Smash and Grab

The image of Berlusconi's smashed face, the newly gap-toothed shock with which he clung to the car door, knees buckling as he stared about him in wide-eyed bleeding terror and confusion, that image is burning itself into the minds of people around the world. A primal thrill is rippling through the collective psyche at the sight of one of their lordly rulers reduced to a quivering wreck. Many will make the connection that if this can be done to one of them, it can happen to others, too. Amongst that many there will be some few who decide to take a shot at whatever targets present themselves.

Make no mistake, this incident marks a tipping point.

There seem to be a lot of those recently. The unfolding Climategate debacle has now grown beyond the damning e-mails and rigged source code with which the long-anticipated Copenhagen conference was kicked off, to now include massive corruption in the flagship Danish carbon market, complimentary hookers for the elite to enjoy as they wipe foie gras off their chins and get chauffered around in fleets of carbon-belching limos, departing at top speed back to the swank hotels to escape from enraged brown delegates who got an early look at the racist and exploitative treaty they were to be prodded and tricked into signing. No doubt the limos are too fast, or the free blowjobs just too fantastic, for these compassionate statesmen to notice as they race past streets closed down so thousands of shackled protestors can be sat down in ordered rows in puddles of their own freezing piss while the anonymous storm troopers we used to call 'cops' patrol the ranks with tasers, clubs, pepper spray and snarling German shepherds, their armour no doubt doing more to protect them from the weather (itself, as ever, howling its disagreement with the whole notion of global warming) than from the non-violent men and women of conscience they're tasked with shutting the fuck up.

The world is taking a long and hard look at the proceedings in Copenhagen, and I have my doubts that it much likes what it sees. Climategate has swallowed the Copenhagen conference whole, and when the Warmistas return to countries in the grip of what will no doubt be a savage winter Climategate will eat their stillborn agenda, their reputations, and their careers.

It appears that the American establishment now openly accepts that Osama (rhymes with Obama) Bin Laden has been dead since Tora Bora. Hundreds of dead spec ops troops (and how many in the crossfire?), no doubt hundreds of millions of dollars, squandered to keep up the pretense of tracking down Rahm Emanuel ... I'm sorry, Emanuel Goldstein ... and all those tapes with which they periodically prodded their dumb American beast protective-territorial circuit ... all of that now more or less admitted to be a giant psy-op.

People are taking note.

The elite knew this was coming. They knew, past a certain point, that they wouldn't be able to keep the lid on all those secrets and crimes, that eventually the scuffling and moaning of the mutant they've been keeping in the attic would become impossible to explain away as mating raccoons. So they've been planning to let things out on their own schedule, have their trusted minions and pet mockingbirds release the shocking truth in that special way they have, so can weave their neurolinguistic hoodoo on your minds one last time.

That's why you've got Alex Jones with his megaphone, with his boiling bellyful of rage, his megaphone-ful of descriptive truth and prescriptive nonsense (same as Chomsky! But aimed at a different psychological type.) It's why you've got Jesse 'Muscles' Ventura moving into position, with an all-new show in which the fearless action star will investigate all the conspiracies on prime-time mainstream television. They throw larger-than-life figures like these up there to give it to you straight-ish: they're big and strong and loud and take no shit from anyone, which is not at all like you, little man, which is why they can do it and you can't. So just sit there on your couch and get helplessly scared and impotently mad as the Big Boys let you in on just how fucked you are.

The game-plan for the elite right now comes down to one thing: one great big almighty Ooga-Booga with the starring monster as no less than themselves. Done right, this will stun the mass mind into the learned helplessness of battered wife syndrome on a huge scale. The spirit of the human species will be broken so thouroughly that even if the elite raised their boots from their faces and opened the door to the electrified cages (neither of which they have any intention of doing) their slaves won't make a move to rise (unless explicitly ordered to.)

Our game-plan is rather simpler. The conspiracy movement as a whole has been plainly stating their case for a long time. History is now cooperating in showing the world, in unambiguous terms, that we've been more or less giving it as straight as it gets the whole time, in stark contrast to the dissembling leaders who (it's turning out) really have been guilty of more or less everything they're charged with and (we'll no doubt find) a whole lot more we didn't know about, too.

This unveiling is tramautic thing for most people. I know it was for me. It probably was for you too. This is going to be much faster, much more intense, a roller-coaster ride into Chapel Perilous that will smash a great number of souls. What we have to do now is guide the species through this trauma: to let them know that all is not lost, that we are merely awakening as a species from a terrible nightmare, and that it is possible to awaken inside a dream of breathtaking beauty. While the elite panic and the masses freak out, we must remain calm and alert, so that as the Leviathan smashes its world we might grab whatever opportunities present themselves.