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Tuesday, February 25, 2014


Parts & Parcels of Reality

by JamesHufferd,Ph.D.

Coordinator, 911 Truth Grassroots Organization

______ Everybody acculturated and civilized seems afraid to touch 9/11. Certainly everyone with access to officially approved-of media, the regularly reviewable book press, or a microphone they didn’t have to seize leaves the details a gaping, loud-shouting blank. Because that unique, seemingly-impossible day in American history is integrated as part of the national mythology, populated only by the mythological villains the drooping pathological fabric of our career since needs for its repeated justification, in order to have “America, the bold” still fulfilling its accustomed starring role. Interjecting clarifying details that make it all otherwise – as we try to do – messes up the story most Americans rely on for safety, the illusion of sanity, and sustained satisfaction that we’re the greatest and must forever strive to so remain. Likewise, finding out that PT-109 was really a stone-boat and just got in the way, or that what Lincoln really meant was that horses and dogs should be freed wouldn’t help at all myth-wise. Such revelations, for most Americans, would be equivalent by now to shifting the blame for 9/11.

As it is, we Truthers (or 9/11 Truth Movement adherents, if you prefer) are regarded as dogs – uncouth and unwashed in the shadows at the edge of the camp. It isn’t a question of literal truth That question is rarely permitted or entertained. And shouting our message of evidence and reason louder probably isn’t going to help: If it were to be effective, it probably would have caught fire amidst the public a long time ago. Even people who know and are inclined to agree with us don’t really want to hear it, to risk bearing responsibility for choosing to embrace what it would mean if taken seriously. And we likely wouldn’t know what to do next ourselves at this point if what we’ve been saying really started to take hold. As activists, we are too few, disunited, irresolute, too feeble altogether to turn the tide on this long-decided, overwhelmed issue with barely a discernible pulse left now.

Our job, instead, would seem to be to continue to hang in there as tenaciously as we can and maintain 9/11 Truth as a living testimony until such time as serendipity or the restless succession of fads or some unforeseeable act or trend or engaging spokesman wittingly or not brings public perception to the place where the dire and, to many, way-too-disheartening tidings we offer somehow fits the prevailing storyline at that time. Then, all we have to say, all of our largely unassailable accumulated and for us and anyone unbiased clear evidence and its world of attached meaning and fleeting or sustained call to action will be welcomed, or at least accepted, to help satisfy what people will at last think they are cleverly onto.

To quote the first sentence of a superb history of American merchandising (Land of Desire by William Leach), “Whoever has the power to project a vision of the good life and make it prevail has the most decisive power of all”. Contrast that with the proposition that your dear parents whom you have always trusted to care for and protect you are really crass, violent criminals, known as such to people all over town, who carelessly disregard and endanger your life and livelihood and blow your inheritance on monstrous homicidal gambits they collude to pin on innocent others. Take your pick between the two visions, with your parents or the most-respected people you know and rely on in the role of the knaves. People on the whole blame the consequent current downturn in most of our personal fortunes, such as they are, on a measure of incompetence, not on systematic duplicity. As we would too. Except, we know that conclusive scientific evidence doesn’t lie.

And another matter to consider is: who do we mean when we blithely refer to the “planners” or “perpetrators” of 9/11 that we want to unmistakably identify and bring to justice? Are the people who carried out the crimes synonymous with the people who planned them? And who gave the planners the orders or directive(s) to plan such a thing? There are, after all, different levels of culpability corresponding with these very different stations and specializations.

But, I would go all the way back to the investors and strategists behind the phenomenal success of the anything but willy-nilly giant merchandisers and precise analysts who fabricated and sold the American dream beginning in earnest around the end of the nineteenth century to find the impetus, means, and incipient cast. (Note that a similar miraculous upward transference of skills and success to that required then emanated in shattered and lowly Japan following World War II, traveling seamlessly overnight from first flooding the earth with trinkets, cheap bobbles, and small consumer items in the ‘50s to dominating in mass-market vehicles so preferable they had to be artificially ratcheted downward perceptually by an apparently induced product failure scandal not long ago, advancing to a commanding position in the new plethora of sophisticated consumer electronics.)

But most of the leading forgers of the original and continuing Americans-as-salable-consumers dream, as a matter of fact, and not of either prejudice or imagination, happened to be Jewish, for one simple reason. Because, by and large, an overwhelming amount of the capital of both money and audacity required to plan and carry forth such an enterprise to dominate American life and thought for a century was in Jewish financial hands. (Henry Ford’s showcased anti-Semitism was no doubt born of competitive pique and perhaps envy.) True, somewhat comparable amounts of money accrued from other enterprises of the time, such as steel, oil, and pharmaceuticals and chemicals invested primarily by non-Jews. But none of these lines were so central to the dream as the dazzling new array of progressively-affordable glistening décor, utensils, and gadgetry, along with the matching array of fetching types of deep analysis and the addictive behavior fueling them that have so successfully captivated and captured most Americans and still do to the extent that most refuse to see past their now progressively less-affordable ever-present allure, while patronizing and protecting immensely-lucrative, even more arcane and intricately mass-financed sports spectacles, war, box-office themes, and guns as over-the-top bastions of robust, typically shameless American jingoism, all as needlessly subsidized as they are fat and abused.

Not coincidentally, right in the midst of the earlier heyday of European central banking, requiring unrivaled fabulous amounts of accumulated capital to foot, especially in order to pay the sums to buy and anesthetize all the governments, the organizational aspect of Zionism was founded under the leadership of Theodor Herzel in Basel, Switzerland in 1897. (Basel being central yet today as the seat of the central bankers’ bank housed in the infamous looming “Tower of Basel”, the Bank of International Settlements, reportedly set to emit the global currency.)

The avowed object of the intricate new Zionist organization set up then to skillfully channel untold capitalization primarily by the Rothschild extended family and financial enterprises strictly according to plan, was to obtain a “Jewish state” in the Biblical Jewish homeland, Palestine. And according to Herzel, it wasn’t to be a state animated by a religion at all, but rather a state synonymous with a Jewish nation – a nation-state. And on this one point at least, the Jews who envisioned and achieved the state of Israel were in agreement with the Nazis: that the Jews constituted a separate nation. In the 1930s, in fact, cooperative efforts were made by Nazi officials to secure an enclave in Palestine in order to export Germany’s Jews, such being seen as an easier solution. (See Mark Weber, Journal of Historical Review, Jl-Aug, 1993, p. 29 ff.).

Ironically, who primarily funded Hitler’s Reich in the first place? The Max and Paul Warburg controlled Mendelsohn Bank of Amsterdam (Zionists) and the Schroeder Bank of Frankfort, London, and New York (Zionist all). (See J. Speer Williams, “Hitler Was a Zionist Stooge”, Darkmoon, online posted March 2, 2013).

And “Never again” (remembering all of the rejections, expulsions, and vengeful pogroms of centuries) was the Jewish slogan at least in spirit animating their drive to acquire Israel long before the Holocaust made the object practicable.

But the funding available from the ever-accumulating haul of the central bankers (adding the American largely same-owned franchise – deliberately misnamed the Federal Reserve – to the cache in 1913) was far vaster than required to finance and make hyper-productive a pipsqueak Jewish state in the previously sterile Levant. Plenty was available as well to monopolize media and entertainment industries and neutralize the government and in effect command the military might of the richest and most powerful state in history, America.

And according to the not-too-idle boasts of sometimes loose-lipped associates Bush, Sr. and David Rockefeller, all of the shock events over the last more than a century are attributable to the machinations of the crème-de-la-crème societies, completely taboo for serious mortals to even mention in public, such as the Bilderberg group. Except that the smooth uniformity of intensity and incalculable mass-murderous consequences of practically non-stop assorted mayhem that we, our parents, and grandparents have suffered must be formulated from a single unified source of concise but brazen planning still higher, to be trans- and enacted through the collective agency of the almost invisible élite societies. And issuing a directive to turn the American public and establishment, through skillfully manipulated and deflected anger and mayhem, to initiate what amounted to militarization of the culture at home and brutal, ever-widening conquest or pacification abroad certainly fits. And subsequently siphoning all of the operating wherewithal out of the grasp of the hapless populace to distribute as an endearing giant wet reward to the well-to-do few does as well.

But an essential point to keep in mind is that the overturning of enormous human gains from the Enlightenment of late that have stymied even the seemingly simple objective of 9/11 Truth – the recent denigration and replacement of objective science and popularly-based governance with crazed financial fiat from on high and media-dispersed pronouncement and lies is not religious in nature of any stripe. It is rather money and exclusiveness of power driven. 9/11, like so much else especially since was (and is) in fact driven by a sort of élite exclusiveness supremacy doctrine, a gambit to concentrate the world mind and function of direction into a few soulless skulls and frames and material rewards into far fewer hands. And, as always, this sort of supremacy too can be vanquished only through the application of better souls and minds.

And so it goes. The above is not intended in any way to denigrate anyone. If any part is proven inaccurate, I will cheerfully and gladly concede.

JH: 2/25/14

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

9/11 Plane Affidavit by John Lear, Son of Learjet Inventor

Friday, February 14, 2014

Ticket Out
by James Hufferd
I, of course, can’t vouch that the following described sequence actually happened as described. It is, after all, fiction, at least in detail. Nevertheless, I believe it may be plausible and at least as likely a true account as any portion of the 9/11 narrative generated by our government, or in parallel reports by and through subservient print or electronic media.
The prepared statement I read to the Court:
We, the undersigned, Manny Parris of Tampa, Florida and Danny Grossman of Lake Worth, Florida, occupation: freelance bodyguards, do, on advisement of counsel, certify to the Court this 14th day of October, 2013, that the following is, to the best of our recollection, a true and honest account of our experience working in tandem in Tampa, Florida and other locales, as described, on Thursday, September 13, 2001 and subsequent.
We each separately received a call early in the morning that day from General Franks, U.S. Army, our retainer, instructing us to meet at Tampa International Airport and be prepared for a deployment of some days’ duration. Upon our arrival by separate land transportation, General Franks explained to us that some members of the Saudi Royal Family and bin-Laden family, sojourning in Florida, were being specially flown out of the country after 9/11 to avoid “kerfuffles”, as he put it, and that he required our services as chaperons on a pending flight north and a subsequent connecting flight out of the country.
He stated that he was acting on instructions received though a Mr. Baker to hire bodyguards for the operation. Thinking myself clever, I, Danny, asked the General if this would per chance be Howard Baker, and he answered, surprisingly in retrospect, “No, Jim Baker.” Feeling cheeky, and being aware of the blanket ban on civil and commercial flights still in force, I asked, “We aren’t going to get shot down, are we?” “No,” he answered, “it’s an authorized exception. So, I suppose it will be real lonely for you fellas up there.”
Per instructions, we entered the seating section of the waiting plane, a C-5. Several rows of its rear seats, we could see, were already occupied by dignified white-robed men and veiled, outwardly submissive women, virtually all of them in dark glasses and, for the most part, silent.
The rather long flight northward, with a brief stop to pick up one more passenger outside of New Orleans, then on to Bluegrass Field near Lexington, Kentucky was uneventful and rather boring.
The prominent Saudis on the flight included four members I don’t care to or can’t specifically identify of the bin-Laden family. Also present were Prince Sultan Abdul-Azziz, the Saudi Minister of Defense, his son, a third-year English student, who was the ostensive reason for his presence, and Prince Sultan Bin Fahad, the Saudi President of Youth Welfare. Prince Sultan Bin was a sort of official chaperon, whose apparent job was to keep young scholars from the Kingdom abroad from running amok. None of them mixed with the bodyguards or the crew on the flight.
The official reason for routing through Lexington, a rather secluded precinct, was to pick up a couple of sporting family members who were in Kentucky to shop for race horses.
Upon landing, what was conspicuous was a row on the tarmac of several 747’s with conspicuous Arabic writing. The two of us were motioned to one of those and told by a local official to board and “take charge” of nineteen unanticipated rakish-looking young male passengers already promiscuously seated, along with three or four Arab women in their age range. We were both shocked to find that some of the young men we easily recognized from the picture galleries splashed across the newspaper front pages and across the television screen non-stop the last couple of days. They were dressed for the most part in blue jeans and tee-shirts, and some sported baseball caps. None of the young women were veiled.
Mohammed Atta, in particular, was easy to spot, looking not so diabolical or domineering, in a mean sort of way, as he’s been portrayed. His henchmen, Wail and Waheed al-Shehiri, apparently both at his beck and call, sat nearby, blazer collars raised around their necks making them look a little more high-toned than some of the others. They were sharing an open newspaper, reading gleefully about their supposed fatal misadventures and those of others seated around them, now two days past.
Their cousin, or ostensibly their cousin, Marwan al-Shehiri, was laughing like a kid. “But, I’ve never been in Boston!” he burst forth, reading a different paper. “I wouldn’t know how to find the World Trade Center! Is that in Chicago?”
“Me, too,” Mohammed Atta allowed. “I’m just a boy from Venice, Florida!”
They all laughed, knowing all about his misdeeds and reputation recently there.
“And Hani, here, it says, flew into the Pentagon,” Khalid al-Midhar exclaimed. “That seems right. He never could fly straight!”
Hani Hanjour grinned sheepishly, his hands down at his sides. “They think we’re all dead, and they’re all made to hate us,” he said. “And they think we are the people with hate. In a way, we never should have signed up to help the evil ones who did all of this.”
“Ah yes, but think how much you can help your family and your home town with the payment they give,” said another.
“If I survive, if any of us do,” Hani answered soberly. And then, they lapsed back into Arabic.
Our first thought was that, though they never acknowledged us, they put on a show in English to lead Manny and me off the trail, just to confuse us. I shook my head in sheer disbelief.
“But, they are alive,” Manny pointed out in a whisper. “Do you think it’s a plane full of ghosts?”
“Naw, not really,” I said, nursing my own rampant thoughts.
We became airborne after the family members from the flight up from Florida had boarded in single file, and the Saudi pilot came on the address system.
“But, you’re right – they are alive. And, I think we’ve all been bamboozled,” I said.
Later, some of the fake hijackers, the nineteen patsies, who were better sports than I would have been in their shoes, tried to mingle a bit – to no avail – with the Saudi royal mucky-mucks seated elsewhere in the plane.
Our job now was to try to keep track of all these various volatile, though almost derelict, it seemed to us, assets, until their new security agency handlers in Riyadh could take over custody. And, that would be a load.
“So,” what happened once you arrived over there?” the Judge leaned far forward to ask, clearly riveted by what he had heard.
“Well”, Manny answered, “we thought about it, and became pretty certain that none of these primary witnesses would be allowed to escape alive. Too risky. So, when we de-planed in Riyadh, we simply watched them scatter and disappear into the crowded terminal, and got the hell out of there. Using confidential aliases and passports, we booked our own flights back, separately, to Atlanta and Raleigh, and rendezvoused two days later in Jacksonville, where we bought a rusted-out used pick-up and headed for the Everglades. And that’s the only way we’re alive today!”
“Your honor,” I added, “the reason we are here, specifically, today is that we love our country and want the truth to become known. Can you order the Court’s sufficient protection to insure our lives? We’d like to contact our families.”
The Judge looked as if the weight of the world had been suddenly thrust upon his shoulders. “I’ll try,” is all he could say.
S-P Ultra
by James Hufferd
“BA-ba! BA-ba!” the phone rang with the sound of a London ambulance, just the way Agent Garrett liked it.
“Garrett? I hate to bother you on your furlough day, particularly on the farm during wine-making season,” Agent Fosdick, on the other end, started out, his suave nasal probably bespeaking an adenoid problem, Agent Garrett surmised. “But we are faced with the worst possible nightmare scenario this evening.”
“What do you mean, John?” Ed Garrett inquired, puzzled, taking a moment out from cleaning his Ruger.
“It’s at Georgetown. That Bush reunion party, just as you predicted, could be problematic. But not exactly, I don’t think, in the way you were thinking.”
“All right. Spill it out!” Garrett started up, notorious in the ranks for showing his annoyance, or seeming to. “Is there back-biting? Accusations?”
“You mean, are there accusations? Negative. Negatory. None of the above.” Fosdick’s nose-piece was slipping down. “It’s that someone may have infiltrated.”
“Infiltrated? What do you mean, ‘infiltrated’? They know who they are! How could anyone...? ‘Infiltrated’ in what sense?”
“You’re right. That’s true. But, what one wonders is if one of them didn’t change allegiances, and…”
“What are you getting at, Fosdick?” Agent Garrett’s volcanic insecurity was starting to break through. Meaning that if the ‘Little Weasel’ John Fosdick didn’t say what he knew, what he was thinking, soon, there was a growing danger that Garrett would come and find him and maybe just break his arm off, as he was wont to do, with one of his notorious hammerlocks. Garrett was infamous for that in the official underground.
And Fosdick knew it. “I mean, Sodium Pentathol,” he blurted, “the powerful new, potentiated form from Aberdeen that’s gotten out, slipped into drinks,” his palpable fear now moving satisfactorily through the phantom phone lines, an oddly pleasing twinge of sound in the sometime-monster Garrett’s popcorn-like ear.
He reflected on the sonorous words. “Sodium Pentathol.”
“Right, Sir. A special, new, quantumly-potentiated version. Just out from the Army lab. And it might possibly, according to reports, already be circulated.”
“I know all about that,” Garrett protested. “It’s practically public knowledge. But, who? Only certain, authorized persons could have had it to begin with.” He thought further. “You’re right. An insider. But, what the Sam Hell did they do with it? And why are you stallingme?” He paused. “And what the hell do you want me to do about it?”
“Oh, I’m not… I wouldn’t, Sir.”
For a minute, Garrett almost thought he was dealing with Michael Scheuer on the other end, the caller was that obsequious.
“What I mean is someone’s slipped it into ex-Vice President Cheney’s drink. His, at least. And, he and Rumsfeld, and one or two others lower down, are starting to go around and speakuncontrollably. Talking and talking and talking! And – No!!Somebody’s asking them about 9/11!”
“Where is it you’re calling from?” Garrett distanced the phone in his left hand and stared at it, curiously. “Are you at the Georgetown party? And, how do I know you’re really Fosdick?”
John Fosdick thought for just about a second. “Remember that day beside the pool, in… Pendleton? Yeah. I’m on stake-out.”
“Yeah, yeah, ok. That’s enough! Who’s asking them the questions?” His eyes were nearly bugging out of his head.
“I don’t know her name… You know. The blonde. That one that came from the Reagan administration. Dorothy, or Bambi? No! Barb…!”
“And, what are they saying?” Garrett was almost screaming now.
“Uh… about the Israelis. No! Wiring the buildings! Who was…”
“John!!” Garrett would have looked like a taught deep-purple grape, about to explode, if his domestic partner were to have walked in just then.
“John!” he began again. “Are you really there yourself? At the party?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “John, do you hear me? Don’t let any of them leave the premises. Is that clear?” Agent Garrett stopped to reflect, then resumed. “Check everyone… everyone… for recording devices! Get serious! Incapacitate Cheney and Rumsfeld! That’s an order! Make them sleep it off! And don’t let anyone get out of there without scaring them within an inch of their life – like we learned – if anyone peeps one word! And, one more thing – if my name comes up, it will be your life! Understood?”
Ed Garrett was out of breath, hyperventilating by now, wondering if now would be time to take the cyanide.
Fosdick came on again – “Now, George Bush keeps swearing it was the Muslims, the hijackers, that wired the WTC for demolition! Why is he saying that?”
“Because, that’s what they told him,” snapped Garrett. “That’s allthey told him, and probably all he knows, the extent of his ‘knowledge’! …Except, that he brought all of these dear hearts together to serve him!”
“Understood.” Fosdick, Agent Garrett’s subordinate was now beginning to understand the gravity of the situation, and that he needed help. “Hey, Condi,” he purred, sidling up, drink in hand.
JH: 2/14/14