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The truth is that they banned it because it's delicious.
90% of Americans believe at least one conspiracy theory (1 Viewer)
- Thread starterOptimus Prime
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The truth is that they banned it because it's delicious.
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somewhere there is a Facebook group dedicated to this with waay to big of a following.. lol..
The truth is that they banned it because it's delicious.
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Mostly made up of people who grew up infused with lead.
Like make wild fire in Hawaii?
That was a joke.
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There’s still something horribly compelling about the assassination of John F Kennedy on 22 November 1963.
It was the first great televised news story: almost half of all Americans were watching the coverage within two hours of the shooting, and half the population were watching, two days later, when the suspected assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, was himself murdered by Jack Ruby.
For me, it’s always been one of the most fascinating moments in modern history – not so much because of the assassination itself, as dramatic as that was, but because of what it came to mean.
At the time, many people saw it as a brutal punctuation point, marking the definitive loss of American innocence. And the shooting in Dallas has become a foundational myth of modern American populism, the point at which all conspiracy theories meet.
Conspiracy theories are nothing new: the paranoid style has been part of American life since the dawn of the republic. Indeed, even as Kennedy prepared for his trip to Dallas, cranks were handing out leaflets with a depressingly familiar message.
“Wanted for Treason” read the headline below the president’s photograph. “He is turning the sovereignty of the US over to the communist-controlled United Nations …”
So it’s telling that the most popular conspiracy theories – the CIA, the mafia, the military-industrial complex – focus on enemies within, not without. For the conspiracy die-hards, it would be terribly disappointing if it turned out that Fidel Castro or the Kremlin had organised Kennedy’s murder.
The whole point is to unlock the sinister secrets of American democracy, and expose what one conspiracy theorist calls “the corrupt merger of state and corporate power that is threatening now to impose a new kind of corporate feudalism on our country”.
That conspiracist’s name? Robert F Kennedy, Jr – the nephew of the dead president.
In the absence of a confession or a trial, numerous theories continue to swirl around the internet today.
In his 1,632-page book, Reclaiming History: The Assassination of President John F Kennedy, published in 2007, Vincent Bugliosi listed 44 organisations, from the Nazis to dissident French paramilitaries, as well as 214 individuals, from Richard Nixon to J Edgar Hoover to Frank Sinatra’s drummer, who have been accused of involvement.…….
www.independent.co.uk
It was the first great televised news story: almost half of all Americans were watching the coverage within two hours of the shooting, and half the population were watching, two days later, when the suspected assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, was himself murdered by Jack Ruby.
For me, it’s always been one of the most fascinating moments in modern history – not so much because of the assassination itself, as dramatic as that was, but because of what it came to mean.
At the time, many people saw it as a brutal punctuation point, marking the definitive loss of American innocence. And the shooting in Dallas has become a foundational myth of modern American populism, the point at which all conspiracy theories meet.
Conspiracy theories are nothing new: the paranoid style has been part of American life since the dawn of the republic. Indeed, even as Kennedy prepared for his trip to Dallas, cranks were handing out leaflets with a depressingly familiar message.
“Wanted for Treason” read the headline below the president’s photograph. “He is turning the sovereignty of the US over to the communist-controlled United Nations …”
So it’s telling that the most popular conspiracy theories – the CIA, the mafia, the military-industrial complex – focus on enemies within, not without. For the conspiracy die-hards, it would be terribly disappointing if it turned out that Fidel Castro or the Kremlin had organised Kennedy’s murder.
The whole point is to unlock the sinister secrets of American democracy, and expose what one conspiracy theorist calls “the corrupt merger of state and corporate power that is threatening now to impose a new kind of corporate feudalism on our country”.
That conspiracist’s name? Robert F Kennedy, Jr – the nephew of the dead president.
In the absence of a confession or a trial, numerous theories continue to swirl around the internet today.
In his 1,632-page book, Reclaiming History: The Assassination of President John F Kennedy, published in 2007, Vincent Bugliosi listed 44 organisations, from the Nazis to dissident French paramilitaries, as well as 214 individuals, from Richard Nixon to J Edgar Hoover to Frank Sinatra’s drummer, who have been accused of involvement.…….
It was Russia, CIA, the FBI: 10 JFK assassination conspiracies that refuse to die
As Donald Trump faces a third assassination attempt, Dominic Sandbrook looks at the most high-profile US president shooting of all – that of JFK. More than 60 years on, in a new book co-authored with Tom Holland, ‘The Rest is History’ podcaster examines the conspiracies that still persist today...
www.independent.co.uk
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If you mean that as an incredibly stupid and counterproductive way to use such power, I agree.
Like, if I was strong enough to pick up a blue whale, I wouldn't pick up a blue whale. I'd do something more profitable.
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unfortunately, it wouldn't be.. because at least that would make sense...
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WhoDatPhan78
Definitely not part of the deep state.
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Every prosecutor who has ever brought a rico case believes in at least one conspiracy theory.
That joke probably got made 40 pages back.
That joke probably got made 40 pages back.
Sailorsaint
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Skynet?!
www.iflscience.com
Skynet-1A: Military Spacecraft Launched 55 Years Ago Has Been Moved By Persons Unknown
The dead satellite should be in a geostationary arc at a longitude of around 40 East. But it isn't.
www.iflscience.com
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V'GerSkynet?!
Skynet-1A: Military Spacecraft Launched 55 Years Ago Has Been Moved By Persons Unknown
The dead satellite should be in a geostationary arc at a longitude of around 40 East. But it isn't.
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Sad read
=========
It’s a unicorn of a summer’s day in 2020; the kind that demands factor 50 and flip-flops. I’m being driven around my neighbourhood by my husband, Arlo, my hair pulled up off my neck and a cool can of something fizzy in my hand. My daily medication has kicked in: a serotonin reuptake inhibitor that I’ve taken for 15 years to ease my low-level anxiety. Without it, I’m no longer sure I can stay with this man I have loved for 12 years. I am mute and smiling passively.
“There’s another one!” he points to the right. “At least it’s not disguised as a tree.” He shakes his head. “Do they think we’re idiots?”
Arlo is updating me on the new 5G masts that have been covertly installed through the Trojan horse of the pandemic. It’s not the day out I’d anticipated for our Saturday, but this is our life now. What began as a polite request to turn off the microwave after use and switch off the router before bed is now the dictum that if one of these emitters of radioactive deathrays pops up on our street “we need to move”.
It’s hard to pinpoint the moment that Arlo went down the conspiracy rabbit hole. Today, he can’t even answer the question for himself. He thinks it may have started with a conversation he had in the park, or a film he saw. He’d read George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four at school and it had stayed with him. What came next was a slow radicalisation through his screens and the people he met online. Maybe a curiosity fed into an algorithm that became an echo chamber. Who knows?
However, there were indications that something as big as the pandemic might go this way for him. Arlo is the son of liberal parents, born rebels with anti-establishment leanings. He was conceived on the India hippy trail in the 70s. Meanwhile, I grew up in Surrey, in a mock-Tudor house opposite a tennis club. Being with me and my solid family anchored him for a while. Because, yes, I think these 5G masts are an eyesore but I don’t think they will fry my frontal cortex.
In 2020, life gradually became a battleground of conspiracies with little basis in fact. The threat of 5G radiation was just the entry point: by the end of the year, my husband also believed that nanoparticles in the Covid-19 vaccine would be used to integrate us with the Internet of Things (if the vaccine didn’t kill us from myocarditis first); that digital ID would limit our travel and affect financial independence; that debt was a social construct and could be avoided using “maritime law”; and that only cryptocurrency could save us.
“What’s the package?” I asked after I handed over a plump brown envelope.
“Stickers,” he replied gleefully, spreading them out on the office desk. “You vil eat ze bugs!” he announced in a crude impersonation of Klaus Schwab of the World Economic Forum, an organisation that conspiracy theorists were convinced was plotting to have us all eating insects by 2030. I laughed. We were still laughing together at that point.
“We do not consent to lockdown,” he read aloud from another sticker as he raced downstairs to slap it on our front door.
“Oh please, not there,” I begged him. Too late. It was already glued tight and I couldn’t get my nails under the edges.
On Thursdays, we hid behind the curtains of the spare room to watch our neighbours enthusiastically pound their saucepans with wooden spoons for the NHS. “Yeah, that’s right, get those jabs in,” he mocked. He sure as hell wasn’t getting his vaccination.
“They’re going to close the borders,” he warned. A relative of Arlo’s had already packed his family into a van and made a break for Portugal to start a new life. Arlo was manically arguing the case for us to leave, too, but I managed to talk him down.
I didn’t recognise my husband as the man I married four years earlier: a charming and adventurous photographer who missed his calling as a lead guitarist, is solid on the tennis court and does uncanny, but not unkind, impressions of our friends. Nor did those friends, or my family – most of whom blocked him from sending streams of warning content and some of whom would only see me alone. “I’ll meet you in the woods for a dog walk,” agreed Arlo’s old friend Justin. “But can you not bring Arlo? He’ll just do my head in.”
Arlo knew he was being blocked by his friends, but the distancing rules meant their absence wasn’t as obvious as it would have been in different times. Which meant it increasingly fell to me to be Arlo’s sounding board. I felt battered. I took my mobile phone into quiet corners of the house to phone my closest friends, but I don’t think anyone but my family really understood the assault on my mental health..............
www.theguardian.com
=========
It’s a unicorn of a summer’s day in 2020; the kind that demands factor 50 and flip-flops. I’m being driven around my neighbourhood by my husband, Arlo, my hair pulled up off my neck and a cool can of something fizzy in my hand. My daily medication has kicked in: a serotonin reuptake inhibitor that I’ve taken for 15 years to ease my low-level anxiety. Without it, I’m no longer sure I can stay with this man I have loved for 12 years. I am mute and smiling passively.
“There’s another one!” he points to the right. “At least it’s not disguised as a tree.” He shakes his head. “Do they think we’re idiots?”
Arlo is updating me on the new 5G masts that have been covertly installed through the Trojan horse of the pandemic. It’s not the day out I’d anticipated for our Saturday, but this is our life now. What began as a polite request to turn off the microwave after use and switch off the router before bed is now the dictum that if one of these emitters of radioactive deathrays pops up on our street “we need to move”.
It’s hard to pinpoint the moment that Arlo went down the conspiracy rabbit hole. Today, he can’t even answer the question for himself. He thinks it may have started with a conversation he had in the park, or a film he saw. He’d read George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four at school and it had stayed with him. What came next was a slow radicalisation through his screens and the people he met online. Maybe a curiosity fed into an algorithm that became an echo chamber. Who knows?
However, there were indications that something as big as the pandemic might go this way for him. Arlo is the son of liberal parents, born rebels with anti-establishment leanings. He was conceived on the India hippy trail in the 70s. Meanwhile, I grew up in Surrey, in a mock-Tudor house opposite a tennis club. Being with me and my solid family anchored him for a while. Because, yes, I think these 5G masts are an eyesore but I don’t think they will fry my frontal cortex.
In 2020, life gradually became a battleground of conspiracies with little basis in fact. The threat of 5G radiation was just the entry point: by the end of the year, my husband also believed that nanoparticles in the Covid-19 vaccine would be used to integrate us with the Internet of Things (if the vaccine didn’t kill us from myocarditis first); that digital ID would limit our travel and affect financial independence; that debt was a social construct and could be avoided using “maritime law”; and that only cryptocurrency could save us.
“What’s the package?” I asked after I handed over a plump brown envelope.
“Stickers,” he replied gleefully, spreading them out on the office desk. “You vil eat ze bugs!” he announced in a crude impersonation of Klaus Schwab of the World Economic Forum, an organisation that conspiracy theorists were convinced was plotting to have us all eating insects by 2030. I laughed. We were still laughing together at that point.
“We do not consent to lockdown,” he read aloud from another sticker as he raced downstairs to slap it on our front door.
“Oh please, not there,” I begged him. Too late. It was already glued tight and I couldn’t get my nails under the edges.
On Thursdays, we hid behind the curtains of the spare room to watch our neighbours enthusiastically pound their saucepans with wooden spoons for the NHS. “Yeah, that’s right, get those jabs in,” he mocked. He sure as hell wasn’t getting his vaccination.
“They’re going to close the borders,” he warned. A relative of Arlo’s had already packed his family into a van and made a break for Portugal to start a new life. Arlo was manically arguing the case for us to leave, too, but I managed to talk him down.
I didn’t recognise my husband as the man I married four years earlier: a charming and adventurous photographer who missed his calling as a lead guitarist, is solid on the tennis court and does uncanny, but not unkind, impressions of our friends. Nor did those friends, or my family – most of whom blocked him from sending streams of warning content and some of whom would only see me alone. “I’ll meet you in the woods for a dog walk,” agreed Arlo’s old friend Justin. “But can you not bring Arlo? He’ll just do my head in.”
Arlo knew he was being blocked by his friends, but the distancing rules meant their absence wasn’t as obvious as it would have been in different times. Which meant it increasingly fell to me to be Arlo’s sounding board. I felt battered. I took my mobile phone into quiet corners of the house to phone my closest friends, but I don’t think anyone but my family really understood the assault on my mental health..............
My husband became a conspiracy theorist. Would our marriage survive?
When we met, Arlo was a charming and adventurous photographer. Then the pandemic hit and he fell for fake news, financial scams and flat-Earthers
Online
It wasn’t as drastic/stark as this (and I’ve probably said this on this thread), but I watched my dad get Bill O’reillydSad read
=========
It’s a unicorn of a summer’s day in 2020; the kind that demands factor 50 and flip-flops. I’m being driven around my neighbourhood by my husband, Arlo, my hair pulled up off my neck and a cool can of something fizzy in my hand. My daily medication has kicked in: a serotonin reuptake inhibitor that I’ve taken for 15 years to ease my low-level anxiety. Without it, I’m no longer sure I can stay with this man I have loved for 12 years. I am mute and smiling passively.
“There’s another one!” he points to the right. “At least it’s not disguised as a tree.” He shakes his head. “Do they think we’re idiots?”
Arlo is updating me on the new 5G masts that have been covertly installed through the Trojan horse of the pandemic. It’s not the day out I’d anticipated for our Saturday, but this is our life now. What began as a polite request to turn off the microwave after use and switch off the router before bed is now the dictum that if one of these emitters of radioactive deathrays pops up on our street “we need to move”.
It’s hard to pinpoint the moment that Arlo went down the conspiracy rabbit hole. Today, he can’t even answer the question for himself. He thinks it may have started with a conversation he had in the park, or a film he saw. He’d read George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four at school and it had stayed with him. What came next was a slow radicalisation through his screens and the people he met online. Maybe a curiosity fed into an algorithm that became an echo chamber. Who knows?
However, there were indications that something as big as the pandemic might go this way for him. Arlo is the son of liberal parents, born rebels with anti-establishment leanings. He was conceived on the India hippy trail in the 70s. Meanwhile, I grew up in Surrey, in a mock-Tudor house opposite a tennis club. Being with me and my solid family anchored him for a while. Because, yes, I think these 5G masts are an eyesore but I don’t think they will fry my frontal cortex.
In 2020, life gradually became a battleground of conspiracies with little basis in fact. The threat of 5G radiation was just the entry point: by the end of the year, my husband also believed that nanoparticles in the Covid-19 vaccine would be used to integrate us with the Internet of Things (if the vaccine didn’t kill us from myocarditis first); that digital ID would limit our travel and affect financial independence; that debt was a social construct and could be avoided using “maritime law”; and that only cryptocurrency could save us.
“What’s the package?” I asked after I handed over a plump brown envelope.
“Stickers,” he replied gleefully, spreading them out on the office desk. “You vil eat ze bugs!” he announced in a crude impersonation of Klaus Schwab of the World Economic Forum, an organisation that conspiracy theorists were convinced was plotting to have us all eating insects by 2030. I laughed. We were still laughing together at that point.
“We do not consent to lockdown,” he read aloud from another sticker as he raced downstairs to slap it on our front door.
“Oh please, not there,” I begged him. Too late. It was already glued tight and I couldn’t get my nails under the edges.
On Thursdays, we hid behind the curtains of the spare room to watch our neighbours enthusiastically pound their saucepans with wooden spoons for the NHS. “Yeah, that’s right, get those jabs in,” he mocked. He sure as hell wasn’t getting his vaccination.
“They’re going to close the borders,” he warned. A relative of Arlo’s had already packed his family into a van and made a break for Portugal to start a new life. Arlo was manically arguing the case for us to leave, too, but I managed to talk him down.
I didn’t recognise my husband as the man I married four years earlier: a charming and adventurous photographer who missed his calling as a lead guitarist, is solid on the tennis court and does uncanny, but not unkind, impressions of our friends. Nor did those friends, or my family – most of whom blocked him from sending streams of warning content and some of whom would only see me alone. “I’ll meet you in the woods for a dog walk,” agreed Arlo’s old friend Justin. “But can you not bring Arlo? He’ll just do my head in.”
Arlo knew he was being blocked by his friends, but the distancing rules meant their absence wasn’t as obvious as it would have been in different times. Which meant it increasingly fell to me to be Arlo’s sounding board. I felt battered. I took my mobile phone into quiet corners of the house to phone my closest friends, but I don’t think anyone but my family really understood the assault on my mental health..............
My husband became a conspiracy theorist. Would our marriage survive?
When we met, Arlo was a charming and adventurous photographer. Then the pandemic hit and he fell for fake news, financial scams and flat-Earthers
It was weird and disheartening
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