On Tue, 27 Jun 2006 21:15:54 GMT, Bookman <thebookman@kc.rr.comNULL> wrote:

On Tue, 27 Jun 2006 14:02:51 GMT, www.peaceinspace.com <truth@r.us>
wrote:

On Tue, 27 Jun 2006 12:03:45 GMT, Bookman <thebookman@kc.rr.comNULL> wrote:

On Tue, 27 Jun 2006 04:10:42 GMT, www.peaceinspace.com <truth@r.us>
wrote:

On Mon, 26 Jun 2006 20:38:17 GMT, Bookman <thebookman@kc.rr.comNULL> wrote:

I proved that you are you.  

One of us is telling the truth and one is lying.

Hi, LyingAlexa!  Are you still k'laming that you are not yourself?  

Logical fallacy.

You k'laming that a poast by  www.peaceinspace.com is not by you is a
logical fallacy, LyingAlexa.  

Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away
about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The
telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston
made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it,
moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal
plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no
way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How
often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual
wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all
the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted
to. You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the
assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness,
every movement scrutinized. 

9-11 was an inside job.

7-11 is an inside job.  

Prove 9-11 was not an inside job.

Prove 9-11 was an inside job.  

Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he
well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of
Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape.
This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste -- this was London, chief
city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of
Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him
whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these
vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with
baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with
corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the
bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb
straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had
cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden
dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember:
nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux
occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible. 

ESL!