I am in hiding. I won’t be in to work for a while.
Not unusual, I can hear you say.
But this is not a matter of my erratic personal habits getting the best of me again. Nope, this is something big.
Those us in the know, are hunkered down in the outback as you read this, crouched in darkened hand-built cabins and rough-hewn blockhouses, waiting for agents of an insidious and nearly invisible worldwide conspiracy to come take our semiautomatic weapons and enslave us — forcing us to make shoes out of old tires and to grind cheap curry powder to satisfy the whims of our brutal masters.
Things are looking grim.
I am worried, and I am prepared for the worst.
I am in a small cabin near the Weminuche Wilderness; don’t ask me to be more specific.
I have a cache of weapons of varying grades of destructive power, and I have been out in the woods every day blasting away at forest creatures and trees, honing my skills. I am not going to be taken without a fight.
I procured a pair of brawny Bull Mastiffs and we have bonded into a formidable pack. Sid and Nancy will surrender their lives for me, and they will cause plenty of agony before they expire.
I am sitting on four years of prepackaged food products, with a 6,000-gallon cistern out back of the cabin. I have a generator, a satellite dish, and every one of the 243 rental discs I’ve deliberately failed to return to Netflix.
And if you’re smart, you’ll get ready too.
(Thank goodness this darned cabin has a fax machine, eh?)
You ask: What put a levelheaded guy like Karl into such a radically defensive posture? Why is the old Zen Episcopalian so upset?
It started when I got a letter from a friend in Hawaii.
He was alarmed and, as a good friend will do, he sought to alarm me as well.
Thirty years ago when we met at college, this bozo was wearing engineer boots he had painted with yellow enamel, and he was plotting to burn the cafeteria. But once out of school my friend cleaved to the straight and narrow. He worked quietly for decades as a union lathe operator and part-time tarot reader on the Big Island. He once tried to join the Army National Guard. This is a stable, all-American fellow!
The gist of the communication from our western-most state is we are all in the commode and the big flush is imminent. Not an image to be taken lightly.
The proof is clear and undeniable.
My friend said his ex-wife knew a guy from Australia who had been on the phone with a gal from Kansas who e-mailed said she had read on a website about a man from Illinois who talked about a woman from New York who knew, secondhand, about a photo that an army colonel at Fort Bliss had shown to a visiting nun from Italy who then corresponded on the Internet with a gent from Florida who concluded that there was a plan to change the phone area codes in the United States in such a way that clandestine government agencies, all in the employ of a “mysterious group,” could reorganize statutory boundaries in the United States and keep track of anyone who had ever seriously studied the work of Adam Smith by implanting computer chips in their abdomens.
I love Adam Smith; I read selections from “The Wealth of Nations” to put myself to sleep at night. This got my attention.
It was all right there, my friend wrote, all of it confirmed by a video he obtained on You Tube. The video featured a menopausal shrike with big hair from Dayton who verified everything about the “mystery group” and added a chilling postscript about a guy in Grand Forks, North Dakota, who bought some highly radioactive material from the Czechs and soon had self-illuminated chipmunks the size of Shetland ponies running loose in the field behind his house. The chip-shets were stolen by a secretive multinational force (they speak only Esperanto, and they are coming for our guns!), taken aboard large saucer-shaped flying ships piloted by aliens, and trained to guard penal institutions being constructed in Wisconsin and on Guam where political prisoners and the anuses surgically removed by the aliens from helpless cows would be stored.
“Things are getting intense,” wrote my friend. “It’s all coming down, and soon. There are black choppers hovering over my deck on moonless nights and I could prove it if it weren’t for the fact these new stealth choppers make no sound and you can’t see them in the dark. Highly sophisticated radar is boring a hole in my frontal lobe and the postal service is preparing to put incredibly potent hormone suppressants in highly-processed food products. Soon, the strongest among us will be unable to reproduce. Only odd-looking, cagey power Wall Street brokers and hedge fund managers living in fortresses in the Cayman Islands will have motile, viable sperm. And only the most liberal among them, at that.”
Due to the additives being put on the foods we buy at the grocery store, wrote my friend, two of three children now born in test populations have fins and gills. “We are being genetically managed by the mystery group (aided and abetted by aliens) and the spawn of the awful experiments will colonize the depths of the oceans, and swim up our rivers and streams. The dolphins are already socialists and are preparing to sabotage the boats of patriotic fishermen everywhere. Soon, there will be no more Mahi Mahi at the market.”
Better buy three or four food dehydrators and make jerky out of everything that moves, he suggested. Learn to recognize the plentiful but unpalatable natural foods growing in your area. Hide your guns if they haven’t already confiscated them, stock up on ammo and buy some waterproof boots; there will be Rumanians coming up the cul de sac soon, driving Argentine APCs, ferrying loads of those Pakistani troops who have done such an effective job at the Afghan border.
“Scoff if you will, Isberg,” he wrote … “but the sauce is boiling, and its about to burn. There are nefarious and secretive doings afoot. The president is in on it (he’s not even an American, you know) and so is the first lady (when she’s not busy toning her arms at the gym). His daughters are really genetically modified Russian operatives who learned everything they know when they were Putin’s mistresses and lived an opulent life in a three-room apartment in Minsk.
“This once great republic is riddled with cancerous political crud”, said my friend, “like a too-moldy chunk of Roquefort. It is time to put on the latex gloves and purge the beast. The petrie dish is full, the spores are heavy!”
It was great to hear from my old friend. The art of correspondence has fallen on hard times; very few people take the time to write a letter these days when they can fire off incomplete sentences on Twitter.
Did I take my friend seriously?
You bet. Once done with the letter, it took me little time to realize I had been living in a fog. Don’t forget, I came of age in the ’60s; I’ll believe anything.
I am a late-middle-aged cipher: a mere number in the IRS computer files. I am a quivering, over-taxed victim of a massive bureaucracy whose few freedoms are being dissolved by the acid of socialism.
As you know, I get most of my information from talk radio, cable television news shows and the Internet. I read bizarre broadsheets and manifestoes shot through cyberspace by hammerheads in rural backwaters, and some articles even make sense! I trust what I read on the Internet.
I am one among countless Americans who find it so darned hard to have an idea that, once I latch on to one, I refuse to admit it might be wrong.
Everything is a conspiracy to me. I’ve dedicated my professional life to rooting out odious connections wherever they exist. I know shady maneuvers when I see them, and I see plenty!
Review my record:
• The ace journalist who uncovered the “Kraft Cabal.” Had it not been for my paranoid snooping, a shifty international conglomerate would have changed the Velveeta formula, foisting an inferior imitation of that wonderful blend of several fine cheeses on an unsuspecting world. I broke the case when I was given paperwork by an anonymous source, proving conclusively that Velveeta Lite was invented by a team of Bulgarian scientists in a basement lab at the U.N. headquarters.
• The Lycra Spandex Exercise Pants Plan. A hideous and thankfully aborted attempt to cut off the blood supply to the upper halves of the bodies of millions of aerobicising Americans. A potential disaster. Think of it — a nation unable to do simple math.
Now, it gets scary: here’s the latest fact I’ve uncovered. This knowledge puts me, and now you, in great jeopardy.
I have determined who is behind the evil machinations revealed by my friend.
Who is conniving to bring about the end of life as we know it?
Commies and socialists masquerading as members of the Democratic Party?
Nah. While we know all Democrats are communists, they are lightweights.
The Tri-Lateral Commission?
Mere dupes. Tailored suits, but no substance.
An international Zionist banking group?
Amateurs, though they’ve been in the business for centuries.
Satanic fiends, intent on defiling all that is innocent and good?
Outdated but still dangerous lobbyists now serving a consortium of faceless corporate potentates?
Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin?
To a certain extent, yes. But, they’re busy caring for an extremely old Adolf Hitler at a mountain retreat in South America and they have precious little time left for devising plots.
No, the truth is staggering, and it is right in front of our noses.
I’ve done my homework: I’ve collected information and sought corroboration from three or more sources. This is tough-minded journalistic work.
What have I found?
What has made me flee to the wilderness and establish a dike against the impending tsunami of oppression?
The DEA, the FBI, the CIA and the ATF — the icy but not forgotten Walt Disney — and even FEMA, for crying out loud, take a back seat to the true manipulators, to the malignant engineers of a real New World Order … to those smiling, seemingly benign agents who are gnawing at our individual rights, at the frail skeleton of principles and ideals that supports our way of life.
No, I’m not talking about property owners associations.
I’m talking about the members of that “mystery group” mentioned by my friend: The Rotary Club.
That’s right, THE ROTARY CLUB. And their incredibly evil leader, Prince Charles, the future King of England, and of THE WORLD!
I can imagine there is some tittering going on at this point. At first glance, the scheme seems preposterous. That’s the beauty of it.
Prince Charles? Rotary? That strange goof with the recessive gene problem, in cahoots with a group of (on the surface) civic-minded champions of American life?
Or is it?
Ever been to a Rotary meeting?
Rotarians try to disguise the true intent of the organization with a lot of superficial good will and all-American talk, but when the door closes, the British accents emerge.
And the civic projects? All the good works, the charitable donations?
A small price to pay in order to maintain an insidious illusion.
Have you noticed the complex set of esoteric hand gestures Rotarians use to communicate with each other when they are amongst nonmembers? Ever been in the grocery store when two Rotarians meet near the produce section? Ever looked closely at a Rotarian’s ears? At the bonnie prince’s ears?
Ask to look through the personal photos every Rotarian keeps in his or her wallet. Oh, sure, there’s the requisite shot of little Bobby and the grandkids, and Sarah Jean when she was on the debate team (they took second place at regionals). But, in each and every Rotarian wallet you’ll find, that’s right, a full-color portrait of the Prince of Wales. The malevolent mutant is dressed in a weird military-style uniform (just like the late, and murdered, Michael Jackson) and he is smiling. A degenerate smile, at that. Look at the raft of decorations on Charlie’s chest. Most prominent? A Rotary pin!
Rotary? Rotors? Helicopters?
It’s clear as a bell, and the damned bell is pealing for all of us. Wake up and smell the coffee!
Join us, (or me, as the case may be).
I am out here, waiting for my comrades to arrive. Arm in arm we will struggle; arm in arm we will either win or be destroyed.
You know, out here in the hinterlands the landscape is alive … really alive. Do you know rocks have feelings? Common plants are multilingual. The marmots are mad as hell, and are planning to march en masse out of the forest to eat the town council.
The small animals of the forest know things we don’t know. They know who is behind the upcoming seismic upheavals that will make Siberia With a View a beachfront resort area.
And the clouds.
Have you ever really looked at the clouds?
Random, you say?
You silly, silly person.
I am prepared to continue to send missives from my outpost, until the day the Rotarians shut me down. (They control the local utilities, and the supply lines that provide goods for all your daily needs).
It’s my duty to keep writing, until they pry my computer keyboard from my cold, dead fingers.
Hopefully I will be able to relay the truth for a while longer, until Charlie and his diabolic lackeys destroy the presses, censor the Internet and close the minds of the people. Be unafraid. Be strong.
Purchase a can opener (manual, please). Leave the can opener at the intersection of Piedra Road and Turkey Springs Road, at 7 p.m. next Wednesday. Also, leave several cartons of those little cheese crackers with peanut butter filling.
Do not bring people with you; anyone and everyone could be a Rotarian!
Do not attempt to linger at the drop site, hoping to speak to me or to get a glimpse of my crude, homemade clothing.
Please, do your part to put out the warning to the few sane patriots who remain untainted by Rotarian lies. Use your websites, your cell phones to alert the citizenry. Urge them to combat this heinous scourge, this Rotarian onslaught, this disaster wrought in the name of the House of Windsor.
Boy, even though it’s summer, it gets chilly up here at night.
I’ve got to close now. The marmots are outside the door again, chattering wildly and biting at my porch steps. Soon, they will force their way through the door and Sid and Nancy will make short and violent work of them.
It’s very cold out here in the wilderness.
And it is dark most of the time.