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.
I’ll admit, I was concerned about taking part in the Color Run today. After all, not only was I going to have to run 5k, which is exactly 4.82 kilometers more than I am designed to run, but I was going to have to do so in a tutu, a concept which inspired no small amount of hilarity in the household this week.
To quote one member: “I think it’s a day I’ll always remember… and not in a good way.” So, you know, thanks for that, everyone who donated. It’s a pity we can’t set any of that aside for future psychotherapy.
Moreover, I received a warning that I was quite literally putting my life in danger by taking part in the run, which turned out to be true, although not in exactly the way that the messenger, who turned out to be a lifesaver, imagined. This Good Samaritan had been concerned that either George Soros or the Clintons might take advantage of my readily identifiable outfit and send a sniper; as it turned out, it wasn’t the American political elite that was targeting me today, but an even more remorselessly evil party.
We got up very early, so early that it was pretty much a toss of the coin as to whether I’d just stay up all night or not, and made the drive to Lausanne, Switzerland, where we met our friends with whom we were doing the run. We changed in the parking lot, where it was much appreciated how my multicolored tutu nicely matched the colorful logo of the t-shirts we were provided. It was rather cold, which inspired Spacebunny to deliver an equally colorful soliloquy in appreciation for the generosity of the donors who were the reason she was wearing nothing but a bikini under her tutu.
Which, of course, was not as pretty as mine, as hers was only yellow. I pointed out that she would probably be glad to not be wearing very much in the way of clothing once we started running and the sun rose a bit higher in the sky, an intelligent observation that impressed her to such an extent that she expressed a keen wish to feel my teeth in her flesh, a sentiment that she managed to phrase in an admirably succinct manner. She was also delighted to discover that while there were people wearing everything from unicorn suits to dragon outfits, she was the only runner in a bikini.
As you can see from the picture on the right, I felt very confident in my tutu, and indeed, was inspired to dance. More than a few comments were made on how well it complimented my legs, and several cars even honked at us as we approached the venue.
I had taken the warning to heart, however, and I remained on alert. Moreover, I had prepared by coating four shurikens with Chilean Tree Frog venom and putting them in a concealed fanny pack along with a miniaturized kukri that is my favored weapon for close-in combat. I was glad I had, too, when just over one kilometer into the race, I spotted a shadowy figure moving amidst the trees on the interior of the course. It was pure chance that he caught my eye, because at the time, I was running hard and battling a severe side-cramp and possibly dehydration as well.
Fortunately, at just that moment, I was passed by a small six-year old girl wearing rainbow leggings and kitten ears, as well as an elderly woman who was moving surprisingly fast despite using a walker. Taking advantage of the two of them blocking me from the stalker’s sight, I threw myself to the ground, rolled behind a tree, then low-crawled behind the stalker, who, based on his apparel, was a garden variety corporate ninja. I heard him speaking Japanese on his phone, saying that he’d just lost contact with the target, which told me that he was merely the spotter. I waited to see if I could learn anything more from him, and it soon became apparent that the hit team for whom he was spotting were planning to make their move just after the yellow station at the midway point.
I hit him with a shuriken behind the ear before launching my attack, and although he evaded my Reverse Eagle Strike and came back at me using a modified Tibetan Drunken Monkey style with which I’ve always had trouble, I managed to block both a Spinning Roundhouse Spider-kick and a High-Low Butterfly Jab before the poison took effect. Unfortunately, the venom hit him harder than I’d expected and he collapsed unconscious before I could find out how many hitters there were, or who sent them, but based on the particular modification of his kung-fu, I was fairly certain that it would be a two-man team of hand-to-hand specialists from a Singapore-based “security” company that operates behind the false front of a wealth management division of Deutsche Bank.
So, I retrieved my shurikin from his neck, wiped my fingerprints off it and buried it, feeling a little more secure in the knowledge of where the attack would take place. I thought about taking his phone and using it to set a trap for the hit team, but I realized that my Sagamihara accent would only alert them to the fact that something wasn’t on the up and up. So, I returned to the course, and I have to admit, knowing that the hit team was waiting for me worried me considerably less than the fact that I had nearly four more kilometers to go.
Flailing would also be an appropriate adjective. Regardless, it should be increasingly apparent to any student of history that the USA is no longer a unitary superpower and that the Obama administration is no longer deemed credible by allies and enemies alike. The Saker describes the latest series of debacles:
After days and days of intensive negotiations, Secretary Kerry and Foreign Minister Lavrov finally reached a deal on a cease-fire in Syria which had the potential to at least “freeze” the situation on the ground until the Presidential election in the USA and a change in administration (this is now the single most important event in the near future, therefore no plans of any kind can extend beyond that date).
Then the USAF, along with a few others, bombed a Syrian Army unit which was not on the move or engaged in intense operations, but which was simply holding a key sector of the front. The US strike was followed by a massive offensive of the “moderate terrorists” which was barely contained by the Syrian military and the Russian Aerospace forces. Needless to say, following such a brazen provocation the cease-fire was dead. The Russians expressed their total disgust and outrage at this attack and openly began saying that the Americans were “недоговороспособны”. What that word means is literally “not-agreement-capable” or unable to make and then abide by an agreement. While polite, this expression is also extremely strong as it implies not so much a deliberate deception as the lack of the very ability to make a deal and abide by it. For example, the Russians have often said that the Kiev regime is “not-agreement-capable”, and that makes sense considering that the Nazi occupied Ukraine is essentially a failed state. But to say that a nuclear world superpower is “not-agreement-capable” is a terrible and extreme diagnostic. It basically means that the Americans have gone crazy and lost the very ability to make any kind of deal. Again, a government which breaks its promises or tries to deceive but who, at least in theory, remains capable of sticking to an agreement would not be described as “not-agreement-capable”. That expression is only used to describe an entity which does not even have the skillset needed to negotiate and stick to an agreement in its political toolkit. This is an absolutely devastating diagnostic.
Next came the pathetic and absolutely unprofessional scene of US Ambassador Samantha Powers simply walking out of a UNSC meeting when the Russian representative was speaking. Again, the Russians were simply blown away, not by the infantile attempt at offending, but at the total lack of diplomatic professionalism shown the Powers. From a Russian point of view, for one superpower to simply walk out at the very moment the other superpower is making a crucial statement is simply irresponsible and, again, the sign that their American counterparts have totally “lost it”.
Finally, there came the crowning moment: the attack of the humanitarian convey in Syria which the USA blamed, of course, on Russia. The Russians, again, could barely believe their own eyes. First, this was such a blatant and, frankly, Kindergarten-level attempt to show that “the Russians make mistakes too” and that “the Russians killed the cease-fire”. Second, there was this amazing statement of the Americans who said there are only two air forces which could have done that – either the Russians or the Syrians (how the Americans hoped to get away with this in an airspace thoroughly controlled by Russian radars is beyond me!). Somehow, the Americans “forgot” to mention that their own air force was also present in the region, along with the air forces of many US allies. Most importantly, they forgot to mention that that night armed US Predator drones were flying right over that convoy.
What happened in Syria is painfully obvious: the Pentagon sabotaged the deal made between Kerry and Lavrov and when the Pentagon was accused of being responsible, it mounted a rather crude false flag attack and tried to blame it on the Russians.
You didn’t need to see the radar to know that the bombing of the humanitarian convoy was a false flag. The moment the news about it broke, I said to Spacebunny, “there is no way that isn’t fake.” At this point, it almost appears that the US government appears to spend more time staging false flags than attempting to stop enemy action.
Thermobaric Hellfire air-blasts don’t leave craters, and they typically start fires. No craters are visible in footage of the burned convoy.
The Russians have thermobaric bombs, too, according to PavewayIV, but they use different particles and their blast patterns are different: either no “sparkles” or long-duration “sparkles”, not the fast-duration flash as seen in the video of the Aleppo blast.
As we reported yesterday, the Russians detected a Predator drone which took off from Incirlik airbase in Syria, flew to the precise location of the convoy, arrived before the strike, stayed for a while, then left after the damage was done.
Thanks to you all, we already hit our goal and I am running the Color Run in a tutu. With only 36 hours to go, Spacebunny has decided to throw down in case the original goal is doubled.
If we get to $10k by Saturday night I’ll run in a bikini and tutu….. it’s for a great cause.
There is more information about the event on her page, but to summarize, she is raising funds for a prospective cure for Crohn’s Disease that is in the testing stage. And yes, I will post the pictures here.
I, like some of the Ilk, live in North Carolina and riots have recently occurred in Charlotte.
For more information – the area they rioted at is by the University of North Carolina-Charlotte and has such dangerous neighborhood dwellings as Ikea and World Market. Home Depot is the shabbiest part of the area where they rioted. They lit bonfires on the highway so trucks would have to stop, and they were subsequently looted.
Insight into CMPD is that they are kind of like the Detroit PD, as they take care of business when necessary, but are often pretty diligent in avoiding “Ferguson” type scenarios.
Looking at all this, this was not a “burst of spontaneous vibrant anger,” but something planned. Often there is discussion of this kind of thing on your site in the comments, but I this is a pretty clear example of what we talk about and are wary of with regards to civil unrest in the US.
It’s reasonably apparent that the Soros money is now being utilized to stir up racial conflict, although it’s hard to imagine precisely what the man’s desired end game is. Sufficient unrest to justify military intervention? What would that change?
