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Those whacky Scandinavians! What a laugh - Barak Obama as winner of the Nobel Peace Prize! Ha ha ha ha, champagne comedy! Actually knowing what I know of those Nordic midnight sunbathers as being the hardest drinkers on the planet, perhaps we'll call it 'vodka comedy'. That works doesn't it? Absolut-ly. And it's not as if you can blame them - what with the sun disappearing for months on end, and nothing for it but to go mad or get drunk, they not unreasonably choose the latter. And with drunks, all you can ever hope for is that they be funny drunks. Well, those Nobel guys crack me up. Skol!


Obama, Obama, Obama - what are we to make of this cove? He's a weird cat and no mistake. Whilst it's slowly wearing off now, the greatest part of the voter's image of him was less about who he was, than who he wasn't. Clearly he wasn't George Bush. Or to put it another way, he wasn't a smirking snuff-movie aficionado, and obvious with it. He also wasn't a Southern good ol' boy, and nor was he an uneducated git who could barely string two sentences together. Unlike the ex-cokehead Bush, Obama can deliver his platitudes unmangled - which really helps, because platitudes are a tough gig at the best of times.

And then there's the fact that Bush is American royalty, which is to say he comes from a long line of criminals, war-profiteers, spooks, and paedophiles. He is connected up the wazoo, ha ha ha. Obama on the other hand, ain't. He has no connections, he hasn't got the goods on anyone, he has no one's balls in his pocket, no one owes him, and to put it bluntly, he has no power base. Okay so how did he get to be president? Seriously? Well, he got to be president because other truly powerful people decided he was a sock puppet whose time had come. And as we all know, the best damn sock puppets are mind-control sock-puppets.


Was Bush a mind-control drone? He was royalty sure, but somehow I wonder if that would mean a lot amongst the satanist/mind-control/paedophocracy crowd. These people will sacrifice their own children you know. They're so hell bent and vicious they don't really require a child to be red-headed, or a stepchild, to treat them that way. And yep, their own kids included.

From what I've read of the mind-control world, there were those who were complete slaves and there were those who were complete masters. And then there's the idiot son. Was he slave or master? Frankly I can see a case for both. He was certainly cruel enough: I'm thinking he'd have made a great torturer. And given that every other president from Kennedy onwards was on the receiving end of 'presidential models', a la Brice Taylor (Susan Ford), I doubt that Dubya was any different.

But he was different. Did we ever see another president do this? Or this? Am I the only person who wanted to rap on his skull and ask if anyone's home? Somehow I suspect that people tinkered with the idiot son's brain, and not particularly successfully either. Not that you can blame them with his ten years spent wandering in a cocaine wilderness and his brain fried to a walnut.


What if I said the idiot son was a sort of 'hybrid model' filling in until a truly superior class of mind control slave was arrived at? Given the reality of mind-control, and given the ambition of those behind it, I figure it's just a matter of time until every president, indeed every world leader, is a mind-control zero who does whatever the fuck they're told.

And really well, of course. They'll be brilliant! They'll be as handsome as Butch and Sundance rolled into one. They'll have the wit of Noel Coward, the everyman appeal of Bruce Willis, and the gravitas of Dr Kildare. They'll play the guitar like Segovia, sing like Caruso, and dance like Gene Kelly. They will be gods of love that women will all desire and men will all turn gay for. They will be bigger than Jesus Christ.

And they'll do...
whatever...
the fuck...
they're told.


Okay, so Obama ain't quite that shining all-things-to-all-men, but he's a pretty fair approximation of it. And I haven't the least doubt that he fulfils that last little prosaic quatrain. Honestly, is there anything the owners of Israel want that he won't give to them? I can't think of anything. So far he's bombed Pakistan I forget how many times, and last time I checked that was considered the 'supreme war crime'. Sure enough everything underneath that - letting the AIPAC trial die unmourned, rolling over on Israel's illegal settlements, and otherwise handing trillions to the bankers and bankrupting the US - qualifies as nothing special. Otherwise what will he stick up for? Gays in the military! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... oh man... between the drunken Swedes and the death cult, it's harder to know who's funnier.

Between the impossibility of Obama as a no power-base, come-from-nowhere wunderkind (who in his brief climb to power somehow became completely corrupted), and the inevitability of someone just like him as a mind-control drone, I figure the latter makes waaay more sense. And rather than laboriously go through everything he's ever done looking for examples of him as mind-controllee, why not just do the Dutch Auction thing and ask, When has he ever departed from the Rothschild line? (And citing the settlements shadow-play is not permitted - pretending to stand up to Israel has been going on since Truman). And so! Under the timeless rubric of 'if you've got the game you may as well have the name' I'm going to call him.


And here's a question: Does Obama know? And further: If he's a zombie, wouldn't his wife be too? And then there's the kids...

When the stock markets crash and the banks fail everything stops working. Factories fall idle, people become unemployed, and families struggle and fail with the three prime necessities of food, shelter, and health. Everyone's behaviour is suddenly transformed into a chaotic, counter-productive, mad scrabble. And all because a tiny percent of humanity conduct an organised arrangement pivoting on numbers and relationships. This being banking and the stockmarket, you understand.

Funnily enough, shortages or collapses of real world products or services (ie. tangible things that actually exist) we seem capable of coping with. With the current collapse in this system of assigning numbers to various people, it is clear that intangibles have got tangibles beat. Money is more important than, I don't know - water. Which is to say an intangible arrangement of thinking controls humans above and beyond pretty much anything. Even other arrangements of thinking, like religion say, cannot compete. This contrived system of numbers being attached to humans rules over all.

A power who possesses oil, or water, or a military power, or a power possessed of tremendous natural defences, or any power at all, must succumb to this ultimate power. That sounds god-like doesn't it? Imagine wielding that power. And wielded it will be. Power of this nature will always be striven for. Ambition exists and amongst those who are ambitious will be those who are ultimately ambitious. Everyone here understands perfectly the ceaseless, unrelenting nature of those who would control the money supply. Andrew Jackson described today's world very eloquently just a few short column inches earlier, which is to say a century and a half ago. But that's time for you - hundreds of years of same-as-it-ever-was.

Back to this god-like thing - if a bum like me gets it, imagine being them. I view it as a complete certainty that they have spent a not inconsiderable amount of time dwelling on it. What god would this controller-of-money imagine himself as? We need a metaphor that involves a god that distributes something amongst his worshippers and thereby controls them. How about Prometheus? He wasn't a god so much as a titan but never mind. He gave man fire. Certainly this was a curse and a blessing. That aside, I don't recall any part of that story that involved wealth, treasure and flesh flowing back to Prometheus. Nor the bit where he controlled the flow of fire to alternatively enrich and starve his minion humans. Okay, so much for that metaphor.

Perhaps this metaphor will never fly because all the gods of myth who distributed things amongst their subjects did so as an act of generosity. And besides, these born-of-women men-who-would-be-gods would have nothing but disdain for these false idols invented by fools. They would view themselves as above and beyond such silly stories. Either way, it's an interesting question. How do these people view themselves?

Caesar had a fellow at his shoulder whose job it was to whisper in his ear, 'Remember you are mortal.' Obviously the Romans spent time thinking about what it meant to possess such power. Well you would wouldn't you? It stands to reason. And I expect that the people who control whether humans live in chaos or harmony do too. Do they employ a fellow to stand behind them and whisper to them that they're human? Somehow I doubt it.

On a daydream now - 'If you could have any superpower what would it be?' Me, I would be that man who whispers in their ear, but unlike the Roman, I couldn't be dismissed. I would be some variety of untouchable apparition. I would dog them and never shut up. I would simply be present and see what they see, hear what they hear, and read what they read. They would have no secrets.

There would be no violence in this superhero mag. My power would merely consist of being beyond harm and confinement. Actually someone beat me to this idea already. He was an obscure fellow name of Bill Shakespeare. Some of you may have heard of him. Anyway his superhero was called Banquo's Ghost™ and he featured in a particularly bloody comic called Macbeth.


Imagine that power. There's our villain, the man who would be God, giving a great banquet and revelling in those who've come to pay homage to him. And there's me as Banquo's Ghost chattering in his ear. "Fraud. Imposter. Self-impressed bullshit artist. If you were truly great you would do good. Good for mankind. You could raise human consciousness, lead people to new heights of peace, love and understanding. Don't smirk you fuckwit. This vaunted power you possess is nothing. You're little more than a sneak-thief. No wonder you lurk in the shadows and nobody knows who you are. If they did they'd spit on you, tear you limb from limb, and piss on your grave. And that is the truth of you. You're merely a sneak writ large. You're a shit who thinks he's clever."

I would be nothing more than the man who'd ruin a fellow's dinner. That dinner and every other one. And that would be enough. As superhero movies go, it would be crummy one, sure. 'Too talky' say the critics. But bugger them and their thirst for violence. In the real world, with real people, the smashing of delusions would suffice. The sin of the villains of this world is that they have abandoned 'to thine own self be true'. Truth cannot be self-serving. If one's starting position is 'I am great' then everything that follows will be corrupt. 'To thine own self distort the facts until 'I am great' is true.' Ha ha ha ha, fuckwits. Self-impressed gits.

And sure, the above is just an adolescent daydream. There are no superheroes. I'm merely a tiny voice in a roaring cacophony. The cacophony of course is created and encouraged by these men who would be gods. Whether consciously or sub-consciously, they know that any voices speaking a counter-proposition would destroy their delusion. The Roman at their shoulder would have to be killed. Not least so that others might know fear. Do we know that fear? Turn on the TV. I could make a case that every goddamn thing on TV pivots around fear - even the sitcoms.

Above and beyond all other mundane concerns, the ultimate reason we are kept fearful is so that those who imagine themselves as gods do not have their delusions punctured. Well I ain't fearful. And yes, my voice (and yours too) amounts to nothing more than a lousy 0.0001% of a decibel. Pathetic. The men who would be gods sneer. Where's our voice who'll fill an opera hall? Where's our booming tenor? Actually we don't need him. Anyone who's ever heard a two hundred voice choir doing Carmina Burana knows that the tenor is superfluous. The choir blows a tenor, regardless of how great he is, to smithereens.

We are that choir. Each of us is a voice adding to the whole. And yes, it's shambolic, but never mind - the decibel count is slowly climbing. Eventually the bullshit cone-of-silence cum echo-chamber that the men who would be gods live in, will eventually start to fail. With enough true notes the glass will break and the delusions of the self-impressed false idols will be smashed.

---

Did anyone notice in the last piece, violent though it was, that I wasn't actually proposing that we smash George Bush's brains all over the walls. It was merely imagery. Imagery as a sideways means of showing the aforementioned sock-puppet who he really is, ie. the fellow in the movie whose death we'd cheer. It was a back-handed means of puncturing delusion. Certainly I understand the appeal of insert-villain-here dangling from a lamp-post. But the truth of the matter is that even a piece of shit like our George could be rehabilitated. Honestly. The fellow that the voting public imagined as 'someone we'd like to have a beer with' could be that fellow. Him and anyone. I will never concede that rehabilitation is impossible. Unlikely, sure - impossible, never. And so it is here.

I have you pegged as a man of vice. C'mon buddy, where's that famous smirk? There it is! But forget those drugs you hoovered up. Forget the kids you fucked and had killed. Forget the war and the misery, suffering, and death you inflicted upon millions. All of that. Forget about it. Let's just go with gambling. You like a bet don't you? Sure you do. You and Dick used to put down a quiet couple of grand as to who could shoot that 'rabbit' first. Rabbits in high heels, ha! But forget the hunting too, we're talking gambling. Well here's a bet for you.

You know that scene in Platoon where the redneck stomps the head of the idiot son - "Holy shit, you see that fucking head come apart, man? Shit, I've never seen brains like that before, man!"? C'mon George, think back into those coke-addled wilderness years. Even though you couldn't get it up then (what with viagra not having been invented) you got a bit of a soft-on. Just in case it's a bit dim in your drug-fried brain, here's a pic. Remember this guy? He stomped that gook head.


And here's the set-up - We take that scene and digitally alter it so that the idiot son is you (not much of a stretch I admit). It'll be you copping the stomping. And with digital effects being what they are nowadays it'll be so real even you'll think it's you. Then we screen it in any multiplex as a short before the main feature just like in the old days. And here's the crunch - I'll bet every penny I have that the audiences cheer. They'll cheer when you're whimpering in terror and they'll laugh when your brains are spattered all over the walls. How about it George? You up?

Because that's you mate. You are the guy in the movie whose grisly death would have the audience cheering. That's you. Enjoy the rest of your worthless fucking life.

---

Apologies to Les Visible. This really ought to have been a comment on his marvellous George W. Bush, Grade A. USDA-Prime Sonofabitch but I whacked it up here instead.