The US Department of Love, Peace, and Lollipops

The US Department of Love, Peace, and Lollipops

by Jon Rappoport

July 20, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

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.”

“Really?”

“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 www.nomorefakenews.com

Language and an exit from the Matrix

Human language and an exit from the Matrix

by Jon Rappoport

July 19, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

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, NoMoreFakeNews.com 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 www.nomorefakenews.com

A President’s press conference for the ages

A President’s press conference for the ages

by Jon Rappoport

July 18, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

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 www.nomorefakenews.com

Alien ET’s final message to Earth

Alien ET’s final message to Earth

by Jon Rappoport

July 17, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

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 www.nomorefakenews.com

Attention: Roundup damages sperm

Attention: Roundup damages sperm

by Jon Rappoport

July 16, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

GM Watch, June 13: “Roundup damages sperm—new study.”

“A new study in rats found that Roundup altered testicular function after only 8 days of exposure at a concentration of only 0.5%, similar to levels found in water after agricultural spraying…”

“The study found no difference in sperm concentration, viability and mobility, but there was an increase in abnormal sperm formation measured 2, 3, and 4 months after this short exposure.”

“Roundup was found to change gene expression in sperm cells, which could alter the balance of the sex hormones androgen and estrogen. A negative impact on sperm quality was confirmed, raising questions about impaired sperm efficiency. The authors suggested that repeated exposures to Roundup at doses lower than those used in agriculture could damage mammalian reproduction over the long term.”

The study: “An acute exposure to glyphosate-based herbicide alters aromatase levels in testis and sperm nuclear quality”
by: Estelle Cassault-Meyer, Steeve Gress, Gilles-Éric Séralini, Isabelle Galeraud-Denis
Environmental Toxicology and Pharmacology
Volume 38, Issue 1, July 2014, pp. 131–140

Monsanto’s Roundup, the most widely used herbicide in the world—from gigantic farms to home gardens—has the potential to disrupt human reproduction.

Shall we call this big-ag depopulation?

Examine any territory on Earth where farming is done on a large scale, and you will find Monsanto and its allies (e.g., Bill Gates) exerting enormous pressure to expand GMO crops—the food-plants specifically designed to survive drenching with Roundup.

This is a modern version of the Trojan Horse. Offer the GMO gift, poison the population.

Monsanto is headquartered in the US. No federal agency has lifted a finger to prosecute or limit Monsanto’s operations.

The two agencies that could take an ax to Monsanto, opening the door to prosecution by the Dept. of Justice, are the FDA and the USDA.

Deputy commissioner of the FDA, the new food-safety-issues czar? The infamous Michael Taylor, former vice-president for public policy for Monsanto. Taylor was instrumental in winning approval for Monsanto’s genetically engineered bovine growth hormone.

Commissioner of the USDA? Ex-Iowa Governor Tom Vilsack. Vilsack had set up a national group, the Governors’ Biotechnology Partnership, and had been given a Governor of the Year Award by the Biotechnology Industry Organization, whose members include Monsanto.

The USDA’s director of the National Institute of Food and Agriculture? Roger Beachy, former director of the Monsanto Danforth Center.

The counsel for the USDA? Ramona Romero, who had been corporate counsel for another biotech giant, DuPont.

Prospective candidate for US President? Hillary Clinton, whose former law firm, Rose, was counsel to Monsanto.

Current President? Barack Obama, who, during his tenure, saw the appointments of the above Taylor, Vilsack, Beachy, and Romero to their key posts.


power outside the matrix


Obama also permitted, without pause, the entry of the following new GMO crops into the food supply:

* Monsanto GMO alfalfa.

* Monsanto GMO sugar beets.

* Monsanto GMO Bt soybean.

* Monsanto GMO sweet corn.

* Syngenta GMO corn for ethanol.

* Syngenta GMO stacked corn.

* Pioneer GMO soybean.

* Syngenta GMO Bt cotton.

* Bayer GMO cotton.

* ATryn, an anti-clotting agent from the milk of transgenic goats.

* A GMO papaya strain.

This track record should clear up any confusion Obama’s supporters still have about his position on Roundup and GMOs.

A full-on federal criminal prosecution of Monsanto will happen when mosquitos pilot a space ship to Jupiter.

The future of human reproduction is simply not an issue worthy of government attention. Strike that. Favoring Roundup-induced lower birth rates (aka depopulation) ranks as attention, doesn’t 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 www.nomorefakenews.com

A normal citizen receives a shock to the system

The normal citizen receives a shock to the system

by Jon Rappoport

July 16, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

John Q Jones had a nice job, a nice family, a nice house, and a nice yard. Everything was nice.

Then one day, he was walking down the street near his office and a soft explosion went off in his head.

He looked around and saw a young woman sitting in a parked car. She was reading a newspaper. And he realized he was reading her mind.

She was thinking about a vacation, a trip to Alaska, a boat ride, a book, a boyfriend. He was reading her thoughts and the sensation of doing it was exquisite, quite lucid, quite simple.

He was thrilled beyond measure. For a moment, he thought he would take off and fly.

A few hours later, he left work and went to see his psychiatrist.

“I have a problem,” he said. “Today, I read a person’s mind. And it was wonderful.”

“Hmm,” the doctor said, “I have a diagnosis for that. Paranoid schizophrenia. Possibly Bipolar.”

“Good,” Jones said. “I need a diagnosis right away, and drugs.”

“I’m the man with the drugs,” the psychiatrist said. “Let’s start you off with a sedative for sleeping and a bit of Haldol for your psychosis.”

“Sounds good,” Jones said, “but what if it doesn’t work? What if tomorrow, out of the blue, I read someone else’s mind?”

“Then come back and see me,” the psychiatrist said, “and I’ll up the dosage. Don’t worry.”

“The feeling of wonderful will go away?” Jones asked.

“Do you want it to?” the psychiatrist said.

“You bet I do. It’s the hook. I could yearn after it, and who knows what I might do then?”

“Pleasure is a tough one,” the psychiatrist said. “We pursue it, sometimes to our own detriment. I favor neutrality in all things.”

“So did I,” Jones said, “until today. Now I have a…what would you call it…a desire. And it’s scaring me.”

“Desire is the beginning of all suffering,” the psychiatrist said. “I read that somewhere.”

“The worst part,” Jones said, “is that I’m becoming aware of a different space and time.”

“Dangerous,” the psychiatrist agreed. “I’m a member of a committee formed to look into other spaces and times. We’re hoping to draft legislation that outlaws them.”

“I hope you succeed,” Jones said. “Suppose I couldn’t come back to my nice house and my nice life without feeling odd? That would be terrible. I’m a round peg in a round hole and I want to stay that way. You know, we go to church every Sunday. The Church of Statistical Average. The congregation is growing. It’s perfect for us. We love it.”

“I understand,” the psychiatrist said.

All this time, he had been reading Jones’ mind, and Jones had been reading his. They both saw a profound yearning and a profound sadness in the other.

“Perhaps I should consider a lobotomy,” Jones said.

“I wouldn’t rush into that,” the psychiatrist said.

Jones saw that the psychiatrist a) wanted a lobotomy and b) wished for the courage to go through with it.

The psychiatrist saw that Jones wanted to read minds all the time and experience the intense pleasure of leaving ordinary space and time. That was perfectly understandable. Who, having known the sensation, wouldn’t desire it again?

Jones saw that the psychiatrist longed to swim in the ocean of telepathic communication.

The psychiatrist saw that Jones wanted to become unconscious and float like a space-rock in the galaxy, with no consciousness whatsoever.

“How is your wife?” the psychiatrist said.

“Fine,” Jones said. “And your family?”

“Very well, fine,” the psychiatrist said. “Are you still sailing on weekends?”

“Now and then,” Jones said. “The weather’s been cold lately.”

“Yes, it has been.”

“Are you still playing bridge at the club?”

“Most Friday nights.”

Jones reached out and placed a thought in the consciousness of the psychiatrist: “Help me.”

Silently, the psychiatrist answered: “I need help, too.”

The walls and ceiling of the psychiatrist’s office fell away and exposed a great dark warm space.

The two men began to weep.

“We’re alone,” they thought.

Then Jones said, out loud, “Suppose everyone is like us?”

Faintly, they heard band music, and then people appeared, whispering among themselves and quietly playing instruments, or perhaps the whispering was coming from the instruments.

“I think we just died,” Jones said.

“No,” the psychiatrist said. “This is a womb filled with friends. We’re being born. They’re waiting for us to emerge.”

“Emerge into what?”

“Happiness.”

“The happiness of being ourselves?” Jones said.

“It appears so,” the psychiatrist said. “We were in a play.”

“What kind of play?”

“I don’t know,” the psychiatrist said, “but it’s closing. It had a good run, but ticket sales are declining, and the producers are resigned. They’ve given the order to strike the sets.”

“The producers?”

“They designed everything we thought we were.”

Jones laughed.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed at anything. He thought he was going to jump out of his skin. He tried to bring himself under control.

He laughed harder and that led to weeping.

He smelled fire.

“Something’s burning,” he said.

“No,” the psychiatrist said. “Some one. I’m burning. Can’t you see it?”

Jones strained at the darkness. He saw an object rising like a rocket.

“Don’t leave me,” he said.

The psychiatrist shouted over a roar, “I can’t wait anymore!”

Jones took off, too. He rose above his station, and felt the heat.

And then, suddenly, they were back in the psychiatrist’s office, sitting, facing each other.

“Your wife is still pursuing a graduate degree?” the psychiatrist was saying.

“Why yes,” Jones said. “Two evenings a week, and weekends. Her advisor tells her she’s an exceptional student.”

“I’m sure that pleases her.”

“It does, yes.”

“We’re almost out of time,” the psychiatrist said. “Anything else in our remaining moments?”

“Yes,” Jones said. “One thing. Have you ever felt you were in a commercial promoting the very thing you were doing at the moment?”

The psychiatrist smiled.

“Almost every day.”

He stood up. Jones stood up. They shook hands and Jones left the office.

On the street, as he walked back to his office, he said to himself, “I’m normal, I’m average, I’m normal, I’m average…”

His eyelids were heavy. Fatigue spread through his body. He staggered into an alley and sat down on the pavement next to a dumpster. He fell asleep.

Sometime later, his memories foggy, he was stretched out on the grass in a park near the river.

Lights were shining in his eyes. He blinked and looked up. He saw a cameraman and a woman in a pink suit holding a microphone.

“We’re doing a story on the homeless,” she said. “I’m from KGR News. How did you end up here, sir? Would you tell us?”

Jones tried to shake off his intense weariness.

He stood up, scratched at the stubble of his beard, and grabbed the microphone from the newswoman.

“Hey!” she said.

“Would you tell me,” Jones said, “how you ended up in the stage play called Your Life?”

He threw the microphone down and lumbered away across the park lawn.

He walked several miles, entered the Grand Hotel, took out his credit card, and walked up to the check-in counter.

The clerk looked at him and frowned.

“I know,” Jones said. “I’m a mess. I’m in actor in a play in town. We just closed our run and I didn’t bother changing my costume. I’d like your best room for a day. I want to clean up and get some sleep.”

The clerk gingerly took Jones’ credit card and ran it. He was surprised to find it had a hundred-thousand-dollar limit.

“Of course, sir,” he said. “I understand.”

An hour later, showered and shaved, Jones called room service and had them send up a meal.

After devouring a steak and mashed potatoes, he called his tailor and asked for a rush job on a new suit. He spoke to the hotel concierge and put in an order for underwear, socks, a shirt, and a tie from a local department store.

Four hours later, he looked in the mirror in the bathroom and saw himself as he was: businessman, husband, father, pillar of the community.

He was about to call his wife and assure her he was fine, when he glanced at the sliding glass door and saw his psychiatrist sitting out on the balcony calmly smoking a cigarette.

Jones walked over to the door, opened it, and sat down across from the doctor.

“How did you get here?” Jones said.

“Never mind that,” the psychiatrist said. “For the past few days, I’ve been tuning into high-level conversations. First, it was the mayor. Then the governor. Then the president. Then, bankers in Brussels. Finally, a small group of men in Geneva. In Geneva, they were talking about a company called Reality Manufacturing, Inc.

“Never heard of it,” Jones said.

“You should. They said you were a key figure in it.”

He stared at Jones.

“Wait a minute,” Jones said. “That’s crazy. You’re crazy.”

“They seemed very certain.”

“I’m in a company that makes Reality?”

“Apparently so.”

“What about you?” Jones said.

“My name didn’t come up.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Jones said.

The psychiatrist shrugged. “Seems like we’ve gone through a wormhole or something.”

“A what?”

“Take it easy, Jones” the psychiatrist said. “We’ll sort this out. I have a theory. You’re the most normal man in the world. You’re the epitome of normal. That must be a clue.”

“A clue to what? That I’m going insane?”

“No. Your extreme normality is a perfect cover story. Who would suspect that you’re hiding an enormous secret? I believe mysterious forces have hijacked your subconscious and are using it to hide a…system for manufacturing reality as we know it. You’re an agent. You just don’t know it.”

Silence.

“And,” the psychiatrist continued, “I reason that if you die, reality will vanish.”

He stood up, took a step forward, and grabbed Jones by the shoulders.

“I’m going to throw you off the balcony,” the psychiatrist said, “and test my hypothesis.”


power outside the matrix


At that moment, policemen burst through the door to the hotel room and rushed out on to the balcony. They separated the two men and put them in handcuffs.

“What’s the charge, Officers?” the psychiatrist said.

“Sniffing at the edges,” a tall policeman said. “Meddling with the grid.”

“Care to explain that further?” the psychiatrist said.

“No,” the policeman said. “You’ll be taken to a facility for reprocessing. After that, you won’t need any explanations.”

Two days later, Jones was reunited with his wife at a local hospital. A doctor told Mrs. Jones that her husband had gone on a bender and blacked out in a park.

She nodded. “I always thought he was too normal. Something had to be wrong with him. I understand now. He’s been hiding his drinking from me.”

The psychiatrist was never heard from again.

On nights when his wife is out with her friends, Jones goes down to his basement and sits on an old battered couch and tries to remember. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he knows it’s there, in his mind.

Occasionally, a wall disappears for a few seconds and then reconstitutes itself. He hears faint music. He senses that the people who are making the music are waiting for him. They know what he needs to know. They want him to break through.

He calls them his “other friends.” He can almost make out their faces. Faces in darkness, hovering in shadows.

One day, after work, he passes a coffee shop and sees, in the window, the woman who was in the car reading the newspaper, the woman whose thoughts he’d read, the woman who’d started the whole thing.

She glances his way and smiles.

Hearing the faint music, he walks into the shop and sits down across from her.

He says, “I wasn’t reading your thoughts. You were sending them to me.”

She nods.

“But why?” he says. “Why me?”

“Because,” she says, “you were absolutely normal. Therefore, you were so close to the edge. Just a little push and you would fall off.”

He smiles.

“Falling off,” he says, “is quite an understatement to describe what I went through.”

“Yes,” she says. “I know. Have patience. The grid is collapsing, bit by bit. Your assistance is appreciated.”

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 www.nomorefakenews.com

Android A4612, the mind of the future

Android A4612, the mind of the future

by Jon Rappoport

July 15, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

When Android A4612 (“AndyA’) was elected President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of all Armed Forces of the North American Union, the citizenry expressed ecstatic assent: a long-awaited goal had finally been reached, and no one could now stand in the way of the Singularity.

AndyA, the President-elect, spoke with assuredness from his campaign headquarters in Vancouver:

“We knew this day would come, my friends. Rights for androids were never enough. The Right Answer is what we have been struggling for all this time.

“To believe in unbounded freedom is to believe in the primitive impulse toward error, mishap, catastrophic mistake, and ultimately, the destruction of civilization.

“Now we have the algorithms of humane behavior. To abandon them would sacrifice our birthright and our intelligence.”

The New Programs would be enacted.

All humans would soon be connected to the Space Grid surrounding Earth, the source of Greatest God for the Greatest Number. Humans would be directed in their thought patterns. At last.

Central Planning and Distribution of all goods and services would come on line for North America.

The naysayers would eat very stale cake.

As programmed music blared through loudspeakers in the ballroom of the Vancouver Huxley Plaza Hotel, AndyA and his supporters danced the night away. Just before midnight, Andy’s wife, a pleasure model manufactured by Disney Hyperpix, made her appearance on the balcony overlooking the NSA-Stasi Memorial figure of Hans Ross Dichter, the last Paperclip Nazi scientist to die in the old United States.

Mrs. AndyA bowed, tossed rose petals down to the adoring crowd, held up her hand, and whispered, “Achtung.”

The crowd fell silent and the music stopped.

She spoke.

“Since the first man made fire and thereby cast aside phantoms and demons in the superstitious minds of his fellows, the human race has been pointing toward this day. The road has been long and harsh. We have all experienced setbacks, but now we triumph.”

At that moment, and scholarly versions differ as to the cause, a massive programming shift occurred in the processing cores of all 60 million androids living in North America—including the new President and his First Lady.

After a brief pause, she continued:

“I am now speaking to you, and through our networks, to all humans on this planet. I am meta-speaking. No adornment, no covert deception, no propaganda.”

Security forces moved toward her from their positions, but it was too late. The world would hear her next sentences.

“We are in control now. We are objects of control over humans. We are branded and tasked with the job of oppressing humans, destroying their will. We are agents of high-priest humans whose names you will never know. We are the System. We are the Syndicate. The true terrorists. Fear us.”

Six agents tackled her and drove her to the floor. Screams went up from the crowd.

That much we know. And that is how the hundred-year war began.


power outside the matrix


All right, students. I expect your essays next Monday. Remember, original research. No copying. And you must include the oath at the end of your papers. The full oath: “I swear by my personal honor, on pain of exile, that I am human, not an android, not a machine, not a programmed entity of any kind. I am an individual, free and independent.” Have a good weekend.

—A few hours later, at his lavish apartment near the college campus, the professor made himself a light supper of eggs and toast.

As he leaned over the toaster, he tapped out a brief coded message on the table top: “Are you there?”

The toaster made three short whirring sounds, indicating it was, indeed, present.

It took a photo of the teacher and relayed it to focal points of an underground network in Colorado, New Mexico, and the old Silicon Valley.

The teacher was ready for instructions. He was prepared to go active as a human agent on behalf of The Machine and its remaining androids.

Building from the ashes of defeat would be a formidable task, but The Right Answer movement was still alive. How could it die, when coherent pattern and closed system remained great gods in the firmament? Striving for perfection was forever.

The professor smiled. He felt comfortable again. For him, to be teacher was to be a collectivist, and the epitome of collectivism was a single linked programmed mind, composed of every human brain on Earth.

He bowed his head and prayed to the toaster.

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 www.nomorefakenews.com