State of Conspiracyby Mark Hallyburton
May 23, 2012
Boy, everyone loves a good Whodunnit. From JFK to Clue to the nightly news, our lives are inundated with unsolved mysteries that keep the talking heads employed and the wise eerily silent. With all due respect to former presidents and childhood board games, this post addresses the very current, very hush-hushed mysterious death (and resulting mysterious death) of one of the world's greatest truth pirates, Andrew Breitbart. A truly fearless patriot, Breitbart was a gunslinging workaholic for Freedom, Inc., fighting the daily war against the great U.S. political money machine. Everything ultimately revolves around money, and our land-of-the-free [sic] democracy [sic] is no different. Andrew followed the scent of corruption straight to the top, and the day before his scheduled release of damning footage that would have reportedly sunk Barack Obama's 2012 campaign, the man dies on the sidewalk? Of a heart condition? How many times have YOU seen anyone die on the sidewalk, much less someone waving a political whistle?! Pause. Reflect. Continue. Luckily, Obama may not need Breitbart's help this November, but the fact that the timing of his death was just so darn coincidental set off a wave of conspiracy theories, most of which point the responsibility finger directly at the POTUS himself.

Ok, back it up, Jack. Who exactly are these so-called "conspiracy theorists?" They're those crazies whose ideas don't go along with the mainsteam, who raise their hands, ask questions, and follow the scent of poop all the way to the pooper. When David Blaine/Copperfield flies into the stratosphere or makes the Statue of Liberty disappear, it is the conspiracy theorists' natural doubt and lack of gullibility that forces their BS detectors off the charts. Wait – you don't believe all that illusionary magic, either? Then welcome to the club! Your conspiracy theories separate fact from fiction on a daily basis, keeping you a step ahead of free online degrees, incredible Nigerian financial opportunities, and of course, those pesky enlarged penises.

Now that we're all established, card-carrying members, let's get back to ol' Andrew. So he says he has this incriminating evidence, video footage, the works, likely the pinnacle of years of trailblazing poop-detection, and he suddenly dies a mere 24 hours before releasing it to the world. Don't we remember what Jack Bauer can accomplish in 24 hours? World-changing stuff, folks. Then, because our cake had no icing, a forensics specialist in the L.A. Coroner's office dies in his home days later, ironically the very day Breitbart's official report is released. Are you kidding me? Doesn't anyone smell that? The "birthers" sure do, but that's another topic for another day… and lucky for our President, if he isn't American, those Kenyans sure can run.

So follow the poop, people. Whenever there's "Breaking News!" on the major networks, or the interweb buzz starts trending wildly, try your darnedest to look away from the shiny object just long enough to see what's really going on. When an elected official nobly fights to purportedly "save the children," take the time to sniff out the money trail. And when you discover it's totally bogus, be an American, shut the hell up, and sip your Kool-Aid.

I'll be on the sidewalk.

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^I will curse her! ̄ shouted the old man, twice as loud as before; ^because, insulted and dishonoured as I am, I am expected to go to the accursed girl and ask her forgiveness. Yes, yes, that¨s it! I¨m tormented in this way in my own house day and night, day and night, with tears and sighs and stupid hints! They try to soften me. . . . Look, Vanya, look, ̄ he added, with trembling hands hastily taking papers out of his side-pocket, ^here are the notes of our case. It¨s made out that I¨m a thief, that I¨m a cheat, that I have robbed my benefactor! . . . I am discredited, disgraced, because of her! There, there, look, look! . . . ̄ coach バッグ カラフル http://kuroisi.com/coachbags2.php
I was not born here but far away in a remote province. It must be assumed that my parents were good people, but I was left an orphan as a child, and I was brought up in the house of Nikolay Sergeyitch Ichmenyev, a small landowner of the neighbourhood, who took me in out of pity. He had only one child, a daughter Natasha, a child three years younger than I. We grew up together like brother and sister. Oh, my dear childhood! How stupid to grieve and regret it at five-and-twenty, and to recall it alone with enthusiasm and gratitude! In those days there was such bright sunshine in the sky, so unlike the sun of Petersburg, and our little hearts beat so blithely and gaily. Then there were fields and woods all round us, not piles of dead stones as now. How wonderful were the garden and park in Vassilyevskoe, where Nikolay Sergeyitch was steward. Natasha and I used to go for walks in that garden, and beyond the garden was a great damp forest, where both of us were once lost. Happy, golden days! The first foretaste of life was mysterious and alluring, and it was so sweet to get glimpses of it. In those days behind every bush, behind every tree, someone still seemed to be living, mysterious, unseen by us, fairyland was mingled with reality; and when at times the mists of evening were thick in the deep hollows and caught in grey, winding wisps about the bushes that clung to the stony ribs of our great ravine, Natasha and I, holding each other¨s hands, peeped from the edge into the depths below with timid curiosity, expecting every moment that someone would come forth or call us out of the mist at the bottom of the ravine; and that our nurse¨s fairy tales would turn out to be solid established truth. Once, long afterwards, I happened to remind Natasha how a copy of ^Readings for Children ̄ was got for us; how we ran off at once to the pond in the garden where was our favourite green seat under the old maple, and there settled ourselves, and began reading ^Alphonso and Dalinda ^ ! a fairy-story. I cannot to this day remember the story without a strange thrill at my heart, and when a year ago I reminded Natasha of the first lines: ^Alphonso, the hero of my story, was born in Portugal; Don Ramiro his father, ̄ and so on, I almost shed tears. This must have seemed very stupid, and that was probably why Natasha smiled queerly at my enthusiasm at the time. But she checked herself at once (I remember that), and began recalling the old days to comfort me. One thing led to another, and she was moved herself. That was a delightful evening. We went over everything, and how I had been sent away to school in the district town-heavens, how she had cried then! ! and our last parting when I left Vassilyevskoe for ever. I was leaving the boarding-school then and was going to Petersburg to prepare for the university. I was seventeen at that time and she was fifteen. Natasha says I was such an awkward gawky creature then, and that one couldn¨t look at me without laughing. At the moment of farewell I drew her aside to tell her something terribly important, but my tongue suddenly failed me and clove to the roof of my mouth. She remembers that I was in great agitation. Of course our talk came to nothing. I did not know what to say, and perhaps she would not have understood me. I only wept bitterly and so went away without saying anything. We saw each other again long afterwards in Petersburg; that was two years ago. Old Nikolay Sergeyitch had come to Petersburg about his lawsuit, and I had only just begun my literary career. coach アウトレット オンライン http://artcollection.in/coachbags1.php
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^Yes, yes, Alyosha, ̄ Natasha chimed in, ^ he¨s on our side, he¨s a brother to us, he has forgiven us already, and without him we shall not be happy. I¨ve told you already. . . . Ah, we¨re cruel children, Alyosha! But we will live all three together. . . . Vanya! ̄ she went on, and her lips began to quiver. ^You¨ll go back home now to them. You have such a true heart that though they won¨t forgive me, yet when they see that you¨ve forgiven me it may soften them a little. Tell them everything, everything, in your own words, from your heart; find the right words. . . . Stand up for me, save me. Explain to them all the reasons as you understand it. You know, Vanya, I might not have brought myself to it, if you hadn¨t happened to be with me today! You are my salvation. I rested all my hopes on you at once, for I felt that you would know how to tell them, so that at least the first awfulness would be easier for them. Oh, my God, my God! . . . Tell them from me, Vanya, that I know I can never be forgiven now; if they forgive me, God won¨t forgive; but that if they curse me I shall always bless them and pray for them to the end of my life. My whole heart is with them! Oh, why can¨t we all be happy! Why, why! . . . My God, what have I done! ̄ she cried out suddenly, as though realizing, and trembling all over with horror she hid her face in her hands. クロエ キ`ケ`ス 芦い http://araki.cc/css/chloebags1.php?product_id=44
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