truth is, everyone is an artist.
“It just happens not to be a scientific truth…”
The member put the document back in the folder. He stood up and walked a little farther into the cave.
He saw the remains of a fire.
On an impulse, he picked up a charred stick, walked over to a wall, and scratched out a human face.
He hadn’t noticed there were other people in the cave. They’d been lying on the ground. They stood up now and moved toward him.
They stared at the drawing of the face.
They were dirty, half-naked, and their eyes were dull.
They pointed at the drawing. They made unintelligible sounds.
It occurred to him that possibly they’d been working at the base, too…but long, long ago. They’d left their posts and come into the jungle.
And they’d lost whatever civilization had given them.
They kept pointing at the drawing. One large man growled and bared his teeth.
The member said, “That’s a human face.”
They all looked at him.
“A human face,” he said. “I drew it. I was rather good at drawing in school.”
A woman walked to the wall, reached out her hand, touched the drawing, and shrieked. She backed up and closed her eyes and put her hands to her face.
“Don’t worry,” the member said. “It’s a drawing. It looks a little like you. It’s…”
He searched for a word.
He said, “Freedom.” He didn’t know why.
The people in the cave looked at each other.
“Freedom,” he repeated.
He said the word over and over again.
Finally, a boy said, “Free.”
“Yes!” the member said. “Free!”
The large man said, “Free.”
A few others said it too.
The member led them like a choirmaster. “Free, free, free.”
Soon, he had them all saying it.
Then the large man said, “Pree.”
“No,” the member said. “Not pree, free.”
“Pree,” the large man said. Then, straining, he said…”Priest.”
The boy said “priest.”
The woman opened her eyes and walked back to the wall and touched the drawing and said “priest.”
Others joined in. “Priest, priest, priest.”
The large man pointed at the member. “Priest,” he said.
The people nodded their heads excitedly.
They gathered around him, pointed at him.
They fell to their knees and moaned.
The member stood there, surrounded by the group of worshipers.
He stood there for a long time. He thought about what he should do.
This post originally appeared at www.nomorefakenews.com
This article was posted: Monday, July 21, 2014 at 4:08 am