9-11 is a Joke

Just a little necromancy in the interest of indulging some friends' rage. Nothing to see here, move along. Was originally done in two parts, but I may just leave the other over on myspazz.

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Americans get so fucking sentimental about their country and how their cherry got popped with 9-11.

Who did 9-11? Terrorists.
Why? Because you're rich fucking bastards.

Sorry. The truth hurts. You won't accept it. But you know I'm right.

I realise that it's a generalization and there are quite a few people who consider themselves exceptions. A few of them are even genuine. None of them are on the net. I'm not fucking stupid, I know you're all not rolling in dough. But before you hit "comment" you should fucking wake up to yourself if you really think you've got it bad when millions of people don't even have access to clean drinking water yet you ask us to feel for your loss when you don't even so much as acknowledge the losses of the rest of the world.

The US equates to less than 5% of the entire population of the world. They own 25% of the wealth. There are more people dying in countries you've never heard of from preventable diseases daily than Americans who died on 9-11. 9-11 is a god damned smokescreen. People like Alex Jones are just stupid. The real issues are not conspiracies and skull n' bones frats. You're being lied to by the very people who purport to advocate for you.

A few thousand Americans died six years ago. Get over it. There are millions suffering while you sit on your fat arse praying about 9-11, or debating conspiracy theories or protesting (read:reposting) for 9-11 truth. You fucking complain about gas prices out one side of your mouth and type bullshit bulletins about Alex fucking Jones' wikipedia page, squandering the very resource you're whinging about being so expensive. And you condemn others of hypocrisy?

There are real people suffering through real diseases and even more real threats of violence out here. Not human badges. Flesh, blood and bones once animated, now rotting into the ground all because the west finds the struggle for life liberty and the pursuit of happiness more romantic than mass graves. 9-11 truth is a joke. It's a fucking industry. These people have made a lot of money writing books, making documentaries, selling advertising on websites, even making movies (read:myths) about it perverting human suffering and dignity and you fucking idiot consumers that you are...YOU FUCKING LAP IT UP! This is how the people who perpetuate these myths see you. They know you'll never stop chasing the rabbit down the rabbit hole and they'll be right there beside you to sell you a shovel.

Sidebar: why is it whenever I talk about Alex Jones and his pathetic little fanboys I'm reminded of this Bill Hicks quote - "Says here on your application, you have no talent, and yet you want to be a star. I think something can be arranged....Suck Satan's cock."

Meanwhile your corporations conquer another third world country, your military sucks up even more resources, and your kids are spoon fed this sacharine bullshit that the US Of A has a monopoly on freedom and therefore they're more deserving...no, it's their birthright to own more of this world. And this is all going on in your face while you bang the drum for truth?

Shit. This whole 9-11 bullshit pisses me off so much that I can barely articulate a coherent thought. It's just driving me insane that most of you that read this think you're amongst the skeptical elite yet you can't even see that this whole tragedy business is booming. Cynical? Sure whatever. You know what's cynical? When I saw that plane hit the second tower I laughed because I knew the media would latch onto this and hump it till it's threadbare. And it's far exceeded my expectations. Six years pass and people are still cashing in on it. And that's going to continue until the public loses interest.

So...Fucking get on with your lives. Appreciate what you have. Be thankful that it wasn't you in the buildings. Do something to help those less fortunate. But for fucks sake don't expect us to mourn your losses, America.

My most sincere apologies to those who did lose friends, family and loved ones in the Twin Towers or the Pentagon or the planes that were hijacked on 9-11. I am of course not insensitive to your personal grief and my sympathies are with you and your families. But I make absolutely no apologies for trying to slap some sense into these morbid freaks the US calls the media or the 9-11 truth movement.

Also, apologies to those who actually have an ounce of compassion. I realize that many of you who are subscribed here share these frustrations and are doing what they can to make this a more just and humane world. But it should never, ever be forgotten that the US is not the victim here, rather the victor. And you know what they say about them...

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The title of this blog is taken from a public enemy song. Since most of myspace are too stupid to look beyond the literal meaning, and since Public Enemy are seemingly obscure and only remembered by people who adopt "alternative cultures," I present here for you the original context of "911 is a joke"


Originally the song was intended to be a commentary on attitudes within the public emergency services towards inner city neighborhoods.

Here it is intended to be a comment on American attitudes towards third world and war ravaged nations.

Now kids, go read the fucking lyrics and try to put it in context here.

The Pre-Style

This is from Chapter Two of Book 2 of The Idiots. It vaguely introduces the pre-style and addresses some of their history. It's incomplete. I'll be picking it up again soon though.

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A vague neon glow extended its beams onto the imitation cowskin seat covers and micro skirts and a pair of skin tight plaid pants. A dance song was amplified through a multi million dollar stereo and into the pre-style mobile unit. This mobile unit was in fact the most recent, compact, and stylish mid-range vehicle on the market- a Europa Sting: the choice mode of transport for 18 to twenty somethings, the most popular vehicle in the well to do galaxies.

The micro skirts belonged to a pair of siamese twins, a pair of female humanoids in their twenties. Their hair was Monroe blonde, sparkling like wine. Their skin, pale and flawless. Their bone structure was impecable: their cheeks like compact discs their noses like a country club. The pants housed trim legs that belonged to the male driver. His dark hair shon with chemicals in rigid bangs, gelled in points around his pale diamond cut jaw and cheeks. A muscle t-shirt draped over his thin taught torso.

The three pre-style all faced the windsheild, their eyes protected by sunglasses tinted in various shades of blue through purple and pink. The shadow cast by the lenses dimmed the already faint glow of starlight and protected their eyes from corruption; that corruption being yesterday. The sunglasses also prevented anything that was yesterday being corrupted by the true nature that was pre-style. They were the future. They had a mission.

Their ship raced across the gap between the planet Scantinople and Brechanreich, their destination. Their prophecies had all been fulfilled, all but one; this was their mission.

Behind the sea-green sting, a less stylish craft drifted, monitoring the pre-style and pursuing the vehicle. It was not unusual for the P.M.U to be followed. Often an enterage of various beings from all over the universe trailed the mysterious vehicle for as long as they could afford to keep up the mileage. This mysterious band of clairvoyants were accustomed to being pursued by the curious, the fascinated, the sycophantic and the just plain sick creatures: all in awe. All wanting, lusting after their verdict. All of their fans wanted to be them. They were gods with perfect eyebrows, angels of the glossy cover, the great architects of style.

Way back in the 240th century life was tragic. Trends came and went by the hour. People were desparate, no one knew what 'cool' or 'hip' or 'fashionable' truly meant. The people were so desparate that many designers, pop icons and advertising execs were lynched and executed in public bonfires. The cool industry went underground. There were sects that sought vengence for their persecution, the terrorists of trend. And terrorists is exactly what they became. With one spring collection, one top ten hit, one thirty minute prime time spot these evil doers could bring an entire planetary system to its knees. Several attacks actually did this. On Earth, in the year 24 322 a tv show called 'the quick or the dead' snatched the public's attention and held onto it with all the might of a tabloid iron fist. The show was a reality TV game show. The cameras were set up behind mirrors and in plain view of the participants in every room including the bathroom and toilet of a large house locked and barricaded from the outside.

The participants were selected by the TV audience from video footage taken by assylum and prison security cameras. The premise of the show being that all the participants were either homicidal or suicidal. The last one left alive was the winner. The show ran for 3 months. Five out of the twelve were murdered, three committed suicide. The other four were sent back to their various institutions when the show was shut down.

The viewing public had become so fascinated by the concept of suicide and homicide as something marketable that a massive trend circulated the globe. Suicide rates rose sharply in Tokyo, then in New york and America, then Paris, Rome and the rest of Europe, Sydney and Australia, then China, soon the entire world worshiped the slit wrist. Podium dancers were replaced with mass murderers and overdoses. Terminal wings of hospitals set up booths for agents. Pop stars slaughtered roadies spontaneously for their adoring fans. All of them willing victims of fashion.

Soon enough the 'now' wore off. The trend subsided and was engulfed by another into the Valhalla of fashion: kitch. But this was not the only momentous attack by the fashion fascists. One single spread in a womens' magazine caused an industrial disaster in a galaxy off of the resort part of the universe. A commercial that aired on the planet Pluvet caused an intergalactic war. Soon this attack itself became a trend amoungst the terrorist sects. It quickly became out of date and people began to look elsewhere for fashion. They began to use fashion to project their own self image, each accesory and t-shirt slogan became an outlet, a vessel for individual expression; creativity was the new black.

Unfortunately this meant that advertising no longer had much of an effect. Sales on everything from sports shoes to chocolate bars dropped by over 80%. Businesses that had been established for milenia shut down. The free market was dying, capitalism had been beaten about the head with a baseball bat. It was all up to marketing. They were to blame and they had to fix the problem. The terrorists couldn't have dreamed of a better outcome but at what cost? They had cut off their cuffs to spite their jackets. People were more tragically unfashionable than ever but only because fashion was dead. Their entire industry, their creation was obsolete. Their vengeance had been sweet but short lived. It ended when they became the first victims of the new fashion; the new fashion being 'non-fashion.' So they signed a treaty with their former clients.

It was all up to marketing. The fate of business, capitalism and the entire spectrum of demographics, billions of beings and dollars across the universe, the fate of the future rested upon the shoulders of a few thousand advertising, network, pop and fashion executives and gurus. They assembled at a conference on a top level security intergalactic diplomatic planet. The meeting place's whereabouts were also a top level government secret because at the time the consumers were still after their blood. The meeting became known as the antropid conference. The conference established a style council. A body like the UN, diplomatic and dedicated to selling the next big thing. It was a long and arduous task. There was much in-house fighting. The council was disassembeld but reassembled again. This time there were only five permantent members, each representing a different marketable aesthetic.