Re: One Million Children Per Year Are Kidnapped & Mind Control Programmed In the USA Re: Do we all agree that 9/11 was an inside job//Debunkers ARE implicated

On Thu, 29 Jun 2006 06:21:09 GMT, "Chadwick Stone�" <chad_stone@127.0.0.1>
wrote:

www.peaceinspace.com [truth@r.us] has entered into testimony
34c6a2dfb2cmp6ketnab9da1hnodecedja@4ax.com

On Wed, 28 Jun 2006 21:50:31 GMT, "Chadwick Stone�"
<chad_stone@127.0.0.1> wrote:

www.peaceinspace.com [truth@r.us] has entered into testimony
sge2a2pu32ijce7audul07apsecn26kmdv@4ax.com

On Tue, 27 Jun 2006 11:24:52 GMT, "Chadwick Stone�"
<chad_stone@127.0.0.1> wrote:

www.peaceinspace.com [truth@r.us] has entered into testimony
gub1a21ckjs31ggtc0fs9610suc62i5lkv@4ax.com

On Mon, 26 Jun 2006 20:39:35 GMT, "Chadwick Stone�"
<chad_stone@127.0.0.1> wrote:

Wrong


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

9-11 was an inside job.


Liar.


Logical fallacy.

Provide proof that 9-11 was not an inside job.


Provide proof that it was, AssLexa.


Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes.
The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one
had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber
club. The next moment, however, the burning in his belly died down
and the world began to look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a
crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously held it
upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the floor. With the
next he was more successful. He went back to the living-room and sat
down at a small table that stood to the left of the telescreen. From
the table drawer he took out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a
thick, quarto-sized blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.

 Ummmmmm.... make that *credible*
proof that has been subjected to and withstood the rigors of
scientific peer review.


For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual
position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall,
where it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall,
opposite the window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in
which Winston was now sitting, and which, when the flats were built,
had probably been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the
alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside the
range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could be heard, of
course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not
be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had
suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do.

Who


But it had also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out of the
drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper, a
little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at
least forty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was much
older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little
junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town (just what quarter he did not now
remember) and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to
possess it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops
('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the rule was not strictly
kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades,
which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. He had given a
quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought
the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious of wanting
it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home in his
briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising
possession.

are


The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal
(nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected
it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by
twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the
penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic
instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one,
furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the
beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of
being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to writing by
hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything into
the speakwrite which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He
dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A tremor
had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In
small clumsy letters he wrote:

you


April 4th, 1984.

plagiarizing


He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To
begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must
be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was
thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it
was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.


For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary?
For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the
doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the
Newspeak word doublethink. For the first time the magnitude of what he had
undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It
was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present,
in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it,
and his predicament would be meaningless.

AssLexa


For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had
changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not
merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have
forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past
he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind
that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be
easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless
monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years. At
this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. Moreover his varicose
ulcer had begun itching unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he
did so it always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He was
conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the
itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight
booziness caused by the gin.


Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he
was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down
the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full
stops: 

April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very good one
of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean.
Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away
with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water
like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters gunsights, then he
was full of holes and the sea round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly
as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter
when he sank. then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter
hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman might have been a jewess
sitting up in the bow with a little boy about three years old in her arms.
little boy screaming with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as
if he was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting her arms
round him and comforting him although she was blue with fright herself, all
the time covering him up as much as possible as if she thought her arms
could keep the bullets off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb
in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood. then there
was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a
helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was
a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of
the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter
of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of
kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose
anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole
reaction they never --