Monsanto/FDA: 2 crime families, trillion-dollar hustle

Monsanto/FDA: 2 crime families, trillion-dollar hustle

by Jon Rappoport

July 22, 2014

“The propagandists who actually decide the content of mainstream news have done a bang-up job on Monsanto. They’ve made it seem that the science for and against GMO crops is a swamp of uncertainty no one can decipher. Therefore, leave it alone. Don’t step into it. This omits one stunning circumstance: exactly how GMO crops were permitted into the US food supply in the first place.” (The Underground, Jon Rappoport)

Perhaps you remember the Just-Label-It campaign. A number of activist groups petitioned the FDA for a federal regulation that would make labeling GMO food mandatory all across America.

The petition amassed over a million signatures. But the FDA decided only 394 of these were legitimate, because all the others were electronically submitted in one document.

Infuriating? Of course. But that was nothing.

Imagine this. A killer is put on trial, and the jury, in a surprise verdict, finds him not guilty. Afterwards, reporters interview this killer. He says, “The jury freed me. It’s up to them. They decide. That’s what justice is all about.”

Then the press moves along to members of the jury, who say: Well, we had to take the defendant’s word. He said he was innocent, so that’s what we ruled.

That’s an exact description of the FDA and Monsanto partnership.

When you cut through the verbiage that surrounded the introduction of GMO food into America, you arrive at two key statements. One from Monsanto and one from the FDA, the agency responsible for overseeing, licensing, and certifying new food varieties as safe.

Quoted in the New York Times Magazine (October 25, 1998, “Playing God in the Garden”), Philip Angell, Monsanto’s director of corporate communications, famously stated: “Monsanto shouldn’t have to vouchsafe the safety of biotech food. Our interest is in selling as much of it as possible. Assuring its safety is the FDA’s job.”

From the Federal Register, Volume 57, No.104, “Statement of [FDA] Policy: Foods Derived from New Plant Varieties,” here is what the FDA had to say on this matter: “Ultimately, it is the food producer who is responsible for assuring safety.”

The direct and irreconcilable clash of these two statements is no accident. It’s not a sign of incompetence or sloppy work or a mistake or a miscommunication. It’s a clear signal that the fix was in.

No real science. No deep investigation. No convincing evidence of safety. Passing the buck back and forth was the chilling and arrogant strategy through which Pandora’s Box was pried opened and GMO food was let into the US food supply.

In order for this titanic scam to work, the media had to cooperate. Reporters had to be a) idiots and b) sell-outs.

With few exceptions, reporters and their editors let the story rest there, as a “he said-he said” issue. No sane principled journalist would have cut bait at that point, but who said mainstream reporters are sane or principled?

Underneath the Monsanto-FDA buck-passing act, there was a conscious deal to give a free pass to GMO crops. This had nothing to do with science or health or “feeding the world.” It was about profits. It was also about establishing a new monopoly on food.

Not only would big agribusiness dominate the planet’s food supply as never before, it would strengthen its stranglehold through patents on novel types of seeds which were technologically engineered.

It’s very much like saying, “A cob of corn is not a plant, it’s a machine, and we own the rights to every one of those yellow machines.”

How was Monsanto able to gather so much clout?

There was one reason and one reason only. Putting the world’s food supply into fewer hands was, and is, a major item on the Globalist agenda. If it weren’t, the FDA-Monsanto scam would have been exposed in a matter of weeks or months.

Major newspapers and television networks would have attacked the obvious con job like packs of wild dogs and torn it to pieces.

But once the scam had been given a free pass, the primary corporate-government tactic was to accomplish a fait accompli, a series of events that was irreversible.

In this case, it was about gene drift. From the beginning, it was well known that GMO plants release genes that blow in the wind and spread from plant to plant, crop to crop, and field to field. There is no stopping it.

Along with convincing enough farmers to lock themselves into GMO-seed contracts, Monsanto bought up food-seed companies in order to engineer the seeds…and the gene-drift factor was the ace in the hole.

Sell enough GMO seeds, plant enough GMO crops, and you flood the world’s food crops with Monsanto genes.

Back in the 1990s, the prince of darkness, Michael Taylor, who has moved through the revolving door between the FDA and Monsanto several times, and is now the czar of food safety at the FDA—Taylor said, with great conviction, that the GMO revolution was unstoppable; within a decade or two, an overwhelming percentage of food grown on planet Earth would be GMO.

Taylor and others knew. They knew about gene drift, and they also knew that ownership of the world’s food, by a few companies, was a prime focus for Globalist kings who intended to feed the population through Central Planning and Distribution.

–“We feed these people; we hold back food from those people; we send food there; we don’t send food here.”–

Control food and water, and you hold the world in your hand.

Here is evidence that, even in earlier days, Monsanto knew about and pushed for the Globalist agenda. Quoted by J. Flint, in his 1998 “Agricultural Giants Moving Towards Genetic Monopolism,” Robert Fraley, head of Monsanto’s agri-division, stated: “What you are seeing is not just a consolidation of [Monsanto-purchased] seed companies. It’s really a consolidation of the entire food chain.”

And as for the power of the propaganda in that time period, I can think of no better statement than the one made on January 25th, 2001, by the outgoing US Secretary of Agriculture, Dan Glickman. As reported by the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Glickman said:

“What I saw generically on the pro-biotech [GMO] side was the attitude that the technology was good and that it was almost immoral to say that it wasn’t good, because it was going to solve the problems of the human race and feed the hungry and clothe the naked. And there was a lot of money that had been invested in this, and if you’re against it, you’re Luddites, you’re stupid. There was rhetoric like that even here in this department [USDA]. You felt like you were almost an alien, disloyal, by trying to present an open-minded view on some of these issues being raised. So I pretty much spouted the rhetoric that everybody else around here spouted; it was written into my speeches.”

Glickman reveals several things in these remarks: he was spineless; people at the Dept. of Agriculture were madly buying into the Monsanto cover story about feeding the world; and there had to be a significant degree of infiltration at his Agency.

The last point is key. This wasn’t left to chance. You don’t get a vocal majority of Dept. of Agriculture personnel spouting the Monsanto propaganda merely because the fairy tale about feeding the world sounds so good. No, there are people working on the inside to promote the “social cause” and make pariahs out of dissenters.

You need special background and training to pull that off. It isn’t an automatic walk in the park. This is professional psyop and intelligence work.

I’ve done some investigation of various groups on both the left and the right, and I’ve seen some pros in action. They’re good. They know how to leverage ideas and slogans and ideals. They know how to defame opponents and find the right words to sink them. They know how to turn high-flying but vague words about “humanity” into moral imperatives.

This isn’t rinky-dink stuff. To tune up bureaucrats and scientists, you have to have a background in manipulation. You have to know what you’re doing. You have to be able to build and sustain support, without giving your game away.

Truth be told, governments are full of these pros, who will take any number of causes and turn them into what falsely sounds like good science, good government, good morality, all the while knowing that, on the far shore, sits the real prize: control.

These psyop specialists are hired to help make overarching and planet-wide agendas come true, as populations are brought under sophisticated and pathological elites who care, for example, about feeding the world as much as a collector cares about paralyzing and pinning butterflies on a panel in a glass case.

Here is David Rockefeller, writing in his 2003 Memoirs:

“Some even believe we are part of a secret cabal working against the best interests of the United States, characterizing my family and me as ‘internationalists’ and of conspiring with others around the world to build a more integrated global political and economic structure—one world, if you will. If that is the charge, I stand guilty, and I am proud of it.”

The Globalists play for keeps.

Owning the food of the world is part of their strike-force action plan, and Monsanto is the technocratic arm of that plan.

Meanwhile, the controlled press treats the whole sordid Monsanto/FDA story with its time-honored policy of “he said-he said.” This policy dictates that stories merely present both sides of a conflict without drawing conclusions.

It applies across the board—except when it doesn’t. For example, for reasons too complex to go into here, the Washington Post decided to suspend its policy in the Watergate case. Woodward and Bernstein were assigned to investigate what was going on behind White House denials and obfuscations.

The same thing could be done with Monsanto, and it would be far easier. The lies and crimes and cover-ups are everywhere. You could wear sunglasses and find them in the dark.

The NY Times and the Washington Post could sell millions more papers on the back of the Monsanto story alone. It would be a bonanza for them. But no. They don’t care. They’d rather keep declining and losing readers. They’d rather die.

Normally, a business doesn’t commit suicide, especially when it sees exactly how to resuscitate itself. But here we are dealing with an agenda which can’t be disturbed. Globalism, and its agri-techno partner, Monsanto, are creating a planetary future. Major media are part and parcel of that op. They are selling it.

Even as their bottom lines erode, these newspapers and television networks have to stay on their present course. By pretending they’re reporting the real news, they’re giving the impression that Monsanto and the FDA are home free.

Again, we aren’t talking about sloppy reporting or accidental omissions of fact or boggling incompetence or ignorance about science. We are talking about conscious intent to deceive.

Yes, now and then the controlled media will release a troubling piece about Monsanto. But placement and frequency are everything. How often do these stories run? Do they run as the lead or do we find them on page 7? Are reporters assigned to keep pounding on a basic story and reveal more and more crimes? Does the basic story gather steam over the course of weeks and months?

These are the decisions that make or break a story. In the case of Monsanto and the FDA, the decisions were made a long time ago.

Part of every reporter’s training in how the real world works, if he has any ideals at all, is marching into his editor’s office with his hair on fire demanding to be given an assignment to expose a crime. The editor, knowing the true agenda of his newspaper or television network, tells the reporter:

“We’ve already covered that.”

“It’s old news.”

“People aren’t interested in it.”

“It’s too complicated.”

“The evidence you’re showing me is thin.”

“You’ll never get to the bottom of it.”

“The people involved won’t talk to you.”

And if none of those lies work, the editor might say, “If you keep pushing this, it would be bad for your career. You’ll lose access for other stories. You’ll be thought of as weird…”

This is how the game works at ground level. But make no mistake about it, the hidden agenda is about protecting an elite’s op from exposure.

If NBC, for example, gave its golden boy, Brian Williams, the green light, he would become an expert on Monsanto in three days. He’d become a tiger. He’d affect a whole set of morally outraged poses and send Monsanto down into Hell.

Don’t misunderstand. Brian hasn’t been waiting to move in for the kill. But wind him up and point to a target and he’ll go there.

However, no one at NBC in the executive offices will point him at Monsanto or the FDA.

All the major reporters at news outlets and all the elite television anchors are really psyop specialists. It’s just that most of them don’t know it.

One outraged major reporter who woke up and got out of the business put it to me this way: When he was in the game, he looked at the news as a big public restroom. His one guiding principle was: Don’t piss on your shoes. Pissing on your shoes was covering a story that was considered out of bounds. If you walked into the boss’s office, he’d look you up and down and see the telltale sign. He’d say, “Hey, you pissed on your shoes. Get out of here. You’re fired.”

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at

The Monsanto nightmare is a flower of poison

The Monsanto nightmare is a flower of poison

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

July 22, 2014

One spring day, in a secret basement conference room, at the St. Louis headquarters of Monsanto, the Committee of Three met.

They were the men, nameless, who really pulled the strings when strings needed to be pulled.

They approved the very biggest bribes to politicians. They vetted Presidential candidates and made sure both parties were nominating friends of the corporation.

They liaised with the NSA when blackmailing opponents was the order of the day, when surveillance data made that blackmail possible.

They gave the orders that initiated full-bore campaigns to turn recalcitrant nations into Monsanto allies.

They oversaw the operation called Gene Drift, whose objective was to make genetically engineered food a fait accompli, a universal reality for Planet Earth, no matter what laws were passed, no matter what restrictions were placed on the growing of GM crops.

Gene Drift—the contamination of all plants in the world. As the winds blow, so travel the genes.

They tracked the spread of their poisonous herbicide, Roundup. The goal was to circle the Earth in a mantle of this noxious compound.

But today, the Committee of Three had a different agenda. An employee of the company had somehow placed, on all Monsanto work computers, a story. A horrible story. No one could identify the traitor or calculate how he had wormed his way past corporate security systems.

Committee Member 1: “The man is obviously deranged. He’s mentally ill. He’s dangerous. But clever.”

Committee Member #2: “It’s a science fiction story. That’s what he’s written. It barely makes sense. It’s a story told by a psycho. Are we really going to turn this company upside down looking for him?”

Committee Member #3: “Damn right we are. If he were challenging our science and exposing it as fraud, we would know what to do. We’d discredit him and publish a dozen new fake studies that prove he’s wrong. We’re experts when it comes to that. But you see, what he’s done is more devious. His story is vague and suggestive. It’s metaphorical, allegorical. It covertly leaks ideas into the brain. It plants its own seeds.”

Committee Member #1: “I agree. This is a new kind of threat. And coming from the inside, it’s all the more ominous. It could take hold like a contagious germ, a slow germ that infects the brain cell by cell.”

Committee Member #2: “I see your point. Yes. But how do we find out who this marauder is, so we can deal with him? So far, he’s managed to hide.”

On the conference table lay a typed copy of the story that had suddenly appeared on every Monsanto computer in the world:

—-Lf was the oldest man among them. He wrestled with fear. He tried to invent a new plan but he failed time and time again. He was in thrall. Psychologically trapped.

He knew he had to kill the enemy, but he couldn’t. A force held him back. At night, he wept against the sleeping body of his wife.

One thought occurred to him in his twilight hours. If enough of his own people were on his side, they might give him the strength to carry out the act. If they stopped fearing and venerating the dragon, they might spring the lock on his own mind and, then, he would be able to carry out the deed.

Why was the fate of the dragon in his hands alone? Why couldn’t others free themselves and commit the act?

Another thought came to him. What about…a law? In his society, there were few of them. Wasn’t a law supposed to be a congealing of public will and determination? Wasn’t it a principle everyone saw as true? Wasn’t it a protection against evil? Suppose his people gave voice to a principle? Wouldn’t that lead to the conviction of the dragon? In this way, couldn’t they all act together? Wouldn’t their combined force be enough?

The war went on.

The women gathered around the flame, while the men took the city.

The rain makers looked down. They let the forests remain dry; therefore they burned down.

(“Hey, baby, I’m the dragon. My name’s Mons. Have a piece of fruit. It’s delicious. Quite up to date with the latest inserted genes. Come on. Try it.”)

The weapons keepers opened their storehouses, and the weak and feeble of the huge tribe took the devices to the soldiers on the front lines and retrieved the hot and broken ones and lugged them to makers for repair and rebuilding.

The children worked in the fields, capturing the harvest, transporting it to the sheds, where they cooked the meals and carried the immense pots to the soldiers in the rear of the lines.

(“Baby, you’re beautiful. And you’re married to that old bozo? What’s wrong with you? He’s ancient. Have some fruit and you’ll stay young forever. It has a special chemical on it. It protects you and keeps you healthy.”)

There were no doctors. The men fought and lived or fought and died. Later, much later, the wounds would heal, or not.

No one counted numbers. No one wrote history. The war was enveloping.

The few priests had long ago been captured. In their pens, they were permitted to make animal sacrifices and conduct ceremonies for victory. They had no books, no tablets, and the gods whose appeasement was marked through calendars of blood had no official names.

A few soldiers remembered an old line of kings, but the lineage had been destroyed in the distant past.

There were families. They were without names or titles.

Farmers, a distant breed apart, kept the animals and slaughtered them and sent their parts to the food makers.

(“Listen, sweetheart, I know you’re old doddering husband wants to kill me, but he’s just jealous. Look at my rippling muscles. Look at his wrinkled skin. I have my tree. It bears gorgeous fruit. Eat a piece and you’ll know who I am. You’ll leave that senile fool and live with me. We’ll have children who’ll be invincible.”)

Through the use of giant lenses, whose history was lost, fires were set, and with columns of the weak and infirm dragging corpses, dolls, and statues from old sackings, shadows of chimera troops were created and cast to confuse and distract. The shadow makers were revered.

They possessed secret knowledge. They planned attacks designed to use up resources of the enemy.

The death of a shadow maker was mourned in moments when battles waned. They were wrapped in skins glued together with marrow and clay, weighted with stones, and dropped into the river where their memories would flow into the great machine docks and keep the motors running, for the ships that came from the stars.

Those long-distance travelers executed their secret business in undersea caverns, stayed as long as they stayed, and then returned to their unknown worlds.

The war itself was fought to accumulate memories in every man, woman, and child, and were then harvested by the travelers from sleeping dreams. Everyone knew and accepted this state of affairs. War was, therefore, a high calling.

Memories could be translated into scrolls of silk that went on endlessly. Scrolls had been glimpsed now and then on the mountains. They were the traditional evidence of purpose.

Everyone remembered his or her own life in great detail. It was a point of pride. The discipline enhanced dreams.

Lf, who had been alive far longer than any of the people of the war, remembered days of rain, flood, the washing away of hills, the collapsing of canyons, the drowning of whole clans, the first arrival of the ships from space, the contract for dream harvest.

He lived deep in the forest with a wife. Her name endured: Chromogene. She kept a walking dragon in a tree. He ate the silk fruit and exuded spores that filled the whole territory. The spores infiltrated all plants and animals and changed them.

Eating the plants and animals, the people wanted to make war and they wanted to dream. That was the effect of their food.

Lf remembered when this was not so. The star travelers had brought the dragon to their lands.

Lf dreamed that with great effort, incurring wounds, he killed the dragon with an ax. He threw the bloody parts in the river.

A great voice came to him in the dream. It told him he had committed a heinous crime and would be exiled to the deserts with his wife.

The shadow makers came to him. They ordered him to stay. They would concoct a play of shapes and figures that would make it appear he and his wife had departed.

In the days to come, the whole tribe would gather and determine one dream. When they slept, they would spool out the same story of destruction of stars. They would bring down the heavens and make it impossible for the travelers to come back to the undersea caverns.

They would divert the river directly into the space docks and flood them.

They would enact revenge for the exile of their oldest man, Lf, and his wife.

As the war receded in memory, and became a story, they would realize, in fits and starts, that there had been no enemy. All the death and destruction had been incurred in fighting and killing among themselves.

With the star travelers gone, and their dragon killed, the growing fields and the food would return to their former state.

The people would no longer want to make war. They would no longer dream for the sake of their masters.

Lf woke from this dream. He wondered how he could assemble all his people and make them believe one central idea that would take them to victory.

(“My lovely, your husband is crazy. He’s been crazy for a long time. He lives in his own world. I’m exciting. I have power. I can change life. I can make life over into any shape I desire. I can help you. I can make you happy again. Eat this fruit.”)

power outside the matrix

Committee Member #2: “That’s it? That’s the story?”

Committee Member #3: “Obviously, it’s unfinished. Our people think the traitor was afraid he might be discovered, so he stopped loading it in mid-stream.”

Committee Member #2: “It’s crazy. It makes no sense. This tribe, or whatever they are? They just keep making war? Who are they?”

Committee Member #1: “Maybe they represent us, the corporation. Maybe they represent the people, the whole population of the planet.”

Committee Member #3: “No, we’re the dragon. We’re the snake in the Garden of Eden.”

“Committee Member #2: “What? What garden? There’s no garden in the story.”

Committee Member #1: “Metaphor. Allegory. NSA people tried to figure out how one of our employees could have evaded security protection. So far, they’ve come up with nothing.”

Committee Member #2: “Forget the whole thing. Let’s just move on. It’s a piece of nonsense. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Africa, South America. We’re running into stiff opposition.”

Committee Member #3: “We have to step up our timetable. Operation Gene Drift has to accelerate. Once every plant on the planet contains our genes, what can anyone do? We creating a new world. Let’s not dilly-dally. We want to supersede the natural world and make a synthetic world, right? The way to overcome our enemies, all of them, is to win decisively. Let’s not forget, we’re part of a larger plan. Ultimately, we can control the food supply and decide who eats and who doesn’t. Not only that, but because our genes get into humans, and because brain research is leading to ways of making over brain function, we’re well on the way to inventing a new species of human. This is what we’re shooting for. The human as a technological artifact. A programmed artifact. We and our allies are the body snatchers.”

Committee Member #1: “Agreed. But you know, last night I had a brief dream. I was in that diabolical story myself. It was a very unpleasant feeling. The whole population was waking up. They were seeing us as dragons. They were distracting us with shadows. They were cutting off our business connections and communication channels. It stirred up memories I didn’t even know I had. Memories of some earlier time when events were played out on a mythic level, when there was good and evil. When forces were alive that could destroy evil.”

Committee Member #2: “Fortunately, that time has passed. There is no more good or evil. There’s just business. And we have every right to gain an edge, because if we don’t, someone else will. Keep the focus, gentlemen. We live in the age of selling and buying. There are no rules for how you sell or buy. You do whatever it takes. There are still myths, but they’re scientific. Our myth is genes. We tell our own tales about them. We give them extraordinary healing power. Whether that healing is real or imaginary is immaterial. We tell a story so we can sell. The consequences are other people’s concerns. This is our model. It works. Business IS a god. Without it, the world would collapse. Therefore, we have a duty to make our company bloom. Maybe we’re the shadow makers, staging a shadow play, pretending to a science that doesn’t exist. If so, it makes no difference. All speed ahead!”

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at

Alien ET talks to the President

Alien ET talks to the President

by Jon Rappoport

July 21, 2014

No one in the White House knew it happened except the President. He was sitting in the Oval Office when the alien showed up, materialized in front of him, and plunked himself down in a leather arm chair.

The alien looked human. Roughly six feet, brown hair, brown eyes. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, red tie.

“Mr. President,” he said, “I’m not from around here, and I thought this was the best way in. Hope I didn’t startle you.”

The President was paralyzed for almost a full minute. He came back slowly, and took deep breaths. He thought about calling for his Secret Service people, but he was afraid this person, thing, creature might have other tricks up his sleeve.

The alien nodded. “Yes, sir, better to leave those gun-toting folks out in the corridor. I’d hate to hurt them. I’m basically a pacifist, but that’s because I know how to deploy lethal force. Anyway, I’m here to give you a report. I thought about going to the Pope, but I decided his whole Church frame of mind would get in the way of understanding me.”

The President swallowed and tried to keep himself from passing out.

“This is big stuff,” the alien said. “What I have to tell you is so weird it might not sink in. I need to take a chance, though. I feel it’s my duty. It’s about what actually happens to people when they die.”

“When they die?” the President croaked.

“Yes, sir. I’ve been watching the process for ten or fifteen years now, and I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I’m not sure how far back it goes into your history, but it’s there. Everybody’s partaking.”

“Illusion,” the President said aimlessly. He was green around the gills. He wanted to weep and he had no idea why. He wanted to get down on his knees and pound the carpet and scream. He wanted to cross himself and he wasn’t even Catholic. He wanted to say a prayer in Hebrew, a language he didn’t speak. He desperately ached for a prayer rug. He wanted to light candles and finger a string of beads and kiss the floor and do a back flip.

“Calm down, Mr. President”, the alien said. “I realize you’re processing something you don’t understand, but try to focus. See, when humans die, they drift out of their bodies and float up into space. Most of them don’t know what’s happening and they reach out and grab for anything they can. Sort of like you’re doing now. Some of them thought they’d be dead forever and, what do you know, they’re not. Others expected a day of judgment or transport to paradise or hell and they’re just floating.”

“Floating…in the air?” the President thought.

“Yes,” the alien said. “We could split hairs and try to define the types of spaces they end up in, but let’s not bother. Point is, they’re searching for a clue. They’re trying to figure out what to do. And then Bob comes along.”


“That’s his name. I mean, that’s what he calls himself. He appears to dead people. Basically, he’s sitting behind a little table on a cloud.”

The President took another deep breath and let it out. He wondered whether an alien ET could be a complete psycho as well.

“I assure you, sir,” the alien said, “I’m quite sane. The set up that I’m describing is insane. That’s called a distinction. I hope you can grasp it.”

The President waved his hand vaguely. His heart was pounding.

“Good,” the alien said. “So a soul, a psyche, a being, an essence leaves his body, floats up, and runs into Bob. Bob says sit down, let’s talk, and the soul does. Bob tells him he can go back and have a new life, jump into a new body and start the whole growing process, as a baby born from a mother. Get it? But Bob tells him there’s a catch. Every life has a ceiling and this soul has to describe what his ceiling will be before he returns.”

“Like a ceiling in a room?” the President thinks.

The alien sighs. “No. Not like that. A ceiling on what you would call consciousness. A limit the soul won’t exceed in his next life.”

“Hmm,” the President thinks, steepling his hands and resting his chin on them. His favorite gesture when clueless.

“Try to understand the next point,” the alien says. “This soul that just floated out of his body has done this Bob interview many times before. He’s chosen ceilings for who knows how many incarnations on Earth. Fifty? Five thousand? A hundred thousand? So he’s used to the idea of a ceiling. In fact, he likes it. He’s institutionalized, so to speak. And that’s a problem. Imagine, if you can, a few billion souls living on Earth, all of whom have ceilings.”

The President wondered whether Jim, his brother, and Sara, his sister, had ceilings. He tried to imagine them walking around with plaster blocks above their heads. It reminded him of a Salvador Dali painting of Dali’s wife, Gala. There were variously shaped blocks floating around her.

“Reincarnation,” the alien said. “That’s what I’m talking about, sir. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept. I’m just explaining how it actually works. Stay with me. Ceilings on consciousness. For example, you could materialize and dematerialize if you didn’t have a ceiling.”

“I could?” the President blurted out. He was sure his ex-wife was having an affair with a reporter from the New York Post. Suppose he could appear in a corner of her bedroom in Manhattan and find out?

“Yes, you could do that,” the alien said. “You could also suddenly appear behind a podium in Los Angeles at your next Hollywood fundraiser.”

“Those damn movie stars would bow down to me if I did,” the President thought. “They’d be scared out of their wits. They’d worship me.”

“See,” the alien said, “that’s the whole problem. You Earth people have your natural faculties all mixed up with religion. It’s a mess. Just like you folks have dying all mixed with heaven, instead of just remembering Bob.”

“Bob,” the President said.

“Every human on Earth has Bob in a corner of his memory. He just won’t admit it.”

The President felt nauseous.

“The wastebasket,” the alien said. “Use it if you need to. Anyway, Bob has assumed the status of a guide, a counselor to the dead. He spells out the ‘fact’ that picking a ceiling is necessary before a soul can jump into another physical form and be reborn on Earth for another go-around. But it’s not true. A soul doesn’t need to have a ceiling. It’s a straight-out con. And that’s why I’m here. To explain that. I didn’t know who else to talk to. I finally chose you. Maybe I made a mistake.”

“No!” the President said, jumping out of his chair. “That was the right thing to do! Can I get rid of my ceiling right now? Can I blow it up and start materializing like you did?”

“You could try. I doubt it would work. But I could give you a boost.”

“How?! What do you need? How much money do you want?”

“It’s free,” the alien said. “I just want one thing in return.”

“Anything! Name it!”

“Appoint me as your new press secretary.”


“I’ll do all the press briefings.”

“Why?” the President thought.

“Call it a fetish,” the alien said. “Call it anything you want to. But give me the job.”

“And you’ll help me do your trick?” the President said.


Invigorated, inspired, thrilled, the President walked over to the alien and shook his hand. Immediately, he vanished from the Oval Office and reappeared in his ex-wife’s bedroom on 76th Street in Manhattan. No one was there. He spent a few minutes looking through the night table drawers and the closet.

Then he was back in the Oval Office.

“Wonderful! Fantastic!” he said.

Two days later, the White House press secretary announced he was leaving the administration to spend more time with his family.

The alien, who took the name Michael Jones, was given the job. A dossier detailing his fictional past was concocted in the bowels of a little think tank in Maryland.

Over the course of the next few months, the alien whisked the President, disguised to avoid recognition, to many locations around the world. Basically an incurious man, the Chief Executive was so thrilled he barely noticed the features of the places and people he was seeing. The alien thought of the President as a secret vacationer who had no desire to change things for the better.

So be it.

Meanwhile, as Michael Jones, the alien carried out his televised press conferences with aplomb. He stuck to the official script on every issue.

But under the surface, something was happening, because television audiences around the world were affected by his presence.

In fits and starts, bits and pieces of memory were returning: glimpses of deaths from prior lives, episodes of floating in space grasping for an anchor in the void of the afterlife…

One day, at a press conference focusing on the latest upheaval in the Middle East, a reporter from CBS News rose to ask a question, glanced at his notepad, and froze.

The alien waited patiently. The reporter finally looked up at him and said, “You seem familiar, Michael.”

“Excuse me?” the alien said.

“You look familiar,” the reporter said.

Everyone in the room laughed.

“Well, let’s see,” the alien said. “You’ve been in this room for what, twenty briefings since I took office? I hope I’m familiar.”

Two days later, during a campaign speech in Nashville, the Governor of Tennessee wandered off script and told an audience of a thousand people he remembered a life as a blacksmith in Paris in 1902.

The Governor later claimed someone had spiked his water with a hallucinogen.

A Los Angeles prosecutor interrupted his cross-examination of a witness in a murder trial to proclaim he was an effective attorney because he’d practiced law for the Vatican in 1794.

A physicist at Oxford University, interviewed live on BBC about the discovery of a new quantum particle, stated, “This whole search started in ancient Athens, you know. I was an academy student there. I tried to gain admittance to Socrates’ inner circle, but I was refused.”

Josef Putin, the inheritor of his great-grandfather’s dynastic throne in Russia, claimed he was an effective President because he’d been a thief in a prior life.

A colonel in the Israeli Army told a reporter for the Jerusalem Post he’d been both “an Arab and a Jew in more than a dozen incarnations. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s ridiculous when you think about it. Can’t people see the larger picture?”

His statement caused a minor scandal. The Colonel was demoted and sent to a psychiatric facility.

Senator Ray Taylor from Mississippi called the Colonel an inspiration and said he’d been a slave and a slavemaster in the Colonial South, over the course of several lives.

The managing editor of the New York Times resigned his position, claiming his work as a secretary to Ben Franklin “precludes fronting for the lies I have to support day in and day out at the paper.”

The President said to the alien, “This is all your doing. I don’t know how you’re managing it, but you have to stop. We’ve got crazies coming out of the woodwork claiming they were famous people from history. You’re driving the population crazy!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the alien said. I’ll be happy to stop. Of course, you won’t be able to spy on your wife anymore. You haven’t caught her with that reporter yet, have you?”

The President folded.

power outside the matrix

“Look at it this way,” the alien said. “The global population has been certifiably crazy for centuries. Adding a little more fuel to the fire won’t cause much harm.”

That afternoon, in the White House press room, as television cameras rolled…

In the middle of the alien’s summary of recent events in Israel, a reporter for the Washington Post stood up and said:

“You’re Bob.”

Three more reporters stood up and said: “Bob! How are you!” “Bob! It’s been a long time!” “Bob, great to see you again!”

The alien smiled and executed a mock bow.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m Bob. I came here to tell you there’s no further reason to consult with me. The ceiling has been lifted. In fact, it’s gone. It was a bad idea to begin with. I’m speaking to everyone now. There is no more contract. No more deal. Get it? You’re free.”

Applause and cheers broke out in the press room.

The President was watching the briefing from the Oval Office.

“You son of a bitch!” he said.

He started to unleash a string of curses, when he noticed an AP reporter in the front row slowly rise out of her chair and float toward the top of the room.

When she reached the ceiling, she passed through it and vanished.

This marked the beginning of what historians now call The Great Unsettling, a period which lasted nearly a hundred years.

Others simply call it Bob Time.

In a recent NBC editorial, Richard Leffler, a reincarnation of an ancient newsman, Brian Williams, remarked:

“We can view ‘before The Great Unsettling’ and ‘after it’ as two separate worlds. The people in those periods would hardly recognize each other. We now look back on the former period with profound puzzlement. How could its citizens have been so sure of their provincial reality? How could they have characterized glimpses of the natural state of life we now enjoy as symptoms of mental illness? How could they have attempted what amounted to mass societal suicide?

“Today, we bob in the ocean of our own consciousness. Then, they drowned in their muddy creeks of amnesia.

“We still have remnants of the old days. In Lower Manhattan this morning, the Kurzweil Brain Box Group lashed out at the federal government. Spokesman Morris Horace D. Rockefeller told reporters, ‘The government in Washington is now so small, funding for vital research has pretty much dried up. We desperately need another nine hundred billion dollars to complete Phase Four of our program to link all human brains to Vox Populi, our super-computer located on the moon. Only through this universal connection can we transform ourselves into higher-echelon machines, from whose programmed cells God will finally, and for the first time, emerge.

“How quaint. How old-fashioned. Human as machines? At one time, this notion paraded around as science. People took it seriously. But then, they also had Presidents. Need I say more?”

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at

The US Department of Love, Peace, and Lollipops

The US Department of Love, Peace, and Lollipops

by Jon Rappoport

July 20, 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.

power outside the matrix

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.

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at

Language and an exit from the Matrix

Human language and an exit from the Matrix

by Jon Rappoport

July 19, 2014

Can we study the history of human language as a smoothly evolving historical process?

Can we trace, from the earliest times, its incremental progress in grammar, syntax, vocabulary?

Can we say language was a kind of science, in which a whole line of “researchers built on previous gains?”

We can, if we want to tell an enormous number of lies and erase whole sectors of the planet from memory.

Otherwise, no.

Just as a very young child suddenly makes breakthroughs and quantum leaps in his ability to speak, the history of language presents cultures that deliver their languages overnight.

Within each culture, writers create major, major advances. But on the whole, the banquet of speaking and writing is there, it appears, it nourishes.

It is as if many minds in the same geo-locale tap into a field of consciousness and bring back words and patterns.

The poets and story tellers lead the way; others catch on and follow.

Language attempts, among other functions, to describe reality. But then, in a turnabout, it actively shapes and creates how reality is seen. Language limits the perception of reality.

English, with its noun-verb-object construction, is a set of arrows that fly from A to B. A is a thing or a person that acts upon B to produce an effect.

By contrast, the early Chinese pictographs present a world where relationship is more important than those separate objects that relate. The connection is the primary thing. The dynamic action implicit in the connection is the energy that underlies the culture.

As for the giant vista of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, I believe there are still a number of mysteries to be solved. And perhaps they will remain unsolved, until we can seriously entertain the prospect of a language that simultaneously operates on several levels: “earth-talk, sky-talk, and code.”

Or as a scholar-friend once suggested, “Think of old Egyptian glyphs as a multi-dimensional CIA, headed up by an executive committee of archetypes, each of which has its own secret cryptology.”

There is no doubt that the glyphs detail a number of realms acting in concert.

What is now commonly called The Matrix involves seeing reality through the lens of one’s own language.

Through this habit, limits are formed. The idea of straying outside the boundaries seems impossible.

“What could I find? I already know What Is.”

Translation: “I already speak and write a language. It delivers reality to me. It defines how much I can see and experience.”

Take all the strategies that could propel you outside Matrix, and you can cover them with one word: imagination.

The tattered stepchild of society; the plaything of idle minds; the useless appendage; the distraction from maturity; the fairy-tale maker.

So society would have us believe.

But imagination is the motive force and the energy that instigates, invents, and multiplies realities beyond the lens of language.

Imagination is the doorway out of the Matrix.

I hope you’ll take the time to go to my site, or, click on the links to my three collections, The Matrix Revealed, Exit From the Matrix, and Power Outside The Matrix, and see what I’ve assembled, based on 25 years of research and investigation.

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at

A President’s press conference for the ages

A President’s press conference for the ages

by Jon Rappoport

July 18, 2014

It was a cloudy day in Washington. They said it was going to rain. They had no idea what a hard rain it would be.

A week after his inauguration, the President of the United States was holding a press conference in the White House.

The three major networks were surprised that the President wanted to face reporters so quickly after moving into the Oval Office.

Standing at the lectern, with no notes, and with the teleprompter turned off, the President began:

“I’m surrounded by enemies, and that means you’re surrounded by them, too. These enemies are in my government.”

Immediately, the television feed was cut. Screens all over the world went black.

Thirty seconds passed.

The picture, quite grainy, and against a background of flickering shapes, came back. Viewers heard shouting in the press room. The President’s image wobbled.

He said:

“The Presidency is staged soap opera.”

Again, the feed was cut. This time, television screens displayed gray and white snow.

A few seconds later, there were rumbling sounds, later identified as chairs and tables being overturned.

Then, as subsequently reported by the New York Times, “Audio of the President was restored by means not known to the broadcast networks. Apparently, a ‘rogue faction’ of criminals hacked into NBC, ABC, and CBS network systems and brought the audio back on line.”

The President was then clearly heard to say:

“The pharmaceutical industry, with its drugs, kills at least a hundred thousand Americans a year.”

There was a loud rattling noise and an explosion (?), but the audio broadcast held. The President continued:

“Genetically modified food crops don’t work. The weeds grow bigger and stronger, the herbicide is highly toxic, and the GMO food is missing vital nutrients.”

Gunshots were heard.

A few moments later, the television picture was restored. The President, his face sweating, was standing at the podium.

A thick blue substance moved diagonally through the picture, threatening to obliterate it. But suddenly the substance broke up into slender filaments. As if swept by a broom, the filaments fled to the bottom of the picture and vanished. The Times later referred to “a war between two sets of opposing hackers.”

Now there was both and sound and picture.

The President said: “There are people in the federal government and above the federal government who are trying to set race against race. Divide and conquer. They want to bring America to its knees. That would be one step closer to global government, and America would be finished.

“The NSA is spying on everyone domestically. The ultimate goal of the Surveillance State is control of the entire population.”

A voice shouted, “You’re crazy! The President is mentally ill! Don’t listen to him!”

Now, the President’s image froze.

The audio obviously shifted to another location. (It was later identified as prerecorded.) There were sounds of clinking glasses and background conversation. A voice familiar to all Americans, Barbara Walters’, emerged. She seemed to be in the middle of telling a story:

“…twenty-three, twenty-four, I was interviewing politicians for short features…after a while, I caught on. They didn’t believe their own pronouncements. They were trying to save their skins…reminded me of this drunken priest I knew in Cleveland. He’d have a few shots of Johnny Walker and talk about how it didn’t matter whether there was a God or not. The important thing was preserving the Church…Most of the time Congress doesn’t even know what they’re voting on. They sure as hell don’t read the bills… there’s peace and there’s propaganda about peace. Which means they’re planning war…(background laughter)…selling a mystical hope that a Great Merging would descend from the sky and transform the world. I called it the melted-cheese hypothesis. It doesn’t work, unless you want to disappear into a sandwich…(more laughter)…Henry Kissinger wants depopulation…”

That transmission ended, and the still image of the President at the podium unfroze. He was saying:

“…the money in this country is in the hands of the bankers. The Federal Reserve is an ongoing conspiracy of private money men. It isn’t part of the government, and never has been.

“This is what I’m facing. I need your help. But first I need you to know the truth. The United States has been taken over by banks, corporations, and a shadow government. I’m supposed to be their front man. But I’m opting out. You deserve better.”

The sounds of more shots fired. Again, television screens all over the world went black. But quickly the picture was restored. This time, several billion viewers were looking at a huge cavern. A female voice spoke:

“This is a bunker under JP Morgan in New York. Behind me, you can see racks holding gold bars. This vault connects to another one under the New York Federal Reserve. A large amount of gold has been transferred here—”

The audio went dead.

A male voice said: “This is Brian Williams, NBC News. Transmission of the President’s press conference has been interrupted by unknown elements. We’re getting word now that a national state of emergency has been declared. A spokesman for the Central Intelligence Agency has told us that a—”

Williams was gone. Soft music began to play. An old television test pattern bled onto screens, but it vanished.

Viewers heard the President talking, as if from far away. He was shouting something unintelligible. The words “Secret Service” and “the reporters stay” were heard.

The soft music stopped. Unaccountably, it was replaced by the sound of marching men.

“I don’t know!” someone shouted close to a microphone.

A blistering close-up image of soldiers, rage written on their faces, exploded on screens and disappeared.

—Voice of the President, blurred but intelligible: “Either get these reporters to file their stories or tell them to stay…”

—Audio only, Dianne Sawyer, ABC News: “…told me I had two minutes before…Good evening. The President’s press conference has been disrupted. Reporters on the scene are telling us that the President appeared ill and in pain. We’re trying to get through to Walter Reed Hospital. We have a statement from Marianne Buckley, head of the Department of Health and Human Services. “The President has a fever,” Ms. Buckley reports.

Suddenly, what was eventually identified as footage of American astronauts aboard a Shuttle flight in 1993 came online. Two astronauts were turning slow somersaults in the main cabin. A third was reaching for a pair of socks floating in mid-air.

A rapid series of slides appeared. They showed various angles on a beach house. Two adults and three young children came running out the front door.

A voice said, “This looks like Charlie and his family. They have a cottage on the Cape. These are shots of his vacation.”

Another voice replied: “We’re just trying to get anything we can onscreen.”

—Next, a document obviously inserted into the feed by a quite different source appeared: one page of text, under the masthead and seal of the CIA. It was dated April 8, 1962, and marked “top secret”:

“Commencing on May 1, 1962, all projects of MKULTRA will be transferred to the Office of Research and Development (ORD). From that point on, FOIA requests will go unanswered. Security will be tightened. If at any time in the future, Agency employees are called to testify in proceedings, they will state that MKULTRA was terminated in the spring of 1962. Under no circumstances will they engage in discussion about electronic means of mind control…”

Another page then appeared on screens. It was a page torn out of a notebook. In the middle of the page, a handwritten paragraph was highlighted.

—A female voice read it:

“Since 1968, the CIA has vetted every major-party candidate for the Presidency. This means the CIA has had a hand in deciding who should lead out nation and what policies that man should follow. I would call this a palace revolution. William Colby, CIA Director, 1973-1976.”

The feed, both audio and video, went dead. Screens went gray.

An hour later, television programming resumed. In an extraordinary show of force, the three major networks laid on a roundtable, featuring their national anchors sitting together in the White House Rose Garden.

Brian Williams led off:

“The FBI, CIA, and the Department of Homeland Security have issued a preliminary statement about the President’s chaotic press conference. It reads as follows: ‘The President has been diagnosed with Bipolar Disease. This has been confirmed by psychiatrists at Walter Reed Hospital, where the Chief Executive is now resting comfortably. His statements at the press conference should be taken in that context. An original diagnosis of Bipolar was made three years ago, while the President was a member of Congress. Medication had brought it under control, but due to a processing error, his current supply of medicine passed its expiration date and no longer delivered the necessary elements to correct his chemical imbalance.

“Additionally, someone, or perhaps a group of terrorists interfered with the press conference broadcast. Although the networks tried to neutralize the attack, they were unable to locate its source.

“The situation is now being investigated vigorously.

“There is no comment at this time on the President’s mental state or his capacity to carry out the duties of his office.”

Dianne Sawyer said, “We can only hope the term of our new President is not cut short. Our thoughts and prayers go out to his family. The Vice-President has assumed the duties of Commander-in-Chief. He has declared a national state of emergency.”

Screens all over the world went black for a moment.

The face of the President appeared. He spoke:

“Hello, friends. This is prerecorded. I assume they hijacked my press conference and carted me off somewhere, and told you I’m ill or have a mental disorder. Am I right?

“I recorded this statement to assure you that whatever you heard me say at the press conference is quite true, and was not the rambling of a madman. Our nation has been taken over at the highest levels.

“Make it your duty to find me, wherever I am, and get me back to the Oval Office, because no one in the government will do it.

“You’re seeing me now because I had a little help from my friends. The rest is up to you. I’m your President and it’s time to take this country back. A coup de’etat has snatched it away.

“Elite unelected groups want the majority of you to stay poor and dependent on the government. I want to put this country back to work, and I can do it if you find me and take me to the White House.”

power outside the matrix

That night, 50,000 people gathered at Walter Reed Hospital demanding to see the President. They were held back by several thousand armed soldiers and a long row of tanks.

An hour into the standoff, a voice blared out over loudspeakers, “The President isn’t here. They’re lying to you. They’ve taken him to Colorado. He’s in a bunker under the Denver airport. If you live in Colorado, get to the airport!”

The crowd didn’t disperse, but in Denver, by dawn, 300,000 people were standing in a ring around the main terminal.

And at Walter Reed, the crowd had swelled to 100,000.

At 9AM that morning, all over America, word quickly spread that the FBI was going live with an online message.

—Against a blank white background, the face of a middle-aged woman—

“My name is Carol Sands. I’ve served as an FBI agent for thirty years. I represent a group within the Bureau who are loyal to the President. The country has been hijacked. We know where the President is. But he’s being moved around. They can’t keep that up forever. Half the country will be out on the streets looking for him. Right now, he’s in a private clinic in Los Angeles. The address is 4256 Citrus Street, in Santa Monica. Go there. Demand to see the President. We’ll keep you updated on his whereabouts.”

Over the next three days, as the President was taken to one location after another—and the FBI group tracked him and informed the public—more than 40 million Americans did, in fact, appear on the streets of cities and towns demanding to see him.

Finally, on a warm Saturday afternoon in Dallas, a dozen doctors, flanked by FBI agents and members of the press, their cameras rolling, escorted the President out the front door of Parkland Hospital.

It’s estimated that 180,000 people were there to greet him.

Wearing overalls, a T-shirt, and flak jacket, he appeared in good health. He waved to the cheering crowd and stepped up on to a makeshift platform.

The crowd slowly fell silent.

“All I can say is thank you,” the President said. “You freed me. We’re going to stay here for a while, because a troop detachment out of Fort Hood in Killeen is on its way. Two thousand soldiers. They and these FBI agents will make sure I get back to Washington and resume my duties as President. We’re going to take the trip in a motorcade. We’ll stop off in towns along the way so I can talk to people and explain what I’m going to do in the coming weeks. The press will be with us as well. Meanwhile, we have some time here. Let me fill you in on what’s been happening to America behind the scenes for, oh, let’s see—the last hundred years or so. (laughter, cheering) This is a history lesson you’re not going to get in school.”

At that moment, FBI agents came walking down an incline with two men in handcuffs. The agents were holding confiscated rifles.

The President glanced over and nodded.

He continued talking.

“How about we start with a lesson on energy?” he said. “Contrary to what you’ve heard, America has the technology to supply more than enough energy to every man, woman, and child in this country. And I’m not talking about oil or natural gas. There are methods that have been suppressed for a very long time. That’s going to change, as of now…”

The crowd stood peacefully and listened. They were eager to hear what the President had to say.

It was a new kind of school, and they seemed ready for it.

The President continued: “Looking at your faces, I see what I’ve believed for a long time. The truth, no matter how shocking, is good medicine. It can cure our sickness and make us strong. In the words of another President who died not far from here, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.’ I hope that by the time I finish my term in office, more of you will see the wisdom of that, because you’ll know how deep the corruption has gone, how deep the rabbit hole is. Reality, as we’ve come to accept it, is an illusion. And I’m going to strip that illusion away, so we can all breathe fresh air again.

“Ready? Here we go.”

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at

Alien ET’s final message to Earth

Alien ET’s final message to Earth

by Jon Rappoport

July 17, 2014

There was no doubt in inner circles that a message had been received from space. It was sent in English. It was specific. It was so shocking it had to be suppressed.

It was eventually leaked, but the leak was stopped before the general public became aware of the message or its content.

The alien sender never referred to himself by name or disclosed his planet of origin.

Here is an excerpt from his communication:

“As strange as it may seem to you, I am not a prophet. Nor am I an evil invader.

“I come from a place that has developed along radically different lines.

“On my world, there is an unstoppable dedication to the advancement of the individual, and all institutions and structures are stripped of overarching influence.

“In parallel, technology has progressed toward that goal. Discoveries in energy production, for example, were channeled into delivering what you would call self-sufficiency…but not to nations or groups. Again, the individual has been the recipient. Every individual.

“The Group, as a concept, was exposed by several of our most keen philosophers, as an artifact devised in our distant past as a method for holding back the achievement and power of the individual.

“Think of the Group as foreshortened perspective in a painting. The depth of space is curtailed, the ceiling on consciousness is thus lowered.

“Several of our investigators, working on their own, discovered a centuries-old plot to foist the Group on us.

“The wealthy people who were heading up this conspiracy were exiled to far wastelands, with no hope of escape.

“Can you imagine a society that has progressed to the point where it is so decentralized that peace is an obvious given? Can you?

“I am not issuing any warning to you. Nor am I a messiah from the stars. I am not an ultimate authority. I cannot rescue you. You are in the process of melting down, but not from the overheating of your atmosphere. I’m talking about the meltdown into a planet-wide Group of bankrupt consciousness, a Group which is nevertheless confident that ‘peace and love’ are its objectives.

“This is a fallacy and a delusion, fostered by powerful men who see a way of placing you in thrall to mind control, just as your organized religions have done for thousands of years.

“I am an individual. I represent no one. Can you grasp that, or are you too far gone to even conceive the possibility?

“The so-called natural laws of your physics are merely one way of appreciating what is taking place in the universe. There are endless other ways—and on the world from which I’ve come, the technology combines obvious physical capabilities with the power of individual consciousness and imagination.

“You would perhaps call this magic. Many individuals can alter space and time. On their own, they can create energy.

“They are not part of any Group or code or plan or movement. There are no mass movements on my world. None.

“I have sent you images of that world. No doubt they will be censored and captured by your leaders.

“I do not need to be a member of a Group to care about your future. I do not need to represent a council or assembly or government. My world barely has a government.

“I send you this message with the hope that, at some point, some of you, as, yes, individuals will read it and give it the degree of credence it deserves.

“For you, everything appears to be about Groups. The good ones versus the bad ones. You have lost the ability to think in any other way. But those who control your destiny understand that, no matter the struggle, as long as it pits one Group against another, they have won and you have lost.

“In my world, I live entirely by choice. So does every other individual. Strange as it seems, war is an impossibility—for exactly that reason.

“There is no automatic equating of wealth with corruption, as you seem to accept.

“The technology of physical energy production, which on my planet makes the essentials of life available to every person, is not free. This probably shocks you. You believe that “free things” are the measure of humanity. On my world, the energy is available, and inexpensive, and anyone who works can easily afford it.

“Contrary to what you might imagine, this does not make us barbaric.

“You are devoted to an idea of mass unity. You believe this is good and true and that the ‘higher transcendence’ it offers is your best and last hope.

“When an authentic self-governing individual appears among you, you demand that he explain his achievements in terms of what they will offer to everyone else, as if, from the beginning, his only intent and motive force was satisfying the Group.

“I’m baffled at the depth of this delusion.

“If someone presented you with a philosophy that described how every individual could advance higher and farther, you would reject it out of hand as a corruption of thought.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have no prophetic ‘wisdom of the whole’ to impart, no message written in the sky. I’m just passing through.

“In one of your bibles, there is this statement: ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ It is surely a noble idea. On my world, I have seen it in our past. But suppose there was no need for a person to lay down his life? Suppose individual creative power had taken on such fullness that sacrifice was largely outmoded?

“I wish you success, but now I must move along…”

power outside the matrix

Listening to this message in his spacious bunker in Washington DC, the Holy Federal Minister of Public Education for All Americans wiped sweat from his brow.

This alien was indeed dangerous. He was a terrorist of the first order. His words were germs of a fatal disease.

Education on Earth was, in fact, nothing more than indoctrination into the Group as the fundamental unit of life. Imagine what might happen if the alien’s communication took hold in the halls of the academy.

The Holy Minister clicked on another audio message. This one was recently written by the staff of the US Department of Public Relations. It would soon be released as profound evidence of first human contact with extraterrestrial life:

“My dear brothers and sisters. My name is Gantha and I come from a planet called Zifna, 428 light years from planet Earth.

“I bring a universal message of peace and love. We are many, and we seek your participation in a multi-galactic council of elders.

“It is long past the time for you to join us. A sufficient number of you have forged a deep connection with our philosophy of cosmic unity. Your planet is now one whole, owing to your advanced notion of relationship. You are all one mind, and we are one mind, so it only remains for us to merge.

“Your collective computer power has progressed to a stage where the merge can be accomplished through our All Thing program. It is a beautiful process of sharing…”

The Holy Minister sat back and massaged his temples.

The merge might be a tough sell at first, but, yes, it would work. The population would buy it. They had been well prepared.

The individual had been reduced to dust in the wind. A staged disappearing act.

Without warning, an image materialized in the air before him. The Holy Minister knew, without knowing how he knew, that he was looking at the alien, the man who was just “passing through.” And the alien was looking at him. And laughing.

The alien kept laughing.

Minutes passed. The Holy Minister thought he was going mad. He saw another world, a world Earth could have been, if it had developed along completely different lines.

A thought repeated over and over in his mind: “I am I, I am I, I am I.”

He felt an awakening, a surge, and he did everything he could to stop it and repress it and kill it.

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at