Now, for all of you out there who still aren’t convinced that the polls are “adjusted”, we present to you the following Podesta email, leaked earlier today, that conveniently spells out, in detail, exactly how to “manufacture” the desired data. The email starts out with a request for recommendations on “oversamples for polling” in order to “maximize what we get out of our media polling.”
I also want to get your Atlas folks to recommend oversamples for our polling before we start in February. By market, regions, etc. I want to get this all compiled into one set of recommendations so we can maximize what we get out of our media polling.
The email even includes a handy, 37-page guide with the following poll-rigging recommendations. In Arizona, over sampling of Hispanics and Native Americans is highly recommended:
Research, microtargeting & polling projects – Over-sample Hispanics – Use Spanish language interviewing. (Monolingual Spanish-speaking voters are among the lowest turnout Democratic targets) – Over-sample the Native American population
For Florida, the report recommends “consistently monitoring” samples to makes sure they’re “not too old” and “has enough African American and Hispanic voters.” Meanwhile, “independent” voters in Tampa and Orlando are apparently more dem friendly so the report suggests filling up independent quotas in those cities first.
– Consistently monitor the sample to ensure it is not too old, and that it has enough African American and Hispanic voters to reflect the state. – On Independents: Tampa and Orlando are better persuasion targets than north or south Florida (check your polls before concluding this). If there are budget questions or oversamples, make sure that Tampa and Orlando are included first.
Meanwhile, it’s suggested that national polls over sample “key districts / regions” and “ethnic” groups “as needed.”
– General election benchmark, 800 sample, with potential over samples in key districts/regions – Benchmark polling in targeted races, with ethnic over samples as needed – Targeting tracking polls in key races, with ethnic over samples as needed
It is not “wishful thinking” to distrust the polls. Nor is there a “natural tightening up” of the polls as election day approaches. The entire polling industry is an exercise in attempted manipulation of public opinion. That’s why there is so much media attention focused on it.
The Podesta email doesn’t merely prove that the poll-doubters are right to be dubious about their credibility, but demonstrates, once more, that the conspiracy theory of history is the only one that can properly account for historical events.
Moreover, the media narrative claiming that Hillary’s win is inevitable is nothing more than the First Law of SJW in action:
A confidential memo allegedly obtained from Correct The Record, a Democratic Super PAC, reveals a plan to “barrage” voters with high frequency polls that show Hillary ahead in order to “declare election over,” while avoiding any mention of the Brexit vote (which completely contradicted polls that said Brexit would fail).
And sold out Julian Assange? Given the melodrama, I would assume the rumors that Assange has been either a) poisoned by Pamela Anderson or b) given up by the government of Ecuador for U.S. extradition are complete BS, but who knows about anything these days?
Julian Assange says his internet link was ‘severed’ by state agents hours after he had to prove he was not poisoned by a Pret vegan sandwich brought to him by Pamela Anderson. The WikiLeaks founder’s only connection to the outside world from his Ecuadorian embassy hideout in London was cut today, with supporters saying America was behind the cyber attack. It came as rumours spread that Mr Assange may have died over the weekend after a visit from Pamela Anderson, 49.
TRUMP implies that Hillary was drugged up at the last debate! “She was all pumped up, and by the end she could barely reach her car.” Says they should take a drug test!
Trump says Hillary getting “pumped up” for Wednesday night. Is he implying drugs, botox, iron lung, et cetera? Hilarious. Says, “I think we should take a drug test before the debate. Because I don’t know what’s going on with her.”
I was in a techno band on Wax Trax at the height of the rave era. I know what someone who is drugged to the gills looks like. And Hillary was flying HIGH. If they drug-tested her five minutes before a debate, her urine would not only be glowing bright green, it would set off a Geiger counter.
Seriously, whoever is managing her pharma is very good. But it’s clear that it can’t prop her up for more than 45 minutes to an hour.
The German federal migrant agency has admitted that they are letting in migrants even when they have full knowledge that the passports and documentation they carry have been forged. A new report suggests that the German agency in control of migration, the Federal Office for Migration and Refugees (BAMF), knew that passports used by migrants who flooded into the country last year were fake – but let the migrants attempt to claim asylum anyway.
Die Welt reports that BAMF had processed some 217,465 passports, birth certificates, and driver’s licenses of asylum seekers and that 2,273 of these documents had been forged.
According to German law, the penalty for forging documentation – especially passports and travel visas – is five years in prison. So far, no migrants have been arrested.
Law enforcement in Germany are extremely concerned by the numbers of migrants who have entered the country on false documentation.
We are truly entering revolutionary times. The governments of the West now openly harbor more contempt for their nations than the historical European monarchs ever did.
How much do you have to hate your own people to knowingly break the law in order to invite the Turk inside the gates?
In case it wasn’t clear from all the anti-Trump commentary by establishment Republicans over the last week, Mike Cernovich reports that elements inside the Republican Party are engaging in an active anti-Trump sabotage campaign:
Donald Trump’s get out the vote efforts have been sabotaged at every level by the GOP, sources report exclusively to this reporter. Some of the sabotage is obvious and clear, and others is more subtle. Their motivations for sabotage vary from personal and professional jealousy to financial.
The bait-and-switch.
When a Donald Trump volunteer goes to the local GOP office to get out the vote, she’ll be sent out to knock on doors for down ballot candidates in neighborhoods Trump has already won. Would-be volunteers have reported to me that when the showed up at the GOP office, the local office would tell them to campaign for other GOP candidates. When the volunteers told the local office that they wanted to campaign for Trump, they were told to leave.
Other would-be volunteers have told me they’d show up to GOP offices only to find the doors had been locked. Their calls would go unreturned. It was simply impossible to volunteer to get out the vote for Donald Trump.
It’s fascinating. I have suspected since the Clinton-Bush campaign that the Republican Party would sometimes rather lose than win, but there is no longer any shadow of a doubt that they are determined to take a fall for Hillary Clinton, just as John McCain did for Obama in 2008.
Can you imagine how well Trump would be doing if he wasn’t fighting a) his opponent, b) both mainstream and conservative medias, and c) his own party’s establishment?
There’s little more divisive than modern art—most take a staunch “brilliance” or “bullshit” stance. So it should come as a surprise that the straight-laced feds at the CIA leaned toward the former camp—or at least saw it as brilliantly exploitable in the psychological war against the Soviets. Reports from former agents acknowledge what was always a tall tale in the art world—that CIA spooks floated pioneering artists like Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning, and Robert Motherwell, to drop an aesthetic nuke on Communism. What seemed like natural popularity of certain artists was, in part, actually a deliberate attempt at psychological warfare, backed by the US government.
But why modern art? At the time period in question—the 1950s and 60s—the artistic style of the moment was Abstract Expressionism. Abstract Expressionism (or AbEx, if you want to impress people at your next snooty cocktail party) stood for, above all else, self expression. Radically so….
The CIA wanted this art to be global. So it dumped millions upon millions of dollars to be secret patrons of art world darlings like Pollock. Fake foundations, used as CIA slush funds, sponsored international exhibitions.
It’s not art. It’s propaganda, the so-called artists were government whores, and the high art cognoscenti were complete suckers.
You’re not a philistine for preferring Truth and Beauty to CIA propaganda and creative prostitution.
I want to clear up the confusion about some baseless claims that have been made against myself, the company, @e, and our entire #GabFam earlier today. A few weeks ago we started vetting some potential early investors and senior-level technical employees to help us continue to grow Gab and promote free speech.
We exercised extreme vetting and slowly attempted to build trust, judge character, and team fit. Unfortunately our trust was broken after a toxic attack on our community and libelous falsehoods were sent to the press by certain people we were vetting.
I want to make a few things very clear:
The co-founders of Gab are myself and @e. Period.
@e and I have completely self-funded Gab by ourselves with no pay for months.
We have not accepted one outside investor.
Our donations Paypal account is a business account and attached to a business bank account. The email address used for the Paypal account is my business email address. I will be updating this to “donate@gab.ai” to clear up confusion. We will be adding much more transparency and value-adds for donors over the next several days.
We have been attacked by the press. We have been attacked by anonymous trolls. We have been attacked by folks that we trusted and had high hopes for. Each time we have emerged a stronger, more unified community. Thank your for continuing to support us and our mission of putting people first and promoting free speech for all.
I can vouch for @a’s version of events. At the exact same time “certain people” were falsely claiming to have been co-founders of Gab on Gab, there was a concerted script attack on the login page, connected to the page about Gab, which I believe to have been an attempt to edit the page and repeat the same baseless claims there.
SJWs are not the only entryists. Startups, in particular, are often targeted by predatory investors and pseudo-entrepreneurs. And sometimes they are successful. See the history of Facebook for the most notorious example.
Sick Hillary’s people fired warning shot at me. ALL accounts (multiple banks) simultaneously frozen. Had to talk to “senior operations.”
Speaking of warning shots, didn’t the Alt-White just declare war on Milo yesterday? The FBI determined that a “credible threat” was made against him today.
A credible threat to MILO’s event and Florida Atlantic University students has forced the cancellation of the Breitbart editor’s scheduled talk today.
According to the FAU Police Department, student organizers received a communication threatening to bring firearms to the talk or plant explosives at the venue.
Threats were also made to FAU students.
The threat was relayed to the F.B.I, which after investigation deemed it to be credible. The F.B.I. contacted Florida Atlantic University this morning recommending cancellation of the event and the university took the decision to pull MILO’s event.
MILO was due to give a lecture this evening entitled, “How Feminism Hurts Women.”
It is not clear who is responsible for the threat.
The timing doesn’t necessarily indicate that it was anyone connected with Mr. Anglin, however, given that Milo has been dealing with bomb threats since the first one was telephoned into the venue of GGinDC more than a year ago.
“It was you!” I told the man who had just saved my life. “I mean, you were the one who took out the ghazis who were planning to hit GGinParis!”
Cernovich had gotten word from his extensive global network of the ghazis’ arrival in the 12 Arrondissement, and we’d taken the four-man security team I’d hired with us to neutralize them the night before the meetup, but someone had gotten to them first. And that someone was standing right in front of me.
The little Japanese man shrugged and continued cleaning the blood off his wakizashi, then slipped it into a cunningly concealed back-scabbard that was all but undetectable under his Color Run t-shirt. He looked about as innocuous as a runner could look, if that runner wasn’t standing over the dead bodies of two corporate ninjas-for-hire.
“Let us just say you have an angel looking over you, Mr. Day. Certain parties do not deem it in their interest that you be removed from the Great Game at this time.” He looked around the forest, then seemed to spot what he was looking for and bent over to retrieve it. It was the kukri I’d dropped, and he handed it to me. “Don’t ask me who. Like these two rent-a-shadows, I am but a humble laborer working for his rice bowl.”
“A day-laborer, one might say.” Hey, give me a break. I’d just barely survived a twin combat ninja assault, and not through any fault of my own.
“No, I take contracts by the job,” he said. “Forget what they tell you. They just trying to throw you off. It wasn’t Scalzi. It was Rambo.”
“Sylvester Stallone?” I said in disbelief. I knew Sly held a grudge about Jennifer, but that was a long time ago, before they were even dating, let alone married. “Come on, he’s been over that for decades.”
“No, not the Rocky man. Rambo! Cat Rambo, the Iron Lady of SFWA.”
“Oh,” I said. “Seriously? I always thought she was saner than the rest of those lunatics.”
“She stone cold killer. Have the balls that Scalzi and Gould never did. You big threat, they scared you kill Tor, they lose lots of money. No more book contracts, no more dues.”
“If she’s worried about Tor going under, then she should put out a contract on Scalzi, not me. Or whatever idiot at Barnes & Noble is trying to turn their bookstores into restaurants.”
“Not my problem. But good thing she hire these Singapore rent-boys. Cheap, no-good fake shinobis. No respect for tradition. Now come, we must finish the course. I don’t think there is more, but I cannot be sure. We must run together now, and you must run fast!”
“Wait, I don’t even know your name!”
“Call me Tokei. Tokei Buredo.”
The Blade that Watches? I tended to doubt his mother named him that, but it certainly seemed fitting to me. I bowed to him from the waist. “Domo arigato gozaimasu, Tokei-san.”
He bowed back, rather less deeply. “Do itashimashita, Day-san.” He clapped his hands. “Now, let us run!”
“Shouldn’t we bury the bodies or something?”
“No time! The police will be looking at anyone who take long time to run once they discover the bodies. We must run quickly, for good alibi!”
My heart sank at the prospect of running even faster than before. But before we got going, we went to the lake, where I managed to wash most of the dead ninja’s blood off my arms and face. There was nothing to do about the bloodstains on my shirt, but Tokei-san pointed out that we would soon be at the red station, and no one would think anything of a few red stains after that. Fortunately, the paper with the number on it had taken most of the splatter, so I simply unpinned it and threw it in the trash.
Tokei-san set a pace considerably faster than I would have liked, which meant that were were only being passed by severely overweight men and women who were strolling along the course arm-in-arm, talking with each other. I tried to maintain a wary eye, but soon found myself focusing on simply breathing, putting one foot in front of the other, and trying not to collapse. I figured Tokei-san would alert me to any threats that presented themselves.
We managed to make it to the red station without incident, although we did have one nervous moment when a policeman guiding the runners the correct way at a junction seemed to eye the incongruous colors on my shirt a little too closely. But I waved cheerfully to him and he responded to me a thumbs up, so we avoided that potential pitfall.
“Can’t we slow down?” I begged Tokei-san, but he was having none of it. He began a rather detailed monologue under his breath, and while I couldn’t quite make all of it out, it was fairly clear that most of it was devoted to my various shortcomings of character, genetics, willpower, and general level of fitness. Among others.
After we reached the final color station and were liberally splashed with purple powder, I was on the verge of collapse.
“You go on,” I told him. “Leave me here. I’m only holding you back!”
“You think this is a war movie or something?” Tokei-san spat contemptuously, then reached into his pocket. “Oh well, I didn’t want this, but….”
His hand moved swiftly to my neck, and I felt a sting.
“Ouch!” What the Hell was that?” Then, a sudden energy seemed to fill me and I was suffused with an amazing sense of strength and well-being. All the pain and exhaustion vanished, and I felt ready, willing, and able to wrestle a tiger. No, make that two tigers. Two big, angry, Siberian tigers on steroids.
“Old ninja trick. Made from extract of fugu. You feel better now. If you lucky, heart don’t explode.” As I looked at him in disbelief and clutched at my chest, he shrugged. “Where you think idea of power-ups came from in first place, video game boy? Now Ctrl-Alt-run!”
I tried to feel if my heart was pounding particularly hard or was about to explode, but if it was, I couldn’t tell. Well, whatever. I was feeling too good to worry about it now.
“Let’s finish this bitch!” I roared, and took off sprinting towards the end of the course.
“Not so fast, fool gaijin!” he shouted, but I was too amped to pay any attention. We ran the last kilometer in record time, zooming past sweating, panting, exhausted runners as if we were on the Autobahn. Tokei-san was breathing hard, but I felt as if I’d just come off the curve of the 200 and shifted into 6th gear to pass up the sprinters in the outer lanes. We rounded the last turn, and when I spotted the colorful arched banners that marked the finish line, I actually managed to pick up the pace. A loud cheer went up as the spectators at the end saw us sprinting to a strong finish. I threw my arms up in triumph as I crossed the line, with Tokei-san right behind me.
Spacebunny was there, along with the rest of our group, all clapping and cheering and dancing to the pounding techno music that was booming out of the huge amplifiers that had been set up nearby. She had gotten her tutu back, and came running up to me with a look of relief on her face, which was quickly replaced by concern when she saw my shirt.
“That’s not powder, that’s blood!” she declared. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s not mine.” I kissed her cheerfully, but then the adrenaline boost or whatever it was begin to fade, and I swayed. All the pains and aches of the brutal 5 kilometer run, which I suppose was actually more like 3.5 kilometers due to the shortcut, but whatever, seemed to hit my body at once. I took that as a good sign that my heart wasn’t going to explode, although I did wonder if perhaps a little lay-down and a few hours of massage and aromatherapy would be in order. “They had me, but Tokei-san took them out.”
“Who?” she said, looking around in bewilderment.
“The little Japanese guy, with the glasses and the headband.” I looked back and forth. Tokei-san was nowhere to be found. “He was right there with me a second ago! He ran the whole last half of the course with me! He gave me this injection of pufferfish power-up, and I tell you, it was like crack mixed with Ventolin and Dianabol!”
“Honey, I saw you. You crossed the finish line alone,” she said, worry lines creasing her forehead. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” I assured her. And I was. I placed my hands together and made a little bow. I had a feeling that “Tokei Buredo”, The Blade that Watches, was watching over us from somewhere from the shadows of the nearby trees. But had my mysterious benefactor really been sent by a powerful corporate “angel” as he’d claimed, or was he, himself, an angel of some kind? And was it just my fugu-addled mind or had he inadvertently given me a clue as to who was actually paying for his services?
I decided that it was a mystery that demanded future contemplation, as I certainly wasn’t going to find any answers today. For the time being, I accepted my participation medal with well-merited pride, then joined Spacebunny and the others dancing in celebration behind the finish line. True story. After all, have you not seen the pictures to prove it?
Thanks very much to all of you who donated so generously to the King’s College research. Your collective donation to the Color Run is one of the seven largest the anti-Crohn’s program has ever received. The second component of the vaccine is presently being manufactured and will soon be in quality control checks. Human trials will begin in December, and the researchers should have some idea of whether the cure is safe or not by August next year, and whether or not it is effective by August 2018.
Crohn’s is a brutal and ugly disease. It is less fatal than many diseases which quite rightly receive more attention from the medical community, but it is dangerous, difficult, and demoralizing. I have the utmost respect for those who suffer from it, because it is a battle they have to fight every single day. And I really appreciate what all of you have done to help them fight it, because it gives them strength by helping them understand that they are not alone in their struggle against this insidious opponent.
And more importantly, you have contributed towards bringing their everyday battle to a victorious and healthy end. Spacebunny and I will not forget that.
One thing I failed to make clear in the first part of my story about surviving the Color Run is that there were over 10,000 people taking part in it. Not only that, but the start was staggered, so that a constant flow of runners were going through the course. That’s why, when I made my way back onto the trail after taking out the spotter for the Singapore hit team, I was immediately caught up in a torrent of runners, their white shirts stained blue from the first color station, who were running considerably faster than I had been previously running myself.
I joined them, but I hadn’t run far when I saw a flash of pink and yellow that was, incongruously, moving against the blue-and-white flow of runners. It was Spacebunny, easy to spot in her bikini-and-tutu lack of attire, and she had come back for me after my failure to arrive at the next color station in a timely manner.
“What happened?” she exclaimed as we met up and stepped off to the side of the trail. “Even you can’t possibly take that long to run two kilometers. I got worried, and when none of the security unicorns I hired said they’d seen you, I ran back to find you.”
“Spotter,” I gasped, being badly out of breath after having run at least another 80 meters. “Singapore!”
“Ah,” she said, understanding instantly. “You’re saying there is a two-man team of corporate assault ninjas from that security company that operates behind the false front of a wealth management division of Deutsche Bank in Singapore, the one that Big Dan used to work for, somewhere on the course up ahead! I assume you took out the spotter. Is that what delayed you?”
I nodded and wished I’d remembered to bring my inhaler, as she’d recommended the night before. I also found myself wondering what the hourly rate for a team of security unicorns might be and how much hiring one was going to cost me. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t impressed with their performance thus far.
“Any idea where they are?”
“Yellow!” I said, plucking at my shirt.
“They’re waiting at the yellow station? Probably right after it. That gives me an idea.” Spacebunny put her hands on her tutu-covered hips and frowned. “Okay, so here’s what we’ll do. You’ll cut through the forest while I run the course. I’ll run ahead and find a bald guy, and get him to put on my tutu before he goes through the yellow station. That will distract the hitters, it will take them a few seconds before they realize it isn’t you, and you can take them out then.”
“Unicorns?”
“No, they’re paid to keep an eye out for you, not take on corporate assault ninjas. You’ll have to do it yourself.”
I couldn’t argue with her logic. But, it occurred to me, there was another problem.
“How are you going to get the guy to put on the tutu?” I had recovered sufficiently to speak in full sentences, if short ones.
She stared at me in sympathy a moment, then made a gesture with both hands as if to say “I am a pretty blonde gym bunny wearing a bikini and I could make the average middle-aged guy rip out his testicles and juggle them for me just by smiling and asking pretty please, so I think I can handle this without any trouble, thank you very much.” Then she slipped out of her tutu, causing numerous heads to whip around, and one young man ran directly into a large oak tree.
“See?” she winked and ran off with her tutu in hand, wearing nothing but her blue bikini. It belatedly occurred to me that I was wearing a tutu at that very moment myself, and at her behest, no less, so any doubts in her ability to convince others to do the same were more than a little ironic, to say nothing of misplaced.
As per the plan, I cut across the forest to the trail on the far side, thankfully cutting at least 1.5 kilometers off my route. It turned out that this side of the course ran along a lake shore, and I had to decide whether the yellow station was to my left or to my right. A glance at the passing runners revealed that their shirts were stained and spotted with yellow to go with the green and the blue, so I slipped back into the trees and quietly made my way to the right, against the flow of the runners.
Soon the yellow station came into view, and there, sure enough, were the pair of corporate ninjas, both standing about five meters into the trees in a position giving them an excellent view of the runners coming out of the yellow station, where volunteers in yellow t-shirts were showering everyone with yellow dust that tasted rather like the interior of a snail shell left out in the sun for weeks from which the snail meat had mostly, but not entirely, rotted.
I waited until I saw the man in the yellow tutu emerging from the clouds of yellow dust and their attention was entirely focused on him, just as Spacebunny intended. I slipped closer, took out a pair of shuriken from my fanny pack, and nailed both of them with two well-practiced flicks of the wrist. As they whirled around, surprise and agony etched upon their faces, I unbuckled my fanny pack, stepped out from behind a tree, and held it up in front of them.
“I have the antidote in here,” I lied. “Tell me who sent you after me and I’ll give it to you.”
To my surprise, the ninja on the left laughed. He wasn’t true Japanese, he was Ainu, and his accent in English gave away his Asahikawa origins.
“Chilean, I think,” he said, as he reached into a pocket and took out a small plastic box, and opened it to reveal 24 styrettes. There were two of each kind, and each pair was marked with a different kanji indicating a poison. “You are too predictable, Day-san. Do you think we did not know about Madrid?”
He injected himself first, then handed a similarly-labeled styrette to his silent companion, who did the same. In a matter of seconds, they were no longer showing any signs of being poisoned, and upon recovering, they both drew razor-sharp katanas from the matte-black scabbards they were wearing. I pulled my mini-kukri out of the fanny pack, but I have to admit, I didn’t much like my odds. Both ninjas were wearing stab vests with panels that were probably titanium alloy inserts, plus full tactical combat gear down to the elbow pads, while I was protected by nothing but a white t-shirt and a multi-colored tutu. And I was outnumbered.
“John Scalzi sends his regards,” the previously silent one said. Then they attacked, moving as one, with all the grim fury of two ronin avenging their fallen master. I managed to avoid the first two strokes, either of which would have cut me in two, and lashed out with a Flowing River strike that should have disemboweled the Asahikawa man, but the blade bounced right off the stab vest’s belly plate with no more effect than rain falling on a stone.
I whirled around to meet them again, but this time, the quiet one’s do-uchi was a feint, and when I sidestepped the strike that wasn’t there, he adroitly went to the ground, hooked my ankle, and sent me sprawling. My kukri flew from my hand as I fell, leaving me unarmed. The Asahikawa man was on me as quick as a flash; he stood over me with his katana raised, point downward, and I knew that there was nothing I could do to stop him from pinning me to the ground. A single thought flashed through my mind. “Wow, some people are really going to be pissed that I didn’t finish A Sea of Skulls first!”
Then, without warning, the man’s head flew from his body and blood fountained over me as if we were at the red station. The weight of his armored body nearly took my wind away as it collapsed on top of me. With no little effort, I managed to push the fallen ninja’s corpse off me, and scrambled to my feet in time to see a small, slender, bespectacled Japanese man wearing a runner’s outfit standing over the motionless body of the other ninja with a dripping wakizashi in his hand. He looked familiar, somehow, but I could not for the life of me imagine who he was or where I had seen him before.
He turned and raised a finger, as if admonishing me. “Never rely upon the same tactic twice, Mr. Day. Particularly not twice in succession. It makes you far too easy to anticipate.”
Then I realized where it was that I had seen him. Paris. Cernovich. A midnight strike. Four ghazis sprawled lifeless in a cheap hotel room overlooking the Gare du Nord, and a shadow slipping out the window just as we burst in.
