The fear of symbols | Jon Rappoport’s Blog


The fear of symbols

The fear of symbols

by Jon Rappoport

July 30, 2013


Groups use symbols.

But symbols have no inherent power.


They have power only when people believe in them. In which case it’s the belief that is the power.

Just as important, symbols have no inherent meaning. They only have the meaning given to them.

So, for example, the famous eye and pyramid mean zero. Zilch. They only have meaning because Masons and other groups have assigned it.

There is no closed secret world of symbols that has magic in it.

There are no universally good symbols or bad symbols. A symbol is a word, term, sign, shape. It’s injected with meaning by a group. The group adopts a consensus about the symbol.

To a surprising degree, people think in terms of symbols. They operate as if they understand what they’re doing, but they don’t. They fear the power of certain symbols and attach themselves to the power of other “good” symbols. They’re hooked.

You could make a picture of a sun emanating three rays and call it Oobladee, and invent a whole mythology around it. You could claim it comes from Atlantis, or a secret society embedded in the old KGB, or an ancient Babylonian priesthood.

And then some people would react when they saw it. They would feel fear or anger excitement.

It’s a con.

If you took this even further and created a whole set of symbols, dozens of them, and made up meanings for them, and worked with this game, you would eventually experience an interesting kind of liberation. You would see, to a greater extent, how arbitrary symbols are, how people trap themselves in “internal symbolic spaces.”

The whole point of symbols is to enclose consciousness.

The mechanism by which this happens is simple. Let’s say you devised a picture of an eyeball hovering in a forest. A tear is dropping from the eye. The literal mind is looking for specific meaning. The literal mind wants an answer. It can’t find one.

The eyeball and the forest and the tear don’t add up. They provoke all sorts of associations, but no particular meaning, and the literal mind is frustrated.

So THEN you come along and assign a meaning. You say, “Well, this symbol was painted on masks in 834BC by the ancient Egyptian founders of a cult of pyramid builders. The eye and the tear stand for the tragedy caused by lack of faith in eternal life…”

And so forth and so on.

Now you’ve assigned specific meaning to the symbol. Now the literal mind breathes a sigh of relief. It has an answer. It can suck up that meaning and take it in and accept it. And now you can embellish the story and sell it to the literal mind. You can make that symbol into an object of fear and repulsion, if that’s the reaction you want to provoke in your audience, or you can make the symbol into an object of victory that stands for redemption.

You can twist and turn the symbol any way you want to.

The literal mind wants an answer to the mystery, a solution, and you provided it.

We’re talking about a very primitive form of art. When people operate at this level, buying symbols and their assigned meanings, it’s an indication they can’t appreciate or fathom more complex art.

They can’t read and fathom a novel or watch a stage play. That’s too much. There isn’t a clear one-to-one connecting pipeline between symbol and meaning, and so they’re confused. They’re frustrated.

I remember sitting in a movie theater watching a crime drama. The cops arrested the wrong man and framed him for a killing. A guy sitting next to me blew his top. He started telling his girl friend about how the cops were railroading this suspect and how bad the cops were, how the suspect was a victim of police brutality.

Well, yes. That was, in fact, the whole point of the movie. The movie was showing the audience how the police operated to create a false scenario and frame an innocent man. That’s what the movie was saying.

But this guy couldn’t get to that level. He thought the movie was actually on the cops’ side. He thought the movie was praising the arrest of the wrong man.

The literal mind at work.

In the same way, people accept the meanings that are assigned to symbols, and they react to those meanings in a reflex fashion.

In truth, symbols are open. They have no intrinsic meaning. People can inject any meaning they want to.

But when they’re trapped in a layer of symbolic thinking, they can’t see that. They’re determined to accept the already-assigned meaning and react to it.

Which is an invitation to propagandists.

Worse yet, it’s a fixation that artificially defines the limits of mind.

Symbols form a matrix-shell inside which minds live. Until they don’t.

Jon Rappoport

The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. 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

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Using fake names on Facebook, Surveillance State, androids | Jon Rappoport’s Blog


Using fake names on Facebook, Surveillance State, androids

Using fake names on Facebook, the Surveillance State, androids

By Jon Rappoport

July 23, 2013


File this one in the ever-burgeoning category of: how insane can legislators get?

Congress is now debating an update to the 1986 Computer Fraud and Abuse Act.

Turns out it’s already a misdemeanor to “exceed authorized use” of a computer, but the DOJ wants to make it a felony.

Of course, what does “exceeds authorized use” mean? Well, it means, for instance, an employee sending emails to pals while he’s at the office—because his employer has a rule against that.

In other words, the feds want to back up employers’ rules and turn them into felonies. Splendid.

“Yeah, you remember Jack, don’t you? Used to work here? One day he made an online reservation at the Wynn in Vegas, and now he’s in jail. Life is tough, keep your eyes straight ahead and don’t mess with the boss.”

“And Betty? She ordered three lipsticks on a slow Thursday and she’s now upstate. I hear the shrinks got hold of her. Dosing her with an anti-psychotic. Hope she has three live brain cells to rub together when she gets out.”

Then there’s the Facebook issue. The company, originally bankrolled by a CIA front, has a rule against users setting up accounts with fake names. Does the DOJ want to go after Facebook users who break the rules?

The Surveillance State, aided by Facebook, wants to know who you are at all times. They want you to be your name and no other name.

It’s a technical issue, see? It’s a lot easier to spy on you if you’re Mary Jones all the time when you’re online. As opposed to Mary Jones and Dragon Lady and HiHat and Ben Franklin and The Beast From 40 Fathoms…

The joke is, most people lead lives that are fictional already. The NSA and its allied partners spy on those lives.

Here’s the same thing from another angle. John Smith, citizen, follows the straight and narrow. He, like every other John Smith, is a target of the Surveillance State. He hasn’t committed any crimes. He isn’t a threat. But that doesn’t matter. He’s there. He’s a unit. Therefore, he’s on the radar.

But John Smith is a fiction. He’s a convenient, solid, average, normal persona/role in the stage play called Society cooked up by the Real John Smith, who is hiding. Inside himself. You rarely see him. Once in a blue moon, he pokes his head out and says something off-key. Then he retreats behind his facade.

There are millions and John Smiths, and the NSA is spying on all of them. The fake ones. The fictions.

What if every John Smith invented six or seven new personae?

“Sir, are you pretending to be somebody else?”

“Yes, and the pretending is now more intense. It’s ongoing.”

“But you see, sir, that introduces confusion, when we spy on you.”

“I used to believe I was a John Smith android forever. Wow, was I kidding myself. I used to go to one church service on Sunday. Now I go to three different churches. And I’m also an atheist.”

“Excuse me?”

“I campaigned for Democrats only. Now I campaign for Democrats, Republican, Libertarians, Communists, and Anarchists. Of course I don’t vote for anyone. I’m exploring monarchy as well. I think the divine right of kings could make a comeback.”

“But who do you actually worship?”

“The NSA, of course. And the CIA and DIA, Interpol, MI-5, the old GRU, and the Chinese Secret Service.”

“Sir, we have you on the record talking to about eight different wives.”

“Only eight? I must have misplaced a couple.”


And there was a giant standing before him | Jon Rappoport’s Blog


And there was a giant standing before him

And there was a giant standing before him

by Jon Rappoport

July 21, 2013


First, there was a memory. His sister reading to him the story of Babel Tower, and the Tower crashing, and new clean rivers flowing…

When he went out all the way, the memory collapsed, and he swept through reefs of reflecting data in an ocean of surveillance.

He tangled in nets and escaped, only to plunge into other layers where avid machinery was spinning, as if searching for crimes where no crimes were possible.

He felt velvet hands and suctioned fingers slide along him, and he grew cold in the submarine depths. He began to panic.

What did the Design want with him?

And why did it seem to be watching itself?

Then the Arctic chill passed, and he knew he was free of the structure, and was genuinely dying, and dying was a pleasure he had never known.

“Better,” he said, luxuriating in a dark baronial calm, uterine perfection, summer childhood bedroom closet.

He was suddenly in the cabin of a private jet. He’d been told there would be hallucinations. He saw a team of glass archangels; a China cup worn yellow from a thousand fingers drooping slender cigarettes; a framed photo of Al Capone sitting on the toilet in his Palm Springs suite.

And then identity shattered into a thousand pieces. The lights of an enormous city loomed up under him, pulling the fragments down into liquor stores, newspaper racks, dark alleys, hotel rooms.

A news screen stood out in the black sky. A local anchor, her eyes bright with contempt, relayed the story of a Dr. Ralph Bannion, who had just died falling from an escarpment above the Chicago Loop while attempting to set up a sniper’s nest and kill shoppers in the indoor-outdoor Gangland Mall.

She spoke of a Mr. R. Smith-Jones, a fifth-generation android. He was propped up on a wheelchair-couch in his Manhattan apartment, growling and snarling at his doughy male nurse turned out in a jeans tuxedo and a sombrero made of balloons and artificial peacock feathers, dotted with packing popcorn.

Smith-Jones’ infamous three-year case, tried in the Superior Court of Newfoundland New York, had, it appeared, ground to a halt, when the judge determined Smith-Jones earned the right to multiple classifications of Disabled, and therefore could validly apply for federal benefits in the sum of the 30,000 dollars a month for the rest of his life.

Now Smith-Jones was foaming at the mouth and spitting. He doubled over and a siren went off. A security guard appeared from off-camera with a riot baton and sent a blue fork of electricity into his genitals, quieting him.

The news screen disappeared.

Identity was now a quiet snowstorm in a deserted wood, falling, falling, falling on the hard earth. Relief.

How many times can I disperse, he thought.

He was back in the cabin of the jet. Burnished lights set high in the cabin walls, yellow-brown, old-master, slightly wrinkled. For a moment he missed having wings and being able to fly up to a light and nibble toward its core.

He thought: “I used to own a suit that cost five grand.”

A flight attendant entered his cabin with a vodka rocks.

She was six feet tall and blonde. That made her a target.

Wealthy and powerful men would seek her out.

Her body was sleek. He examined her left leg from wizardly articulated ankle to narrow thigh, through the slit of her sheath skirt. She strode in heels, one foot placed precisely in front of the other.

She set down the drink on the arm of his chair and looked at her watch.

“We can’t have sex now,” she said. “We’re east of the Rockies.”

“I didn’t realize they had a law,” he said.

“Four hours from now,” she said, “we can negotiate a price.”

“I’m an attorney,” he said.

She pulled a half-sheet out of her jacket pocket and handed it to him.

“Standard,” she said. “Read and sign.”

It stated: “…I am not attempting to elicit information pursuant to an investigation, case, or sentencing option…

He signed.

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, “how many layers of protection do you have?”

“Well,” she said, “the LA Mayor has a local contract. He supplies police and private soldiers whenever I’m in the city.”

“Have they ever had to go on attack?”

“A Belivar prince once tried to have his men kidnap me en route from the airport to my hotel. Blackbirton mercs burned them to the ground on Century Boulevard.”


“You’re John Q,” she said. “I know. I’m Carol.”

She held out her hand. He looked at her long fingers. Her nails were short. No polish. He shook her hand. It was cool. It immediately became warm, as if she could make it happen.

She sat down next to him.

“We’ve intercepted you en route,” she said. “We need you to read something for us. On background. It’s local.”

“I was a lawyer,” he said automatically.

“You once appeared before the Illinois Supreme Court. We want you to look down into Chicago and find documents pertaining to the pending trial of Jesus Hernandez.”


“Defendant in a federal trafficking case. He claims his cartel, Zuma, struck an immunity deal with the CIA. No prosecutions, clean truck routes from Mexico up through LA, all the way to a central distribution hub in Chicago.”

“In return for what?”

“Good intell on other Mexican cartels.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Any documents pertaining to immunity. So far, the judge in the case has refused to allow the evidence in trial.”

“Documents? You think they put that kind of thing in writing?”

She nodded. “But the defense team claims they have docs.”

He closed his eyes.

Now, Bobby Thoms came to him. The Swan, a bar in the Loop.

The place was jammed with lawyers eating breakfast and waiting for the shape-up in the parking lot. Minor cases were assigned by Ray Banner, a clerk at the Farofax processing facility.

Q grabbed a stool at the end of the counter and ordered coffee. The bartender poured him a cup and set it down in front of him.

Bobby Thoms walked in. He came over.

Dark soiled clothes, as if he’d stripped them from a corpse in an alley. Pinched face, sunken cheeks. A lawyer’s barnacle. Runner, go-between. Supplier of information.

“John Q,” Bobby said. “Where’s your vodka?”

“I don’t start until eleven.”

Bobby moved in close.

“I can get you in to see Judge Hirsch today. His appointment secretary bumped the city treasurer for you.”

Q reached into his pocket and pulled out a tight roll of hundreds. Bobby fielded it and slipped it into his pocket.

“A few changes,” Q said.

Bobby nodded. “Here’s the rumor,” he said. I know what you’re after. There are national security implications in this case, John Q. If the shit hits the fan, the president’s administration in Mexico could go down. To say nothing of that other president in Washington.”

John Q snapped back into the jet cabin. Carol was sitting there calmly.

He realized she was trying to protect the government from exposure in the case. They had some way to snap him up in transit. They’d intervened. They wanted to use him because he was unencumbered. He could look into secret places. Free from his ordinary sensorium. They had netted him.

He heard a grinding roar from a long way off.

“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Somebody’s coming.”


The roar accelerated. He watched as the cabin spiraled down to the size of a dot of blood on a handkerchief.

The wild sound subsided.

He was in a boat, a wooden boat, at night, and a man was standing next to him. They were on a lake, moving slowly.

The man reminded him of a doctor his mother had taken him to when he was 12 years old. He’d fallen off his bike racing down a steep hill, and the doctor told his mother to stop crying, everything would be all right, it was just a mild concussion.

He looked ahead, and in the distance he saw the lights of the shoreline. He ached for it. He had no idea why. It seemed foolish.

The man said, “Do you want to go there?”

“It’s the…music.”

“Well,” the man said, “that’s my shore. I made it.”


“I dreamed it up. I’m afraid you can’t go. Not now.”

Then Q was alone in the boat, floating in the dark.

It was a warm summer night, like many he had known. He was building it.

“Get me to Mosca’s office,” he said.

Sal Mosca conducted his business in a warehouse in Evanston, a few blocks away from the Registrar-DHS complex.

In the center of the lobby, there was a single desk. Video cameras on the walls caught the action from a dozen angles. Familiar scents of dead rotting rats in the walls.

I waited in line, and when my turn came, I handed the security guard a copy of my cert card, mentioned my contact in the DA’s office, and said I had an appointment with Mr. Mosca.

He looked down at his pad, nodded, and handed me a red slip. I stuck it to my jacket, walked over to the elevator bank, and waited.

A door opened. A tall slam in a dark suit stood against the back wall. He was holding a short 40 down at his side. He nodded. I got in. He took my red slip.

We rode up to the 7th floor. The door opened, and two more guards in dark suits stood there. I stepped out.

One of them frisked me. The other one backed away and watched.

They sandwiched me and we walked together down a seashell curving carpeted hallway to a mesh gate. It slid open and we passed through into a small room. Mosca’s secretary, Jenny, sat behind a table.

“Hello, John Q,” she said.


I knew her from the county courts, the early days. Cases adjudicated in small offices, fines pieced off among the sharers. During the heavy shortages, we took dinners as bribes. The joke was, a kid out of the U of Chicago defended his mother for an eight-pack of toilet paper.

Jenny made a fist and rapped her knuckles once on the table. I took an envelope out of my inside jacket pocket and placed it in front of her. She picked it up, looked inside, counted the bills, and nodded.

The two security men grabbed my arms and guided me across the room to another door. One of them opened it and moved ahead, into Mosca’s office.

I followed. The other guard was behind me. He shut the door and stood in front of it.

The office was large with no windows. The walls were dull dented metal. The only pieces of furniture were a long white couch and two scarred wooden folding chairs. Bull’s-head Mosca, dressed in his tan suit, sat on the couch. I stayed standing.

Big chest, big belly, cheap shoes. Tired face, but tight skin. He’d been swaddled in the bullrushes of Lake Michigan. Dirty feet running on the stones, foster homes, small-time collector, protection money, law school at night, hired shooters, muscled his way into city government as a private conduit for defense lawyers on major felonies.

Orchid cologne, shaved every night sitting in the bath tub remembering the motor brain damage of his dead sister destroyed by a drug. Blew away the prescribing shrink himself late at night on Cole Boulevard.

Mosca frowned. “This case has tricks.”

“Immunity documents,” I said.

“Good, John Q. Good.”

“Because,” I said, “if it turns out Zuma has a deal with the feds to ship big weight up through Los Angeles into Chicago, and it’s exposed, that torpedoes everybody.”

Mosca nodded. “National security issue. Nothing moves until we get a ruling on it.”

“But do the documents exist?”

“One does. Signed by the deputy director of the CIA and Hernandez.”

I shook my head. “Hard to believe.”

“What happened to you?” Mosca said.

I looked at the guards and slowly put my hand into my left pants pocket. I took out a slip of paper, stepped forward and held it out to Mosca. He took it without touching my hand.

“That figure,” I said, “went into your Panama account an hour ago.”

He looked at the slip.

“How do you know my account number?” he said.

“Ricky Rose gave it to me.”

“He just got six years.”

“That was my victory. They could have given him twenty.”

Mosca took a cell phone out of his pocket. We waited while he accessed his Panama account.

He looked up at me.

“Deposit of fifty thousand dollars, just entered,” he said.

“My way of saying thanks for the referral.”

“What referral?” he said. “What are you talking about?”

“A metaphysical clarification. Let’s talk about immunity at a higher level, Sal. Who is immune? How do they arrive at that status?”

He leaned back and grinned.

“Oh, you mean you want the real stuff. Well, Q, understand I’m only a low man on the totem pole. I don’t have many details.”

Then Mosca was standing next to me. He took my arm and walked me to the right, into a kitchen that hadn’t been there before. We exited from a side door and climbed a short flight of steps. He opened another door on to the roof.

“The shed,” he said.

In the middle of the roof was a wooden structure.

The padlock was open and hanging from a chain. We stepped inside and Mosca turned on a light. I shut the door. Tools were arranged on shelves. An open cabinet was stacked with brooms and shovels and an old shotgun. We sat down on two rickety chairs.

“What I’m telling you is from me,” he said. “This is information I have.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s what I paid you for.”

“John Q,” he said, “immunity is what you want to know about? It travels higher than the towers of faith. Because faith’s been misappropriated. It’s been, shall we say, directed. Are you following me?

“Look at the ancient religions, all you see are wars. You know why? Because the people were still young enough to realize how their loyalty was being betrayed by the priests. So they rose up and slaughtered them. But there’s a new priest born every minute. They have a special facility for hijacking faith, depersonalizing it.

“Sometimes it looks like that’s all this planet is. Depersonalized faith. That’s the Atlas holding up the world. And now he’s watching and spying, to make sure it stays intact.”

A canyon opened up under me. Another Earth, like this one. I caught a glimpse and it shut down, closed its mouth.

“Q,” Mosca said, “I assign cases to lawyers. I’m a bit player. I’m an ant on blacktop. I move a few crumbs here, a few crumbs there. Immunity is created by fiat, just like money. It’s deal-making…”

“Morris Gold’s office,” I said.

I stepped out of a car. Bobby, who was driving, also got out. He handed the keys to a parking robot and strolled off toward the American Airlines sports book. I crossed the sidewalk and stopped in front of a cast-iron door. I rang the bell. I was standing under a video camera.

A voice said, “Name, please.”

I held up my cert card.

“Carrying any weapons?” the voice said.


“Just a minute.”

They were running a body scan. I waited.

“What case does this pertain to?” the voice said.



“Here for a consult.”

The door buzzed. I opened it and walked in.

I was in a pitch-black space.

As my eyes adjusted, the lights slowly rose to dim. I was inside a wire cage.

The same disembodied voice said, “Where did you attend law school?”

“University of Michigan.”

“Your thesis adviser’s name?”

“Professor Morris Gold.”

“And the title of the thesis?”

Currents in Pre-Trial Hearings.”

The grid in front of me clicked and moved from left to right. I stepped through.

I was standing in a foyer. The carpet under my shoes was thick.

A tall heavy-set man appeared from my right. “Follow me,” he said. He opened a door and we were facing an open elevator. He motioned and I stepped in ahead of him. He followed and the door closed. We ascended silently for a few seconds. The elevator came to a smooth stop. The door opened. A short man in a very expensive suit stood there. His head was clean shaven and he wore a pair of sunglasses high on his forehead.

“They’re for the light,” Morris said. “I have a condition.” He stuck out a meaty paw and I shook it. He smiled.

I walked with him down a hallway into a corner office.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. His two-ton oak desk sat in the center of the room. There were hunting prints and paintings of horses and cottages on cornflower-blue walls.

He didn’t offer me a seat. I stood. He stood.

“John Q,” he said, “Are you trying to file suit because you’re in transit?”

“No,” I said.

“Because you were scooped up?”


He smiled. “Good. Nothing worse than a sore loser. So what can I do for you after all this time?”

His eyes were cold.


Infowars » 7 Quotes that prove Eugenics is alive, profitable, and the source of all “chronic di sease” » Print


7 Quotes that prove Eugenics is alive, profitable, and the source of all “chronic disease”

Planet Infowars
July 23, 2013

1) Charles Darwin, 1871: “Changed conditions induce an almost indefinite amount of fluctuating variability.”[i]

Insomuch as people are human, we are all alike- but the similarity ends there. Inside, veins run along paths as unique as fingerprints, like Darwin described. Genetics and individuality dictates each human identity and how one will respond to a ‘changed condition.’

Every chronic disease responsible for the top causes of death was rare or did not yet exist in the 1800’s, but each abounds now at epidemic levels. From autism to Alzheimer’s, cancer, heart disease and diabetes, all result from damage to the nervous system. The ‘rare genetic disorders,’ many syndromes, and these widespread killers are not diseases at all, but the “fluctuating variability” of a unique human response to a “changed condition.”[ii] Because pets have these ‘diseases’ too, what was the change that was new in the 1800’s, grew throughout the 1900’s, and damages the nervous system of mammals?

2) Francis Galton, the inventor of Eugenics, 1883: “The object of statistical science is to discover methods of condensing information concerning large groups of allied facts.”[iii]

The vast majority of medical information today is statistical. Hence when ‘studies show’ facts, they almost always point to people’s lifestyle choices that lead to a ‘greater risk’ of developing chronic diseases- but provide no data whatsoever about the underlying biological causes. From Galton’s original statement, it seems that was the goal from the beginning: to let people die and do nothing to stop it, but merely describe what kind of people suffer from which conditions.

From what we, the people, are continually told, the major ‘risk factors’ for chronic diseases are smoking, drinking, doing illegal drugs, and eating too much. Yet, alcohol, tobacco, drugs in their plant form, sugar, fat, and salt all existed for thousands of years, so there is no way that they alone can be responsible for the sudden appearance of health conditions, nor their rapid increase since WW2. Since animals and infants also ‘get’ them, lifestyle choices cannot explain the biological mechanism for cause, but more likely, they can amplify the conditions already present from another source.

Statistical studies are the easiest to manipulate, based on the size of the study and what type of people compose it. They also distract from the issue of causation completely- the autism controversy is one such successful example. Highlighting various ‘bad’ behaviors is nothing more than a classic tactic of ‘blaming the victim.’ Thus, the people who die are judged for what they did, rather than what was done to them, and the primary cause of chronic disease appears to be a lack of obedience to eugenic ideals. As to actual causation, what do animals, infants and adult humans all have in common?

3) Francis Galton, 1883: “The investigation of human eugenics” calls for “family histories, both medical and general,” which would “require no more than zeal and persuasiveness.”[iv]

When Galton wrote those words he was frustrated, because at that time it was not yet possible for a man and his children to get “weighed, measured, and rightly photographed, and have their bodily facilities tested.” Such growth records, from youth to maturity were “required before it can be possible to rightly appraise the effect of external conditions upon development,” and advance eugenic goals.[v]

Now, oddly enough, all public school children are weighed and measured every year, just as their vision and hearing is tested. Although the photography program began with a few salesmen and a dream, as Lifetouch Portraits tells it, the measuring most certainly did not. Is there any way that could be an accident- especially if the policy was established at the highest levels of government?

Another modern standard is the complete exposition of family medical history, by every patient, at every doctor’s visit- that seemed to “require no more than zeal or persuasiveness” by the American Medical Association, which governs medicine. Because the AMA existed before the eugenics movement, and providing family history is so common now that it is unquestioned, it is not only suspicious, or likely, but certain, that the leaders directly followed Galton’s order: “no time ought to be lost in encouraging and directing a habit of compiling” them.[vi] Public schools require children to get vaccinated, and infants, adults, and animals all receive them from doctors- whether MD or Vet- do they not?

4) Francis Galton, 1883: “Terror at any object is quickly taught if it is taught consistently, whether the terror be reasonable or not” and “aversion is taught as easily as terror.”[vii]

We were taught to avoid questioning doctors, but above all, to fear germs. There is no such infection that will kill you immediately, although movies like Contagion instruct otherwise. We have an immune system, but so many people died during the infectious disease era because they were crammed into shacks, malnourished, and living in filth. The sanitation movement changed that, not vaccines.[viii]

Doctors are not gods. In fact, they were responsible for millions of deaths in the puerperal fever epidemic that lasted 300 years. It is now called “the doctor’s plague” because the entire time, they went from shoving their hands into women’s vaginas who had just died from the infection, straight into birth canals of those in labor- without washing their hands, because they did not believe in germs. They were not punished, only forced to sanitize their hands once germs were discovered in the late-1800’s.[ix] Now, we irrationally fear them and specifically ‘believe’ in vaccines, because their effectiveness is not factual.

While many doctors exist who want to save people’s lives, most do what the AMA tells them to do- because it comes with God-like power. All are taught with a ‘reward and punishment’ psychological tactic as well, the “law of effect,” that was developed by an American eugenic scientist from 1927-33. Edward Thorndike trained people by rewarding one “right” behavior and punishing everything else, which was defined as “wrong.”[x] Are vaccines and legal drugs the “right” choice for doctors?

5) Joshua Lederberg, 1946: “A simple analogy for cancer is evident—the newly found capacity of a cell to synthesize an essential metabolite otherwise available only in limiting and regulatory amounts.”[xi]

Cancer is ‘cell proliferation,’ which in normal terms, means that a group of cells grows in excess until they take over the host body and kill it. Like any other living entity cancer requires food to grow, the only difference is it gets energy differently than other cells. The strange method of acquiring it was discovered in 1930, but according to medical studies, no one thought to uncover what cancer eats until only a few years ago.[xii] Another eugenic scientist did, however, in 1946.

Joshua Lederberg used experiments with fungus to search for “a nutritional concept of cancer,” but his language clearly indicated that he did not want to stop it, but cause it, in “higher forms” like us. He discovered that when cells mutate, some develop a “newly found capacity” to eat food that normally exists in small amounts. The more abundant that food became, the more the cells proliferated, until the host was consumed. Hence, all that was left to discover, was how to cause cells to mutate in people, and then give them something to eat.

Twelve years later, Lederberg won the Nobel Prize for mutation.[xiii] That exact same year, congress passed the Food Additives Amendment. Several chemicals were legally put into the food supply with no limits or safety testing whatsoever. They were called GRAS substances, because someone decided that they were “generally regarded as safe.”[xiv] Does one feed cancer in some people, depending on genetics, but cause nervous system damage in others- and it is also an ingredient in vaccines? YES.

6) Francis Galton, 1883: “In any scheme of eugenics,” “energy is the most important quality to favour.”[xv] Energy is “the capacity for labour.”[xvi]

Galton defined eugenics as “the science of improving stock.” By that, he meant to give “more suitable races or strains of blood a better chance of prevailing speedily over the less suitable than they otherwise would have had.”[xvii] Since many white people were sterilized by eugenic policies in the 20th century, and get just as many chronic diseases now as other races, he obviously did not refer to color.[xviii]

Because “the capacity for labour” was the goal of his eugenic scheme, then by “improving” and “suitable,” he must have meant the ability to work for wages. During the 1880’s and 90’s, hundreds of monopolies sprung up, in which large corporations owned all the raw materials necessary for life- from food to fuel, to everything else.[xix] Hence, the only ‘jobs created’ from then on were usually low-paying subservient careers that reduced the people at large to a fiscal type of slavery. The wages were set by the same enormously wealthy corporate owners who also set the price of necessities.

Overpopulation was always a concern, as Darwin stated in 1871: “civilized populations have been known under favorable conditions, as in the United States, to double their numbers in twenty-five years,” or as little as twelve.[xx] Therefore, he wrote that Western societies needed to be controlled, just like the various natives, who “would no doubt increase if their numbers were not by some means rigidly kept down.”[xxi] Population control applied only to the 99%, not the corporate aristocracy.

The horrific reality that these quotes reveal is that for over one hundred years, we, the people, were bred like dogs, for slave labor. When an infant ‘fails to thrive’ or dies from SIDS, that means his or her soul was so precious, so sensitive, they were not ‘fit to survive.’ Only the ‘strong’ can make it through the chemical onslaught of youth, enough to work like slaves for a few decades, until the slow nervous system excitation eventually kills them- which usually strikes right around retirement.

Despite what the Resident Evil franchise teaches, viral weaponry that kills people instantly is not profitable at all. Nervous system excitation serves another, more important purpose. Food corporations use the same chemicals to enhance flavor that the pharmaceutical companies put in vaccines, making them heat stable and increasing cell yield, and because they make people so sick, the medical industry is booming more than ever before.[xxii] THAT is why Medicare and Medicaid are bankrupt.

7) FDR, the president who created the short-lived middle class, 1933: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror, which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”[xxiii]

Perhaps only the words of that great man who cared more for the people than the corporations can help us now. “This is preeminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly,” for surely, in more ways than one, “only a foolish optimist can deny the dark realities of the moment.” This time, “our common difficulties” do not concern “only material things,” but our lives.

Nationwide vaccination began after WW2;[xxiv] although Hitler was defeated, his policies lived on. Hunger Games is not a metaphor, but an accurate description of what only a few hundred CEO’s and shareholders (the Capital) do to the entire world (the Districts). Their hundreds of billions of dollars in profit come from one source alone: the suffering and death of everyone you have ever loved.

Remember, mass extermination events are not profitable. There is no coming cataclysm to fear other than what the Earth must do to stabilize the climate. Like Galton said, they are a little too hard to get away with, because “there exists a sentiment, for the most part unreasonable, against the gradual extinction of an inferior race,” but “it is nothing of the kind when the process of extinction works silently and slowly.”[xxv] Your extermination is already well underway, injected into your veins and served to you in every food source- by people who, like the Nazis, are just following orders.

There is no ‘bad gene’ responsible for any chronic disease- that is eugenics. No chromosome explains the sudden onset of nervous system damage, only how each person will respond to excitation. Either no cure will ever exist, or it already does- but they are available only to billionaires, the 1% of the 1%. That makes us, the 99.99% masses of workers, the inferior race to be exploited, then exterminated.

We are not just barcodes, but numerical values- and we are worth far less in terms of lifetime earnings, than what we will pay in healthcare costs. Only we can save ourselves from this hell on Earth, and make the corporations answer for what they have done, in the only way they respond to: money. We can easily take the few cowards who profit from the suffering of billions, but we must get MAD!


Note: To anyone who says ‘those quotes were taken out of context.’ Actually, all quotes are taken out of context, unless one reprints the entire article or book. Problems only arise when the quotes are selected in a way that changes the original meaning intended by the author. I did not do that. Stop using or falling for rhetoric tactics, and check for yourself.