Posted 2 years ago on July 6, 2013, 3:48 a.m. EST by Builder
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Last-minute thoughts for July 4: the light at the end of the tunnel
by Jon Rappoport
July 5, 2013
For 95% of the population, if you give them hope they eat it like candy and forget it an hour later. Then they want more. They’re hooked on the hope machine.
They somehow believe Hope is Action.
They are the fearful, the submissive, and the delicate.
They have an endless capacity for self-delusion.
Hoping for hope is what elects presidents, one after another. Whereas, what would happen if enough of us refrained from voting for either of the two major criminals campaigning on behalf of the double-headed Washington crime family?
On election day we would crash the system by withdrawing our consent, the consent of the governed.
We wouldn’t be hoping for hope.
“Today, the American people registered an astonishing 13% turnout and loudly expressed their no-confidence in government. Washington is lying in electoral ruins.”
If the live audience for one of those half-cocked presidential television debates roared with derisive laughter at every turn, they would sink the whole charade, in front of millions of viewers.
“…a better day ahead for all Americans…”
Laughter cracks like thunder through the hall.
It bounces off the walls and runs up and down the aisle. It invades people all over the America in their homes. Despite themselves, they begin chortling.
Pretty soon, they’re rolling off the couch and hitting the floor. They call other people to make sure they’re watching the debate, but they can’t talk. They can only shriek with laughter.
The whole country bursts its androidal bubble. Waking up from the big trance.
I’m sure you know about movements in states to nullify federal laws on the grounds they’re constitutionally illegal. Ultimately, this is a form of corrosive laughter.
Decentralization of illegitimate power should be a laughing matter. It should stage parades with surreal floats. It should walk along sidewalks with crazy signs. It should bellow from billboards. It should come blasting out of churches.
You want to make a difference? Organize a hundred parents in your town and have them make guns out of pink cookie dough and give them to their kids, to take to school. It’s a start. It stimulates the dormant absurdity-center of the brain. It screws with the robots in charge of things.
I want to hear what a million people standing in the Washington Mall laughing at the federal government sounds like. I really do.
When was the last time you laughed so hard you thought you were going to die? Remember how that feels? Reality explodes. Which is the whole point.
Last week, I was watching the news—a form of self-torture I try to avoid. I can’t even remember what the item was. It was some kind of baroque political jive. I went into hysteria-land all of a sudden. It was one of those laughing-weeping blow-ups out of nowhere. I ended up with my head on my knees.
I don’t know about you, but I need that once a day. I really do.
This isn’t the red pill or the blue pill. It’s the crap-in-your-pants pill.
A few years ago, it happened to me in the Vatican. We were there to see Michelangelo’s ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. Have you ever gone? The room is like a steam bath. It’s hot and humid. You’ve got these people, who’ve come from all over the world, and they’re sitting on benches around the periphery and standing—and they’re all looking up.
It only takes a few minutes to realize Michelangelo wasn’t a happy camper lying on that scaffold. On most of the panels, he did fast cartoons. Now and then he’d bear down and execute an immortal face. But most of the time he was aching and grumbling and wondering how he’d let himself get roped into the commission.
This struck my funny bone. I held it in until we got out of the room and were walking back toward the entrance. Then I started laughing. A few people saw me and didn’t like it. Too late. That made me laugh harder. The whole thing, the whole edifice of the Church, with its specialized access to God through licensed priests, was now bleeding into my laugh-center. I was a goner.
It took me a hundred yards along the carpeted corridors to calm down. But then I was at the counter where they sell prints of the Michelangelo—horrifically bad prints—and I was in stitches again.
Wait a minute. What about the millions and millions of people around the world—the billions—who are in chains of one kind or another, who are starving and dying, who are fighting manipulated wars, who are suffering…
The point is, that’s all coming from centralized criminal power. It’s no joke. But when you start to decentralize, when you think about it and find ways to DO it, the whole frame of the Matrix wobbles, the whole arch of consensus bullshit reality and the media that promote it do become a matter for laughter.
And not just a giggle or two. I’m talking about immortal laughter that wipes them off the face of the Earth. I’m talking about a natural and repressed impulse that, unless it’s exercised to the fullest, can turn around and ruin your well-being and take you down.
The Matrix is a joke because it’s designed to stand in for your own power to create reality. That’s the biggest joke of all. If I were the king of that most insane of all human endeavors—”mental health”—I would rewrite the books and point out that Sanity is, in fact, solely defined as: being able to comprehend the biggest joke of all…and that’s all Sanity is.
If you can’t access your imagination, you can’t laugh. Simple.
And you’re dead.