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To be honest, one wonders why they persist with these rubbery simulacra. Having read of what was done to Susan Ford in Thanks For The Memories, clearly the aristocratic filth that rule us arrived at an infinitely better solution to the problem of troublesome servants. Besides, the aristocracy are people of taste and refinement - they would no more stick their dick in an artificial orifice than they would eat the GM shit at McDonalds. Perhaps we should just view the RealDoll as yet another straw on the know-thyself camels' back - another thing in a long unbroken line of stuff designed to destroy our bonds with each other, and otherwise have us understand the rightness of worshipping the self.


In wondering what the death cult aristocracy is on about, it doesn't pay to think small. There's no point tempering your thoughts with petty niggles or scruples. The death cult never does. The truth is we as little people have no idea of what is and isn't feasible when the world is yours to command. Thus we may as well just gun for the worst case scenario. Remember, for the death cult, 'worst case scenario' = 'an ideal world'.

In this best of all possible worlds, ideally we will all be variations of Susan Ford. And there I was, having just finished Ford's book, chatting on the phone to a friend of mine who was telling me of her six-year-old autistic son's progress in school. I know this kid as well as I know any. Or to put it another way, I don't know him at all since I've never had a conversation with him. That's autism for you. If you ask him a question he just repeats it, or ignores you utterly. Otherwise even the merest hint of attempting to modify his behaviour will result in him smashing his head against the wall. Literally. Everything you know about kids goes out the window with autism. Otherwise, left to himself he's a sweet kid, albeit an unknowable one.

Astoundingly, his mother tells me that he is doing brilliantly in his first year of school. Forget the remedial 'special' class I assumed would be his lot - in English and maths he's leaving all the other kids behind. And yet frustratingly, when she asks him, 'How was school?' he just repeats the question. On matters of feelings, or of himself, or even of others, he is unable to formulate an opinion. 'How are you?, makes no sense to him.

Um, okay - anyone else out there with a lightbulb going off in their head? Isn't this kid almost precisely what the death cult is looking for?


Is everyone across the link between autism and government mandated mercury-based thimerosal vaccines? I'll take it as read. Now think of McGowan's Laurel Canyon and his detailing of the death cult's mass release of LSD in the hippy movement. Think of the 'spike' nature of LSD (ie. if we plotted a graph of LSD use over time), and compare that to the 'spike' nature of autism - zero to a hundred in a few short years. Certainly LSD was freely handed out and freely taken, and thimerosal-laced vaccines were government mandated, but in the whatever-suits nature of the campaign this is neither here nor there.

Here then is the thought - what if autism by way of mass thimerosal poisoning wasn't so much a penny pinching exercise by big pharma as much as it was another yellow brick in the road to mind control? Let's not be put off by the fact that it didn't succeed. LSD didn't succeed either. As far as I can see, autism as dry-run experiment towards the goal of a world of slaves makes as much sense (hell, probably more) than any other bullshit reason.

The only thing we know for sure is that bullshit lies are a certainty, and the lies are always layered. Think of the Gulf War: (loudly) Iraq has WMD's; (not so loudly) we thought Iraq had WMD's; (quietly) it's all about the oil; (sotto voce) it's all about Israel; (and completely unspoken) the truth - Iraq was just a single step in the global goal of smashing Islam's alternative to usury.

And in the discussion of why there are so many autistic kids now, I'm thinking we're somewhere between 'It was a mistake', and 'It was greed'. The first of these is laughable - there's no way kids were injected with mercury by accident. The second is just too penny-ante. Given the monstrousness of what was done, it's absurd to think that the nickels and dimes saved by using mercury preservative were worth it. Metaphor time - if we had mosquitoes breeding in the well, would we believe the explanation of the fellow who tipped ten litres of arsenic in there - that he did this because the arsenic was five dollars cheaper than the citronella? Not forgetting that he's a pharmacologist and the richest guy in town. Would we believe that?

Am I the only guy to whom this thought has occurred? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, given that I'm the merest dilettente, there's no way I'm going to make any splash, or otherwise bust it up the middle with this. Certainly not with the health expert heavies who've clocked up endless hours detailing the links between thimerosal and autism.


But then again, there's a lot to be said for dilettenteism. In this world of the Big Lie, focusing tight on a subject means you have no true idea of how big the Big Lie is. With a narrow viewfinder, the weeny tentacled protozoa appears monstrous - the Goober that ate New York City. Scale will do that to you. Step back and we'll see that that impossibly big Big Lie isn't imposssible at all. They do it all the time - business as usual.

So! Here I am asserting that the autism epidemic is, in all probability, the result of a deliberate act of mass poisoning. But as epic as that crime is, I'll also assert that for the death cult it's the merest bagatelle, barely a blink of their god-like eye. With the death cult it pays to throw out all sense of human scale. God knows they did.

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.

Every cell in the body is only one cell away from a nerve or from the blood supply. The complexity of the nervous system and the circulatory system (amongst others) is beyond comprehension.


When I was in high-school we learned that atoms were comprised of protons, neutrons and electrons and that these were the smallest things there were. But later we learned that these tiny particles were comprised of smaller particles and those of other smaller particles and so on. There is no end to this process.

If we wanted to measure the coastline of an island we could do so with a large map and bit of string. If we got a 100m tape-measure and measured the actual rocks at the waterline the increase in detail would be huge and the measurement would be greater. What if we measured each rock at ever decreasing molecular levels? The coastline of the island would nearly approach the infinite.


The world, the universe, everything is infinitely detailed. Nothing can ever be measured to a level of infallability. This is chaos theory. Chaos theory says that ultimately the universe is unknowable.

And my point? My point is for those who think they understand the world and are its masters. They are wrong. However great their understanding of the world (by way of human affairs) their knowledge will always be incomplete. As another metaphor, let's say your average mug-punter understands the world in round numbers and that those who imagine they are the world's masters might understand things to three decimal places. Doubtless, this impresses them. And it would impress me too if this knowledge was put to good use instead of impoverishing, enslaving and starving people. But the fact is that those metaphorical three decimal places are not enough.


A butterfly can make a thunderstorm. Were one to kill all the butterflies, sooner or later a bee would do the job. Perhaps one could employ super-computers to predict thunderstorms and spend one's life ducking and weaving to avoid this lethal force of nature. But eventually this effort too will fail. No computer, no matter how 'super', will ever accurately predict the weather.

The thunderstorm above is a metaphor for nemesis. Nemesis is the response to hubris. There is no nemesis for those nominated in the beatitudes. Were the bankers to expend their time, money and energy improving the lot of mankind, the thunderstorms they fear would be just another marvel of nature. They could grab a beer, sit on the verandah and enjoy the show - nobody's favourite pastime.


Speaking of marvels of nature, an image of a tiger fills my head. The bankers choose not to marvel at the tiger. They choose to ride it and subject it to their will. Such a hatred of nature is in the DNA of these masters of the world. But no one can ride a tiger forever. The only creature that can do so is a flea. And it might be a very clever flea too: it can direct the tiger; it can weaken the tiger and prevent it from removing the flea; and when the tiger dies it can migrate to another tiger. But it's still a flea, a flea that imagines it's greater than God. And God spare us such a self-impressed idiotic creature.

And one day the tiger will, perhaps even by accident, scrape off its flea. On a day unpredicted, a single impossible thunderstorm will come out of nowhere and, in a spirit of perfect impartiality, fulfil its role. For the first time in millennia the fourth decimal place will be the one that counts. Thinking twenty, thirty, forty moves ahead in a chess game is not enough for a world that is infinite. This is chaos theory. Not that we really needed it. The Buddha said it all thousands of years ago and he did it with five words - the only certainty is change.