Wednesday, August 16, 2006

M'sieu, Aduanon Kovershim Angam Bitte

(Translation: "Sir, please come with me immediately." From the movie 'Blade Runner.')

This is it, today's the future, I've disappeared through the skylight, sucked out into the bloggy matrix that's devouring mankind. Here's the thing: bored Muslim housewives in the UK had a huge terror plot going, and it was broken up by fantastic surveillance work this month in order to make my family's air travels even more hellish than normal. Naturally, I assumed it was mostly Orwellian hogwash. Having finally recuperated from my newly restricted airline travel experience, one which began with an "SSSS" search for my wife and went downhill from there, I got round to googling the latest terror hubbub. It took me all of 8 minutes to find, among other things, this article by Craig Murray noting the glaring inconsistencies in the official terror narrative.

That information at my fingertips, in turn, was enough to finally send me over to blogger to set up an account. I'm one more little person who knows, and who knows on the record.

Mr. Murray left his day job as Britain's ambassador to an oil-laden CIA torture-drop in the heart of Trashkanistan. Seems there was stuff so interesting going down there he had to screw up his foreign service pension and go write a book about it. Which I didn't read, of course, but my guess is he knows whereof he speaks. So, yeah. The latest terror scare is a load of crap. Why? Oh, I dunno, Let's try using brains the Almighty gave us...

Terrorists need passports if they're going to get on international flights and actually blow them up. No passport, no fly. No passport, no plot. They hadn't applied for passports, which would've taken them about a year to get. Then there's the farcical touch of pouring peroxide and acetone together...right. I'm sure that's real easy to do in the sink of a jet's privvy.

If nothing else, I wish these governments would at least lie more professionally. On his worst day, Philip K. Dick was never depressed enough to dream their shabby, banal shit up. But Ridley Scott did come up with something close:
Sushi Master: He say you under arrest, Mr. Deckard.
Deckard: Got the wrong guy, pal.
Gaff: Lo-faast, nehody maar, te vady a Blade... Blade Runner.
Sushi Master: He say you Bu-raade Runnah.
Deckard: Tell him I'm eating.

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