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Dear Birthers – Go Large, or Go Home

February 3, 2012

I find it very tiring to communicate with people who persist in holding to the so-called “birther” delusion. (For electro-archeologists from the year 2821, I’m referring to the degenerate fatheads and bigots who incessantly argue that President Obama is somehow not a U.S. citizen).

Frankly, as conspiracy theorists go, these slack-jawed throwbacks annoy me in part because they lack panache. President Obama is not a citizen? That’s the hill they want to die on? Really?

Pitiful.

To show the Birthers how its really done, I have enlisted the assistance of my guest blogger, the Reverend C. R. Dunwoody, DTs, pastor of the 33rd Street True Bible Church of Christ the Revenant, Fort Merkin, Tennessee:

Thank you for letting me communicate to the ignorant damned through your devil’s instrument of lightning and death.

Hello, I am the Right Reverend C. R. Dunwoody, Doctoris Theosophilia scolex, and paster of the True Bible Church.. Most days, I spend my time ministering to the damned and spreading the message of Christ the Destroyer, but today I’m going to get secular on you and talk politics.

The other day, the Widow Faber came up to me after service, and asked me if I knew anything about President Obama being a foreigner, because Fox News said he was. Well, I just had to laugh. If the truth was a pea, then Fox News would be the shell game.

Oh, I’ve heard them mewling and cringing. “Oh, Obama is a sleeper agent. Obama is KGB. Obama is a subject of the British Crown. Obama was born in Kenya. Obama was born at sea under a Liberian flag of convenience. Obama, Obama, Obama.”

People, open your eyes. Use your brains. The whole swirling debate about Obama’s citizenship is a smokescreen. It is a bluff. It is the magician waving his wand so that you don’t notice his assistant switching out the handcuffs. Think, people. You are being duped by a pantomime so that you fail to ask the real question.

Why hasn’t Barack Obama submitted himself to independent medical analysis? Why hasn’t his campaign volunteered anything other than delays and excuses when I have asked for his DNA? Why has not one of the so-called “physicians” at the Reed Medical Center responsible for the President’s care bothered to respond to my reasonable request that they review my proof that (unlike any other member of the human race) President Obama has a nictating membrane behind each of his eyelids, and is capable of seeing well into the ultraviolet part of the electromagnetic spectrum?

You notice that Lou Dobbs never asked any of these questions? You notice that Glenn Beck never asked any of these questions? You notice that Ann Coulter (born as Theodore “Ted” Coulter) never asked any of these questions? I’ll tell you why. It’s easy to pick up on some little piddly boring technical dispute, blowing smoke about this or that made-up legalistic hoo-ha. “Oh, this birth certificate looks funny.” “Oh, Barack sounds like a foreign name.” “Oh, I saw an Arab at the grocery store.”

And everybody nods their head and says, “Hm. Well isn’t that fascinating?” “Hm. Well isn’t that provocative?” And then the tea-baggers and the toe-cheesers can just go to town, beating each other over the head over a story about as factual as “Little Red Riding Hood.”

Meanwhile, the real story is sitting right under your nose. Forget about asking where President Obama was born, or who he was born to. You should be asking where President Obama was grown, and who or what supervised his design and construction.

Okay, first, what we call the “State of Hawaii” didn’t even exist until August 14, 1978. All our evidence of Hawaii, everything our senses represent to us about the physicality of the Hawaiian Islands, all our personal memories, all the pictures of the last Queen of Hawaii, all the ukulele’s, all the “Hawaiian Punch.” Don Ho, hula dancers, and “Hawaii Five-O” reruns are sophisticated global psychic Id-projections. If you had walked up to a guy on the street on August 13, 1978 and asked him what “Hawaii” was, he would have shrugged his shoulders, or eyed you quizzically. But go up to the same man on August 14, 1978 and ask the same question, and he would have said that “it’s the 50th state, … I went there as a kid when my dad was stationed at the naval base, … one Summer we rented a houseboat near Waikiki; … here’s an old Hawaii postcard that I’ve saved in my wallet … etc.”

So you all can go on and worry about “candidate eligibility,” while the very foundations of epistemology crumble to the ground all around you. If your thoughts and sensory perceptions can be hijacked globally, imperceptibly, and instantly, that not a single fact, image, memory, object, or idea has any meaning or validity. The veil of the world has torn away, and you are shivering and naked in the dark.

Why is it that I wasn’t affected? Well, I don’t know, but there are several explanations. (1) God spared me for a greater purpose; (2) My mind is a bulwark against manipulation because I have trained it to a razor’s edge; (3) In the darkest days of my previous sinful life (before being lifted up to ride upon Jesus’ Dinosaur of Glory), I huffed benzene (a known mutagen) while everyone else I knew was huffing glue, so I might have some kind of mutant force; or (4) By being raised in a household where we didn’t hold with godless creeping humanist ideas about “Geography” and “Geology,” I was predisposed to resist the effects of the Id-Projector.

Now, you may ask, “Why would anyone ‘make up’ Hawaii?”

Through the Spring and Summer of 1978, the inexplicable and undeniable appearance of what were quaintly called “spacecraft” or “UFOs” and “aliens” (in their halting attempts to speak, they called themselves “Sleeth”) in and around the naval base in the Lesser New Belgian Antilles had led to a progressive decay in the institutions of civil order all over the world. The breakdown of governments and mass rioting accelerated when a translucent 7-foot tall “ambassador” from another universe informed the members of the U.N. General Assembly that a periodic “culling” would occur among human populations commencing on August 15.

Things turned ugly toward the end. I could hear the explosions throughout town, and saw black smoke rising from the power plant.

And then at midnight, an eerie quiet unexpectedly fell over the world. In an instant, the memory of the islands that Captain Cook had discovered for England, strode upon and christened “Nova Cymbria,” as well as the bloody Anglo-Flemish Conflict that transferred ownership of those islands to Belgium eighty years later was universally erased and nullified.

The world you know is not the world. As you sit there reading the newspaper, elephantine translucent beings snuffle and slide around you, checking your eye movements, measuring your vitals, and assessing you for some unarticulated alien purpose.  The former site of the City of Nieuw Bruges is now a graded and polished platform of solid volcanic obsidian, six miles in diameter and mirror smooth, but no one knows why. Occasionally, enormous mirror-smooth reflective spheres emerge from sinkholes, and then race upward into the sky.

The cullings continue. When the cullings come, its the one time that I wish I could live in the made-up world that you live in.

But President Obama, or the “B’u’rak Ubram” (as the Sleeth call their construction when speaking through their puppet bodies) is a new thing, a doppleganger that emerged naked and blinking from an iris door that had opened in the side of the structure on the island of Flaendres that they call the “primary cylinder.”

My theory is that President Obama is intended to be a go-between or facilitator of human-Sleeth interactions. Unlike most of the Sleeth, he was “built” to be aware of, and interact believably with the objects and residents of our false world. At the same time, I suspect that he can function equally well in the real world, and that by being able to see both “overlays” of reality, he remains the living incarnation of a neutral diplomatic party. I think his construction was a desperation move, and that his existence indicates that the Sleeth are struggling to contain some problem or instability that they can no longer control. Because he’s the one “real” thing that the world has been allowed to see, I’m hoping that a medical examination can crack the hold that the Id-Projector has on the rest of you.

Well, the sun is setting out here in Eastern Tennessee, and I’ve got to go. Although you are all damned to the eternal fire for your indelible stain of filthy sins, I hope you have a nice day. I leave you with this quote from the Book of Jeptha, verse 7:16, from the True Bible:

And in that time, Hob of Arythmia came to the temple of the Feather Merchants, and he was sore wroth. And he said unto them, ‘Whither do you sell down pillows for three drachma, when all about you in lesser lands than this they can be had for one and a half or maybe two drachma? Be not thou a rapacious pillower, whose mind unmeetly goeth as a belt that misses all the belt loops on thy pants. For is it not said that if thy pants shall fall about thy ankles, curse not, but accept that you must shuffle comically about in shameful nakedness.

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