The Fall of the House of Bilderberg

As loyal readers will recall I hitched a ride to the Bilderberg Conference with Bill Gates and Hank Kissinger because my former personal assistant Armando

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neglected to order Beluga Caviar for the Rocinante – my private jet.

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What?

Yes. I know. The resemblance IS amazing.

Anyway, I intended to return to the United States the same way I arrived, but events and actions (my own) at the conference put the kibosh on those plans.

Bill snubbed me and suggested I find another way home. Hank was kinder. Before they climbed aboard Bill’s jet, Hank shook my hand, slapped my shoulder a couple of times and said in the best Country & Western accent he could summon “Atta boy Cowboy. I’m proud of ya. You did good.”

I was touched.

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The Look of the Dead Fish: A Nick Alwaes Detective Novel by [Fountain, Jamie N]

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The conference started well enough for the majority of attendees. They were pleased to see the cool reception President Trump received at the G7 meeting in Canada. After all, to them, he is the greatest obstacle to One World Government they’ve encountered since the reign of Ronaldus Maximus.

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Nothing throws a wrench into the machine of the New World Order more than a man who embraces the power of the Individual over the power of the Collective. It’s understood by most attendees (excluding your beloved ThoughtMarauder of course) that empowering the Middle Class is a yuuuuge no-no if you’re intent on World Domination.

I did a lot of hand-shaking and gossiping the first two days of the conference (you’d be scandalized if I told you what Ursula (that’s Ursula von der Leyen, the German Minister of Defense) told me about Mutti Merkel.

Can you say Mommy Dearest?

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Ouch.

It wasn’t until Saturday (Day 3 of the conference) that the party got fun for me. I was invited to participate in a discussion regarding Populism in Europe. One of the few things I like about the Bilderberg Conference (besides the Maid service ;-7)

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is their adherence to what’s known as the Chatham House Rule:

“When a meeting, or part thereof, is held under the Chatham House Rule, participants are free to use the information received, but neither the identity nor the affiliation of the speaker(s), nor that of any other participant, may be revealed.”

In other words, attendees may speak freely, confident that anything they say will remain within the confines of the room.

I listened attentively while

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the Secretary of State of Vatican City – the second most powerful man in the Catholic Church behind only Pope Francis – decried the turning away at sea of over 600 “refugees” from Libya. He carried on about the “dignity of all human beings” and our “moral obligation” to assist those in need. The Cardinal was joined in his lamentations by a former Kenyan-American politician (whose name you won’t find on the “official” list of attendees) who chimed in about the “outrageous” expulsion order given to 60 imams and their families, and the closing of seven mosques by the Austrian Government.” Others around the table chimed in with their support. I heard the terms “islamophobes, racists” and “xenophobes” being kicked around by a room full of obscenely rich white people (excluding the Kenyan) whose only exposure to the Glory of Diversity is when they walk across their Turkish Rug

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on the way to their desk in their estates far removed from the Diversity they publicly claim to support.

Diversity for thee

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But not for me

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I smiled and listened quietly while they bemoaned setback after setback of their plan to rid the World of national borders and eliminate the Middle Class.

When the room finally quieted down, Mark Carney, Governor of The Bank of England

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cheered the room up by reminding them of the successful apprehension, silencing and imprisonment of Tommy Robinson – the Middle Class Englishman who has been leading a crusade (heh) against muslim rape gangs and their campaign of terror against thousands of young English girls – some as young as 8 and 9.

Despite their collective desire to enjoy my silence, they were compelled by Bilderberg rules – which dictate that everyone in attendance offer their opinions or find themselves unofficially uninvited to future soiree’s – to hear me speak.

I looked around the room and offered a fact – “there are a lot of really smart people sitting here, but not one of them has a lick of common sense.”

Audrey Azoulay, the Director-General of UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific, Cultural Organization) the Leader of our roundtable, spoke up immediately and chastised me for insulting the other members in attendance and demanded an apology.

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I told her she could expect one immediately after I – and millions and millions of others like me – received an apology from her and the others at this table for attempting to destroy the cultural heritage of America and Western Europe by flooding them with uneducated, uncivilizable Third World people.

The Cardinal slammed his fist on the table, “this is an outrage! I won’t listen to this!”

“Suit yourself,” I said and carried on. “There’s not a person in this room, or this building, who personally gives a shit about any of the Abdul Hussein Mohammeds or Humumba Bugabes or Carlos Roberto Sanchez’s of the world. They only have agency to you as pawns to over-run your own countries to bring about the One World Government you’re all so keen on.

“How dare you!? ” said the Kenyan-American. He stood up and acted as though he were going to come around to my side of the table and get Red with me.

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I strode confidently around the table and was prepared to meet him with fisticuffs.

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Fortunately for him, my friend Hank Kissinger intervened. We deferred to his powers of persuasion and returned to our respective sides of the table.

I began again.

“The condescension you apply to the very people you claim to support is stunning. If the people of Africa, Central and South America and the Middle East are so desirable, how is it they have failed to organically create anything resembling a modern society without the aid – financial, technological, political and otherwise – of the nations represented in this room. Do you think the Civilization Fairy is gonna wave a magic wand and these people are going to magically become productive members of your New World Order? They can’t even dig a fucking Well without Western assistance. And you think they’re going to take the jobs of  the White Middle Class you seek to destroy?”

I stopped to take a breath, then carried on again.

“If they were inherently capable of organically creating high-functioning governments, technological advancements and civil society, there would be no reason for the Bilderberg organization to exist.

But they’re not.

Audrey, tell me how many UNESCO groups do you send each year to Canada? or the U.S.? or the UK? or the Netherlands?”

I didn’t wait for her to reply.

“None. That’s how many.

Why?

Because our countries are all high-functioning nations, that’s why!  We don’t need the people of other nations to take care of us.”

I stopped and looked around the room. Only Hank seemed to have the glimmer of understanding in his eyes. I wasn’t surprised. He’s been around long enough to know that wishing all people were equal in Intellect and Civility – and that they all wanted the exact same things we do – was a fools game only played by children – and politician’s.

I could’ve gone on for hours with real-world examples of their folly but it would’ve been pointless.

So I ended with this –

“At this very moment, while I’m speaking, 80,000 mostly military-age men from Syria, Turkey etcetera etcera are marching through Eastern Europe

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on their way to your country, Thomas (he is the CEO of Airbus SE headquartered in Germany), and your country, Charles (Prime Minister of Belgium). To all of your nations,” I said and pointed to all of them. “500 years ago your ancestors, the ones who built this continent with their blood, sweat and brains, would have recognized this as an invasion and acted accordingly. They would have taken up arms to protect their nation, their wives, their children, their culture and their way of life.

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But you “men” here, you roll out the Welcome Mat. I can’t even imagine the depths of self-loathing and civilizational masochism that makes you believe that cultural suicide is in anyway acceptable.

For God’s sake! Why won’t you stand up like Men and defend what is yours!

All of you are working toward a One World Government with the purpose of ending all wars and suffering, but what you’re doing is creating an environment where war is inevitable. People are Tribal – not racist.

Always have been – always will be.

The fire is starting and the War is coming. And it’s gonna be an ugly war. There will be fighting in the streets with sticks and knives. And after they’ve expelled the people you’ve welcomed in, they’re gonna come for all of you. Mark my words. They are gonna come for each of you for making this happen.

Every last one of you is gonna swing – or kneel.”

Can you say Viva la Revolution?

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Bastille Day isn’t just a great song

– it’s your future.”

I was tired. I thanked everyone for allowing me to speak and then quietly left the room.

Niroki gave me a wonderful massage

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after I returned to my simple room

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to help me relax after the stress of the day.

I was looking forward to participating in the Current Events roundtable on Sunday Morning but when I arrived at the conference room I was informed by the security guard manning the entrance that I was no longer on the Attendee’s List.

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It crossed my mind, just for a moment, to ask why I’d been uninvited, but I knew why. Once again the ThoughtMarauder stepped on too many toes. About 10 of them by my count.

I shook the young man’s hand and turned to head back to my room.

“Sir,” I heard him say.

“Yes?”

He offered me his hand.

I took it.

“Thank you. On behalf of all the guards and staff here. Thank you. We heard what you said yesterday. And you’re right. We’ve all had enough.”

“You’re welcome,” I said and peeked at the name on his badge, “George. I call ’em like I see ’em.”

“I’m protecting these people today, but a year from now,” he said and shrugged his shoulders, “who knows? I’m part of the #Resistance,” he said with a stern smile.

I winked at him.

“#MeToo, George, #MeToo.”

I retired to my room. I discharged Niroki and Nadia so I could relax alone.

What swell girls they were.

I flipped on the TV and watched the Reds game. When everything else fails, there’s always Baseball.

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It’s the calm eye of the perpetual hurricane that never stops swirling around us.

We won 6 to 3 over the hated Cardinals – but we’re still in last place.

There’s always next year – isn’t there???

 

#FreeTommy

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The Ghost of Albert Henkelstam by [Fountain, Jamie N]

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Author: ThoughtMarauder

Cavalier, bomb-thrower, provocateur, neanderthal, father, proud US Army Airborne veteran, proud American, lover of many things: God, country, family, baseball, Scotch whiskey, cigars, old-school jazz, dogs, Sinatra, watches, shoes and sunshine..

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