On 10, 11 and 12 Oct 2002, Joe's Garage wrote:

> I was in heaven. It's where they make happiness. All the men and women
> are good-looking, even the ugly ones. Whenever I was hungry, I got
> something sweeter than wine and more intoxicating than hashish. Every
> time I said something, everybody smiled and laughed and told each other
> how nice I was.
>
> Then one day I destroyed heaven. I didn't mean to do it. It was an
> accident. I destroyed heaven by saying "I want to grow up." Mommy and
> Daddy looked at me and smiled and said, "That's a good boy."
>
> "And why do you want to grow up?" my mother asked. Cripes, that was
> easy. I already was a grown-up in spirit, just like my last human
> learned from Cult Architect Ron in my last lifetime. Besides, grown-ups
> were the ones with the money. With money you can buy class triple-A
> stock, go on cruises to Borneo and have pretty girls with sexy tatoos
> and pierced belly buttons call you on the cell phone, just like on
> television. But since I was a nice boy, I told my mother instead, "so I
> can be happy."
>
> "Well you know," she said, "growing up isn't easy." Yeah right, like
> there's something special I have to do. It's more like: She's the one
> with the money. I don't have the money. That means she's gonna make me
> jump through some hoops before she gives me money. I pretended to take
> the bait. "Oh, do you mean growing up is not easy?" I asked, stretching
> my eyes as wide open as they could possibly go without crossing them.
> "What," my voice almost broke with the strain, "do I have to do?"
>
> "I thought you'd never ask," my mother said as she grabbed my chubby
> little hand and walked me to the bathroom. "This," she proclaimed
> proudly and with great authority, "is a toilet. Let me help you open up
> your zipper, then you can pee in the toilet." I was going to pee first
> and let her do the zipper thing afterward like she had always done, but
> she made me wait and then told me to aim into the bowl.
>
> The reality of my situation dawned on me. Now I knew why grown-ups were
> so grouchy all the time. They interrupted perfectly natural and fun
> things to do by concentrating on something else when they were doing it.
> And now that I had been tricked into accepting this secret tidbit of
> knowledge, there was no easy route of escape, because I had already said
> I wanted to grow up.
>
> I suffered a rather severe altered state of consciousness as a result,
> during which time I blindly and apathetically did whatever I was told.
> My mother used this opportunity to some advantage by getting me to learn
> how to do things like tie my shoes and comb my hair. I realized too
> late I hadn't even gotten my first nickel in return, and cursed my own
> short-sightedness. I re-tied a shoestring that had come loose, went to
> the bathroom, sat down, and worked on my strategy on how I would grow up
> by getting some of that as yet elusive money.

Finally, I knew what I had to do. I went to my mother and asked, "Mommy, what happens if I don't wanna grow up?" My mother looked at me questioningly, then replied, "Let's just see what your father has to say about this."

We went to see my father, who was sitting down when we paraded into the room. My mother explained the situation for him. Once he heard what she had to say, he slapped both hands on his knees, slowly rose up with a mild groan, and proclaimed, ominously, "We'll just have to do what we always do when we don't want to grow up. Let's go watch television."

And so we turned on the wide-screen high-definition TV. It had computer-animated clay figures on a pay-per-view channel, something called ARS Dreamaway Truth Programming. The opening song was

Glory, Glory, Hallielieu - Yah!

I HAVE HEARD THE TRUTH.

Glory, Glory, Hallielieu - Yah!

NOW I BELIEVE.

Glory, Glory, Hallielieu - Yah!

TRUTH IS BELIEF The Truth is Marching Awwwwn!

AND BELIEF IS TRUTH.

A little clay doll labeled "L. Rob Minton" was standing at parade rest in a Sea Org uniform with a bandanna sticking in his back pocket and one hand extended, resting on an upended rifle. My mother whispered to me that the "L" stood for Letz. The ancient spirit in my young body put 2 and 2 together and came up dollar signs. My attention was glued all the stronger to the screen.

The funny thing about the clay Minton figure was that it was holding the rifle upside-down. Instead of the rifle butt resting on the ground with the barrel held at an angle by slightly curled fingers, the open end of the barrel was resting on the ground with the butt up. There was a close-up of the Minton doll's animated face, and its features suddenly contorted as it barked out, 'Company, March!' The camera zoomed away as the sightless, brainless and unfeeling Minton doll started marching mechanically in place.

Back in for another close-up. The bottom half of the doll's face erupted with the words, 'Forward, March!' It started half-stepping forward. It barked out left and right turns in a similarly military manner. It marched itself up a flight of thirteen steps where the boots sounded differently on the wooden planks.

Hut! Stomp! Hut stomp hut ... The planks started reverberating, and a spine-tingling cicada noise slowly permeated the background. The sound was coming from a syntheziser, which mixed in a clanging oil drum noise and cries form sea birds.

The synthesizer operator slowly turned up the volume, until all I could hear was loud rachetting, slow booming and melancholy calls from the television's stereo. It reminded me of a rock song being played backwards. In the background I thought I could hear a deep, gutteral voice saying "Stacy is an O-S-A ..."

'Companeeee, Halt!'

The silence was deafening.

The computer-animated clay Minton doll took a piece of folded paper from its shirt pocket, shook it out sharply, and read the following words slowly, distinctly and audibly:

You, L. Rob Minton, have been found GUILTY of Doing a Deal with a Brainwashing Cult.

In accordance with the Ringling Notes, the Chameleon Theory and the US Constipation, a fair and just trial was subsequently held on your behalf by a lunch mob of couch potatoes who believe in Truth, and Truth is Belief.

The paper was the kind that self-destructs after reading for reasons of national security, and it spontaneously burst into flame as the doll tossed it aside with a careless flick of its wrist. The doll pulled the bandanna from its back pocket and dextrously tied the cloth around its own head so that its unseeing clay eyes were covered from view. It prepared to raise up the make-believe rifle in the reverse horizontal position, with the butt pointed outward from the doll's face.

Ready ....

I HAVE READ THE TRUTH AND I BELIEVE Aim ....

I HAVE TRUTH AND YOU DON'T.

Fire ...

S I L E N C E

The narrator spoke, "Stayed tuned next week, folks, for more Dreamaway Truth programming."

I couldn't wait and burst out, "When do we get his money?" My parents glowered at me with disapproval "He's only a child," my mother murmured to her spouse, then turned to me. "You must be patient, dear," my mother told me placatingly, "All in due course. But until the next programming session, there are some realities about life you should to learn. And I'm afraid they're rather grim."

I said "Thank you, mother" tied my shoes, excused myself and went to the restroom.

---

Joe Cisar

Support peaceful, mutual agreement. Don't practice the Press and Public Relations Policies of Layfayette Ronald Hubbard http://www.xenu.net/archive/thesis/cisar-home.html http://cisar.org

From: Joe's Garage <swatron@hotmail.com>
Subject: Re: The Self-Brainwashing Manual
Date: Tue, 15 Oct 2002 05:04:26 -0400
Message-ID: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021015045853.110A-100000@darkstar.zippy>
In-Reply-To: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021014055749.110A-100000@darkstar.zippy>

On Mon, 14 Oct 2002, Joe's Garage wrote:

> -*-
> Want to catch up with the crowd? For exciting prior episodes, visit
> http://members.tripod.com/cic_ops/counter_warfare/dreamaway_truth.htm
> -*-
>
> As I walked back into the room, I saw my father had left, but my mother
> was sitting, waiting for me. It was evident we were going to have a
> little mother-to-son talk. I felt an urge to break the uncomfortable
> silence, and said the first thing that came to my mind, "You know mother,
> I almost felt like I've been spending the last six months of my life
> watching the Dreamaway Truth Program."
>
> She said, "What did you say, dear?" I lost track of the conversation, and
> found my mouth moving, saying words I had never heard before, "Mother,
> when is vague conjecture art, and when is it circumstantial evidence?
>
> "Vague conjecture can be whatever you want it to be, dear. After all,
> it's only vague conjecture."
>
> I felt I was floating on the ceiling, looking down at my body, watching it
> listen to her.
>
> "Does that make sense, dear?" my mother asked, but I misunderstood "sense"
> to mean "cents" and thought she was talking about money. My mind strayed
> again and noise started coming out of my mouth, "Aren't there any rules
> about what is allowed in art?"
>
> She got a knowing look in her eye. She called me over, put her hands on
> both my shoulders and said, "It's all right. I understand. You sometimes
> feel like you have to have money, right?" I went into mild shock at the
> mention of the word "money" and pa led. "It's more like you always feel
> you have to have money, isn't it?", she asked, consolingly. I gathered
> enough self-control to nod my head up and down once, quickly.
>
> "OK, dear, it looks like I need to tell you the facts of life. That means
> you're going to hear something incredible. But you will need to listen
> and understand. I'm going to tell you the story of the Body Critics.
> That is where those strange voices come from. But first you need a good
> night's sleep, and for that I need to get you destimulated."
>
> She stood up, reached into her purse, and pulled out something I couldn't
> see. She held it high up enough in the air so I couldn't reach it and
> showed it to me. A big, bright, shiny new quarter! I gazed up in awe.
> My senses all surged of their own accord. I could suddenly see
> everything in the room simultaneously, in front of me, to my sides and
> even far behind me. My ears effortlessly heard her every word and my mind
> examined and savored every possible interpretation as she spoke the words.
>
> "This is a quarter. It is money. Many years ago, all children used to
> have lots of money." The quarter twinkled brightly as if to emphasize her
> statement. I was transfixed as she continued, "The reason children no
> longer have money is because of an evil inter-cult overlord named Minton.
> This evil monster ruined everything by trying to use money to solve the
> problem of over-population among cultists. Do you want to have this
> quarter?"
>
> "Yes", I replied tonelessly, although I was never more sure of anything in
> my life.
>
> "You may have the quarter on one condition. Tomorrow we are going to the
> playground, where you will meet other children of your own age. This will
> be the first time by yourself. Tomorrow, on the playground, I want you to
> have an experience that shows you that there are other things more
> important in life than money. Do you understand?"
>
> "Yes I under. Stand." I said.
>
> "Do you promise?"
>
> "Yes I prom. Ise." I said.
>
> "What do you promise?" She was checking up on me.
>
> "I promise to have an experience that will show me there are things more
> important in life than money. I understand. I promise." The words
> spilled out of my mouth and I nearly dirtied my pants.
>
> She handed me the quarter.
>
> My needle was floated.

The next day I was out on the playground by myself for the first time.

This was true freedom. Well, nearly by myself. My mother was talking to one of the other mothers and not looking at me. So I was as good as alone. And with a quarter burning a hole in my pocket! Where were the babes?

Uh oh. One of the tough guys was walkin' my way, wearing a black leather jacket. He had a cute little three-year-old holding tightly onto his arm, but with a perm and make-up, she looked older than she was. His jacket had an insignia on it: lips with a tongue sticking out. In an arc over top of it was the word, "BLUH".

Bluh walked up and said to me, "Hey, we're Bluhs, right?" Being the accommodating man-of-the-world that I was, I replied,

"Yeah, sure Bluh. We're Bluhs."

"And Bluhs'd do anything for each other right?"

"Sure, Bluh, that's what Bluhs are for."

I was starting to get the hang of it. This was easy! Then he said,

"That means share and share alike, right?"

"Bluhs'd do anything for each other, Bluh, and that includes share and share alike."

"Gimme a quarter."

Hmm, I thought. Bluh does not have any money. Therefore Bluh is not a grown-up. But Bluh thinks that I have money. Therefore Bluh thinks I am a grown-up. I took the appropriate second and a half and felt flattered.

Then, since I really did have money, I pretended to be a grown-up, which means I had to be grouchy. I told Bluh, "You know, Bluh, it's not easy to get money." Bluh said, "I know it's not easy. Look at what you're putting me through. Now gimme a quarter." I told him, "I'm not going to lie to you Bluh. I have a quarter, and I got it the same way you're going to. That means you have to work for it." Bluh sneered, "Then you not really a Bluh."

I slowly heaved a secret sigh of relief at my narrow escape, and handed Bluh the quarter as a gesture of good will. He snorted at me in contempt and walked off without raising a hand. The girl hanging on his arm let go long enough to quickly snatch the quarter from my still outstretched hand.

As she reattached herself to her partner, she looked back at my startled face and said in a high nasal voice, "You'll never be a Bluh", then snickered evilly.

So he had only wanted to see if I was a Bluh. But by then it was too late. The seed of doubt had already been implanted in my subconcious.

Way down deep inside, I felt something like a primal scream wanting to shake itself loose.

I remembered the promise I had made to my mother the night before. For a quarter, I had promised that I would learn there was something more important in life than money. It was true, I realized, there really was something more important -- the ability to make others feel others feel used and useless.

This brand-new source of power had cost me a quarter. From now on the whole world would be at my feet, both used and useless. But first I needed to get my quarter back. And find more power.

Joe Cisar

Support peaceful, mutual agreement. Don't practice the Press and Public Relations Policies of Layfayette Ronald Hubbard http://www.xenu.net/archive/thesis/cisar-home.html http://cisar.org

-*- Want to catch up with the crowd? For exciting prior episodes, visit http://members.tripod.com/cic_ops/counter_warfare/dreamaway_truth.htm -*-

From: Joe's Garage <swatron@hotmail.com>
Subject: Re: The Self-Brainwashing Manual
Date: Wed, 16 Oct 2002 06:13:37 -0400
Message-ID: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021016060703.110A-100000@darkstar.zippy>
In-Reply-To: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021015045853.110A-100000@darkstar.zippy>

On 14 and 15 Oct 2002, Joe's Garage wrote:

> -*-
> Want to catch up with the crowd? For exciting prior episodes, visit
> http://members.tripod.com/cic_ops/counter_warfare/dreamaway_truth.htm
> -*-
>
> As I walked back into the room, I saw my father had left, but my mother
> was sitting, waiting for me. It was evident we were going to have a
> little mother-to-son talk. I felt an urge to break the uncomfortable
> silence, and said the first thing that came to my mind, "You know mother,
> I almost felt like I've been spending the last six months of my life
> watching the Dreamaway Truth Program."
>
> She said, "What did you say, dear?" I lost track of the conversation, and
> found my mouth moving, saying words I had never heard before, "Mother,
> when is vague conjecture art, and when is it circumstantial evidence?
>
> "Vague conjecture can be whatever you want it to be, dear. After all,
> it's only vague conjecture."
>
> I felt I was floating on the ceiling, looking down at my body, watching it
> listen to her.
>
> "Does that make sense, dear?" my mother asked, but I misunderstood "sense"
> to mean "cents" and thought she was talking about money. My mind strayed
> again and noise started coming out of my mouth, "Aren't there any rules
> about what is allowed in art?"
>
> She got a knowing look in her eye. She called me over, put her hands on
> both my shoulders and said, "It's all right. I understand. You sometimes
> feel like you have to have money, right?" I went into mild shock at the
> mention of the word "money" and pa led. "It's more like you always feel
> you have to have money, isn't it?", she asked, consolingly. I gathered
> enough self-control to nod my head up and down once, quickly.
>
> "OK, dear, it looks like I need to tell you the facts of life. That means
> you're going to hear something incredible. But you will need to listen
> and understand. I'm going to tell you the story of the Body Critics.
> That is where those strange voices come from. But first you need a good
> night's sleep, and for that I need to get you destimulated."
>
> She stood up, reached into her purse, and pulled out something I couldn't
> see. She held it high up enough in the air so I couldn't reach it and
> showed it to me. A big, bright, shiny new quarter! I gazed up in awe.
> My senses all surged of their own accord. I could suddenly see
> everything in the room simultaneously, in front of me, to my sides and
> even far behind me. My ears effortlessly heard her every word and my mind
> examined and savored every possible interpretation as she spoke the words.
>
> "This is a quarter. It is money. Many years ago, all children used to
> have lots of money." The quarter twinkled brightly as if to emphasize her
> statement. I was transfixed as she continued, "The reason children no
> longer have money is because of an evil inter-cult overlord named Minton.
> This evil monster ruined everything by trying to use money to solve the
> problem of over-population among cultists. Do you want to have this
> quarter?"
>
> "Yes", I replied tonelessly, although I was never more sure of anything in
> my life.
>
> "You may have the quarter on one condition. Tomorrow we are going to the
> playground, where you will meet other children of your own age. This will
> be the first time by yourself. Tomorrow, on the playground, I want you to
> have an experience that shows you that there are other things more
> important in life than money. Do you understand?"
>
> "Yes I under. Stand." I said.
>
> "Do you promise?"
>
> "Yes I prom. Ise." I said.
>
> "What do you promise?" She was checking up on me.
>
> "I promise to have an experience that will show me there are things more
> important in life than money. I understand. I promise." The words
> spilled out of my mouth and I nearly dirtied my pants.
>
> She handed me the quarter.
>
> My needle was floated.
>
> The next day I was out on the playground by myself for the first time.
> This was true freedom. Well, nearly by myself. My mother was talking to
> one of the other mothers and not looking at me. So I was as good as
> alone. And with a quarter burning a hole in my pocket! Where were the
> babes?
>
> Uh oh. One of the tough guys was walkin' my way, wearing a black leather
> jacket. He had a cute little three-year-old holding tightly onto his arm,
> but with a perm and make-up, she looked older than she was. His jacket
> had an insignia on it: lips with a tongue sticking out. In an arc over
> top of it was the word, "BLUH".
>
> Bluh walked up and said to me, "Hey, we're Bluhs, right?" Being the
> accommodating man-of-the-world that I was, I replied,
>
> "Yeah, sure Bluh. We're Bluhs."
>
> "And Bluhs'd do anything for each other right?"
>
> "Sure, Bluh, that's what Bluhs are for."
>
> I was starting to get the hang of it. This was easy! Then he said,
>
> "That means share and share alike, right?"
>
> "Bluhs'd do anything for each other, Bluh, and that includes share and
> share alike."
>
> "Gimme a quarter."
>
> Hmm, I thought. Bluh does not have any money. Therefore Bluh is not a
> grown-up. But Bluh thinks that I have money. Therefore Bluh thinks I am
> a grown-up. I took the appropriate second and a half and felt flattered.
>
> Then, since I really did have money, I pretended to be a grown-up, which
> means I had to be grouchy. I told Bluh, "You know, Bluh, it's not easy to
> get money." Bluh said, "I know it's not easy. Look at what you're
> putting me through. Now gimme a quarter." I told him, "I'm not going to
> lie to you Bluh. I have a quarter, and I got it the same way you're going
> to. That means you have to work for it." Bluh sneered, "Then you not
> really a Bluh."
>
> I slowly heaved a secret sigh of relief at my narrow escape, and handed
> Bluh the quarter as a gesture of good will. He snorted at me in contempt
> and walked off without raising a hand. The girl hanging on his arm let go
> long enough to quickly snatch the quarter from my still outstretched hand.
> As she reattached herself to her partner, she looked back at my startled
> face and said in a high nasal voice, "You'll never be a Bluh", then
> snickered evilly.
>
> So he had only wanted to see if I was a Bluh. But by then it was too
> late. The seed of doubt had already been implanted in my subconcious.
> Way down deep inside, I felt something like a primal scream wanting to
> shake itself loose.
>
> I remembered the promise I had made to my mother the night before. For a
> quarter, I had promised that I would learn there was something more
> important in life than money. It was true, I realized, there really was
> something more important -- the ability to make others feel others feel
> used and useless.
>
> This brand-new source of power had cost me a quarter. From now on the
> whole world would be at my feet, both used and useless. But first I
> needed to get my quarter back. And find more power.

The seesaws caught my eye. My eyes started going up and down, used and useless, up and down, and I started rock-slamming. I sauntered on over, where there was a boy younger than me wondering around by himself, an easy target, I thought. I asked him if he had a quarter. "Yup," he said. I ordered him, "Gimme a quarter," to which he replied "Nope".

I didn't know what else to do so I asked him if he wanted to play on the seesaw. He agreed and we started going up and down. When he was up high and I was down low, I slipped off the seat and watched him fall down. He yelled in pain, came over to me and asked me what I did that for. I lied and told him it was an accident. He believed me and got back on the seesaw again.

I had discovered yet another source of power -- lying. Lying was as good as making people feel used and useless and just as good as money. The blockhead actually got back on the seesaw with me. After I lied to him, too. The Seesaw Boy deserved to fall on his butt again if he was going to be that useless.

Once more I was all the way down and he was up high. I was about to jump off a second time, when I got a better idea. I held my end down and called up to him, "Gimme a quarter!" He stubbornly shook his head no. I said, "Gimme a quarter or else I'll let go and you'll land on your butt!"

He said, "The quarter's in my back pocket and I can't reach it until you let me down!" So I let him down. He got off the seesaw and ran away.

The little liar.

This was turning out to be tougher than I thought. I spent the next hour working on my technique, until finally I got it down. If I walked up to someone and told him "Bluh told me to play with you on the seesaw," he would look at me with a start and obediently come over and play on the seesaw. Once we were on the seesaw and before I was about to slip off, I'd say, "I think I hear my Mommy callin. Gotta go now!" then slip off and run away.

It was like I had the forces of the universe behind me, and they worked in a scientific progression. If I used one source of power, a lie, and another source of power, my unknowing allies Bluh and Mommy, I could move up to the next source of power, making people feel used and useless.

Now there was just one more loose end to wrap up before I could go home with a clear conscience.

I walked up to Bluh and lied, "Bluh, your Daddy told me to play with you on the seesaw." "You don't even know my Daddy," Bluh managed to both sneer and look nervous at the same time. I retorted with another lie I had contrived in advance, "I do too know your Daddy. He called me on the cell phone." Bluh was dumbfounded. Even he didn't have a cell phone, but he thought I did. Because I lied, he thought I had superior technology.

He thought he had no choice but to obey.

He and his hanger-on and I went over to the seesaw where Bluh and I hopped on. When I got him up high, I slipped off and quickly pushed the seat up faster so he would slam down harder on his tailbone. As his girlfriend ran over to help him up, I jumped over, knocked him down again, and reached into his girlfriend's pocket where I saw her put my quarter. As my fist clenched full of her filthy money came out of her pocket, I told her, "You can't prove anything happened." She screamed in rage and I rubbed it in, as flippantly as I could, "So sue me!"

Paybacks are hell, aren't they?

I slipped as much of the loot as did not fall out of my hand into my pocket then took off running. I got around behind some bushes where I stopped on both feet in a crouch, then stood up again and took three deep breaths to calm down. It was there I had a cognition. I could make a bigger impact on Bluh than Bluh could on me, and the one who makes the impact, wins.

When I had regained my composure, Bluh and his sidekick were still blaming each other and looking for money in the dust. They peered at me, but I pretended to be talking on an imaginary cell phone, making it appear the device was cupped to the other side of my head where they couldn't see it.

Bluh was apparently worried I was talking to his father. With my mind at ease, I took my hand down and walked back towards my mother as casually as possible. She bent down to peer intently into my face, which was freshly flushed with success, and she broke out in smiles. I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows and give her a quick smirk.

After all I was a hero. I had vanquished evil, hadn't I? Bluh and his friends were all now both used and useless. I was truly at cause over matter, energy, space and time. And most important of all, I was a man of honor. I had indeed kept my word to my mother. I had indeed learned there were other forces in this world more important than money. I could use them to make a bigger impact on others than they could upon me. They included

- lying, - feigning superior technology, - taking advantage of unwitting allies, - making others feel both used and useless, - doing others one better.

With all these natural forces on my side, I wondered if I had enough money yet to buy an SUV. Before I could figure that out though, my mother had another lesson up her sleeve to set me on the straight and narrow.

Joe Cisar

Support peaceful, mutual agreement. Don't practice the Press and Public Relations Policies of Layfayette Ronald Hubbard http://www.xenu.net/archive/thesis/cisar-home.html http://cisar.org

-*- Want to catch up with the crowd? For exciting prior episodes, visit http://members.tripod.com/cic_ops/counter_warfare/dreamaway_truth.htm -*-

From: Joe's Garage <swatron@hotmail.com>
Subject: Re: The Self-Brainwashing Manual
Date: Thu, 17 Oct 2002 06:10:24 -0400
Message-ID: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021017060621.110A-100000@darkstar.zippy>
In-Reply-To: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021016060703.110A-100000@darkstar.zippy>

the saga continues ...

After lunch my mother prepared to tell me the story of the evil inter-cult overlord named Minton and how he used money to create Body Critics, thereby depriving children all over the world of money and causing them misery.

But first we had to go through something called "rudiments." My mother said it was to make sure that I was destimulated enough and that money would no longer bring me out of present time. First she held up a quarter and swayed it back and forth, like a pendant. I didn't bat an eyelid.

Then she took out various denominations of other coins and bills, but I could still feel the ton of change in my pocket which I had appropriated fair and square after a hard morning's work. The small potatoes she was holding up to make me flinch didn't bother me in the least. Finally she checked something off on a list she had in front of her.

Then she asked me if money was the most important thing in the world. I responded in the negative. She asked me what was more important than money. I told her that learning how to get along with other people was more important, and smiled at her angeli cly.

Apparently satisfied, she adjusted some dials on a small device in front of her, said, "This is the session," and chanted the following words in a Chinese singsong sort of way:

The head of the Anti-Cult Federation (76 planets around larger stars visible from here) (founded 95,000,000 years ago, very space opera) wanted to solve overpopulation (250 billion or so per planet - 178 billion on average) by mass implanting.

He caused critics to be brought to the LMT (Earth) by inviting them to a mass picket, then froze them by injecting them with a mixture of Starbigots coffee and Bigot beer. He packaged them in boxes and used DC-9's to fly them to volcanoes in Hawaii and the Atlantic area ones to Las Palmas, where he H-bombed them with money. His name was Minton. He used renegades.

Various misleading data by means of circuits etc was placed in the implants to create Body Critics. Here is the sequence of events:

Money H-Bomb dropped on volcano Explosion of court proceedings Terrific winds of publicity Critic carried over peak of credibility Electronic ribbon came up on news group Critic stuck to it

It was then pulled down and critic was implanted as part of a group with the following pictures:

God, the Devil, angels, space opera, class-action lawsuit against critics, lawyer telling Minton to commit perjury, wrongful death lawsuit being halted, Pilot saying he is mocking it up.

When through with his crime loyal officers (to the critics) captured him after six months of news group spamming and put him in an electronic Ft.

Harrison trap where he still is. "They" are gone. The place (LMT) has since been a desert. The length and brutality of it all was such that this LMT never recovered. The implant is calculated to kill (by lawsuits etc) anyone who attempts to solve it. This liability has been dispensed with by my tech development. One can freewheel through the implant and die unless it is approached as precisely outlined. The "freewheel"

(auto-running on and on) lasts too long, denies sleep etc and one dies. So be careful.

AUDITING PROCEDURE FOR BODY CRITICS

QUESTIONS

Is truth belief?

Have you read the transcripts?

NO CASE GAIN

A suppressive Body Critic sometimes isn't auditable. The remedy is to run Grades IV (the Ringling Notes) or V (the Chameleon Theory) on him ....

Mother stopped her chanting and gazed staight ahead, as if she were visiting someplace else outside her body.

So THAT's why I had to work so hard for money. Minton had H-Bombed the Critics with money, thereby upsetting the forces of nature, most of which I had on my side by now. Nonetheless, I was stunned. I also couldn't believe my good luck at having found such a convenient scapegoat, but that was beside the point. I looked at my mother and half asked, half exclaimed, "Mother, it's true, isn't it? Children really don't have money any more because of Minton!" She only gazed all the more grimly. I continued, "well, if that's true, then there are some other things that Minton has caused, such as:

- lying, - feigning superior technology, - taking advantage of unknowing allies, - making others feel both used and useless, - compulsively doing others one better."

My mother responded, "We may forgive, but we can never forget that. And now that you have the Truth, you are free to do and say whatever you have to. You are protected. Although everyone lies and cheats and makes others feel used and useless,

(chorus of angels hanging onto the syllable "la")

by virtue of your superior intelligence, honesty and straightfowardness,

(end chorus)

you are immune to reprisals from the poor brainwashed Minton-besotted Body Critics. You have a higher purpose than they. All they care about is money while you seek and attain Truth. Unlike them, you realize there are more important things in life."

I stood straight up and testified, "That is the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth, so help me!"

My mother's eyes glistened as she concentrated on checking something off on her sheet of paper. I could hear her say, as if to herself, "Dreamaway Truth technology really does work!"

-*- Want to catch up with the crowd? For exciting prior episodes, visit http://members.tripod.com/cic_ops/counter_warfare/dreamaway_truth.htm -*-

Joe Cisar

Support peaceful, mutual agreement. Don't practice the Press and Public Relations Policies of Layfayette Ronald Hubbard http://www.xenu.net/archive/thesis/cisar-home.html http://cisar.org

From: Joe's Garage <swatron@hotmail.com>
Subject: Re: The Self-Brainwashing Manual
Date: Fri, 18 Oct 2002 06:19:15 -0400
Message-ID: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021018061447.113B-100000@darkstar.zippy>
In-Reply-To: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021017060621.110A-100000@darkstar.zippy>

On Thu, 17 Oct 2002, Joe's Garage wrote:

> the saga continues ...
>
> After lunch my mother prepared to tell me the story of the evil inter-cult
> overlord named Minton and how he used money to create Body Critics,
> thereby depriving children all over the world of money and causing them
> misery.
>
> But first we had to go through something called "rudiments." My mother
> said it was to make sure that I was destimulated enough and that money
> would no longer bring me out of present time. First she held up a quarter
> and swayed it back and forth, like a pendant. I didn't bat an eyelid.
> Then she took out various denominations of other coins and bills, but I
> could still feel the ton of change in my pocket which I had appropriated
> fair and square after a hard morning's work. The small potatoes she was
> holding up to make me flinch didn't bother me in the least. Finally she
> checked something off on a list she had in front of her.
>
> Then she asked me if money was the most important thing in the world. I
> responded in the negative. She asked me what was more important than
> money. I told her that learning how to get along with other people was
> more important, and smiled at her angeli cly.
>
> Apparently satisfied, she adjusted some dials on a small device in front
> of her, said, "This is the session," and chanted the following words in a
> Chinese singsong sort of way:
>
> The head of the Anti-Cult Federation (76 planets around larger stars
> visible from here) (founded 95,000,000 years ago, very space opera) wanted
> to solve overpopulation (250 billion or so per planet - 178 billion on
> average) by mass implanting.
>
> He caused critics to be brought to the LMT (Earth) by inviting them to a
> mass picket, then froze them by injecting them with a mixture of
> Starbigots coffee and Bigot beer. He packaged them in boxes and used
> DC-9's to fly them to volcanoes in Hawaii and the Atlantic area ones to
> Las Palmas, where he H-bombed them with money. His name was Minton. He
> used renegades.
>
> Various misleading data by means of circuits etc was placed in the
> implants to create Body Critics. Here is the sequence of events:
>
> Money H-Bomb dropped on volcano
> Explosion of court proceedings
> Terrific winds of publicity
> Critic carried over peak of credibility
> Electronic ribbon came up on news group
> Critic stuck to it
>
> It was then pulled down and critic was implanted as part of a group with
> the following pictures:
>
> God,
> the Devil,
> angels,
> space opera,
> class-action lawsuit against critics,
> lawyer telling Minton to commit perjury,
> wrongful death lawsuit being halted,
> Pilot saying he is mocking it up.
>
> When through with his crime loyal officers (to the critics) captured him
> after six months of news group spamming and put him in an electronic Ft.
> Harrison trap where he still is. "They" are gone. The place (LMT) has
> since been a desert. The length and brutality of it all was such that
> this LMT never recovered. The implant is calculated to kill (by lawsuits
> etc) anyone who attempts to solve it. This liability has been dispensed
> with by my tech development. One can freewheel through the implant and
> die unless it is approached as precisely outlined. The "freewheel"
> (auto-running on and on) lasts too long, denies sleep etc and one dies. So
> be careful.
>
> AUDITING PROCEDURE FOR BODY CRITICS
>
> QUESTIONS
>
> Is truth belief?
> Have you read the transcripts?
>
> NO CASE GAIN
>
> A suppressive Body Critic sometimes isn't auditable. The remedy is to run
> Grades IV (the Ringling Notes) or V (the Chameleon Theory) on him ....
>
> Mother stopped her chanting and gazed staight ahead, as if she were
> visiting someplace else outside her body.
>
> So THAT's why I had to work so hard for money. Minton had H-Bombed the
> Critics with money, thereby upsetting the forces of nature, most of which
> I had on my side by now. Nonetheless, I was stunned. I also couldn't
> believe my good luck at having found such a convenient scapegoat, but
> that was beside the point. I looked at my mother and half asked, half
> exclaimed, "Mother, it's true, isn't it? Children really don't have money
> any more because of Minton!" She only gazed all the more grimly. I
> continued, "well, if that's true, then there are some other things that
> Minton has caused, such as:
>
> - lying,
> - feigning superior technology,
> - taking advantage of unknowing allies,
> - making others feel both used and useless,
> - compulsively doing others one better."
>
> My mother responded, "We may forgive, but we can never forget that. And
> now that you have the Truth, you are free to do and say whatever you have
> to. You are protected. Although everyone lies and cheats and makes
> others feel used and useless,
>
> (chorus of angels hanging onto the syllable "la")
>
> by virtue of your superior intelligence, honesty and straightfowardness,
>
> (end chorus)
>
> you are immune to reprisals from the poor brainwashed Minton-besotted Body
> Critics. You have a higher purpose than they. All they care about is
> money while you seek and attain Truth. Unlike them, you realize there are
> more important things in life."
>
> I stood straight up and testified, "That is the Truth, the whole Truth,
> and nothing but the Truth, so help me!"
>
> My mother's eyes glistened as she concentrated on checking something off
> on her sheet of paper. I could hear her say, as if to herself, "Dreamaway
> Truth technology really does work!"

Although I was busy all the following week at Day Care, I still needed to let the children there know where their misery had come from and why they had no money. I was intelligent, honest, and straightforward enough, however, to recognize that the grown-ups who controlled the Center had their own agenda. Therefore, I would have to cogitate over the proper method of infiltrating the group. Finally I struck upon the makings of a plan.

The key was anonymity. My first attempt was to write an anonymous note on a piece of paper, then tape it on the wall when nobody was looking. It said, "Tomorrow Minton will betray you all!" In my eagerness to spread the news and save the children, however, I had forgotten that I had not yet learned how to write Earth language, so it came out as scrawling in various colors of crayons. In any case, the grown-up saw me, because she came over and patted me on the head and told me that my best efforts almost looked "exactly" like a choo-choo train. It was then I realized with regret that the other children didn't know how to read anyway.

Therefore I had to allow for an increase in risk factor. I would have to obligate a close circle of collaborators to vows of secrecy, while simultaneously providing them with credible cover stories. I noticed the Seesaw Boy was in the Center. Since he did not possess the degree of honesty and credibility needed to be part of the inner circle, he was not going to be part of my little group. Being the generous and open-hearted person I was, though, it did not bother me that he could also benefit from the knowledge I was preparing for distribution.

Soon thereafter I pulled one of my Chosen Few off into a corner, where nobody else could hear what we were saying. I needed to do a survey, so I asked him, "When I say something to you, how do you know it's me that said it?" Needless to say, it took me half of playtime to get that idea across to him. Once he finally understood though, he answered easily enough, "I know it's you 'cause I see you talking." That was it! Now I had the secret of how to stay anonymous.

The next day I took the same boy off into a different corner, because I did not want to establish a pattern. That would have been too easily noticed by the authorities. I told him to cup his hands and cover his eyes. He did and I asked him if he could see me. He said he couldn't. I reminded him of what he said the day before, and told him that he didn't know who was talking to him because he couldn't see. He agreed. I told him that if he were asked who had given him the information he was about to hear, that he could honestly only ever say that he didn't know, because he hadn't seen. He nodded. I told him that there was nothing wrong with being honest. He had no choice but to agree with that.

Then I told him the story of the evil inter-cult overlord named Minton and how he used money to create Body Critics, thereby depriving children all over the world of money and causing them misery. We didn't have time for the entire story because play period didn't last that long, but I told him all the essentials that he had to know.

Over the next few days, I followed this same procedure with two others, and they spread the story around openly among their friends. They were proud of the fact that they had knowledge others didn't. As a result, they were faced with the dilemma of wanting everyone to know they had a secret, but also wanting only the people whose opinions they valued most highly to have the precious information. The Minton story consequently spread like wildfire, accompanied by both confidence about the accuracy of the data and eagerness to protect the source. After all, they didn't even really know themselves who their source was. Maybe someone else had come in and whispered to them after I had told them to cover their eyes.

Finally, on Friday the grown-up called everyone together. We were informed that she was getting tired of hearing, every time something broke or got lost, that Minton did it. She said that nice people did not spread gossip. Everybody looked at me, but I was secure in the knowledge that each of my collaborators would honestly say they hadn't seen who told them. Nevertheless I eyed them carefully to make sure that's exactly what they did, and each one did indeed give a convincing performance.

When I myself was asked, I pointed out that I was doing finger-painting most of the week, and didn't even know what they were talking about. And it was true. I had fingerpainted, almost every day that week, and I didn't know what they were asking me for. I certainly hadn't spread any gossip, just the opposite, as a matter of fact. The grown-up finally gave up, and told everyone that gossip was a waste of time and that we should be spending our time on more important things.

What could be more important than Truth, I wondered. In any case, by now she was cutting into nap time. I had done enough growing up for one week, and I needed to rest up for the weekend. Now that the weekend was here, I could watch television again. I was looking forward to it now more than ever.

-*- Want to catch up with the crowd? For exciting prior episodes, visit http://members.tripod.com/cic_ops/counter_warfare/dreamaway_truth.htm -*-

Joe Cisar

Support peaceful, mutual agreement. Don't practice the Press and Public Relations Policies of Layfayette Ronald Hubbard http://www.xenu.net/archive/thesis/cisar-home.html http://cisar.org

From: Joe's Garage <swatron@hotmail.com>
Subject: Re: The Self-Brainwashing Manual
Date: Sat, 19 Oct 2002 06:01:49 -0400
Message-ID: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021019055833.110A-100000@darkstar.zippy>
In-Reply-To: <Pine.LNX.3.96.1021018061447.113B-100000@darkstar.zippy>

The television was turned on. The family gathered round for the Dreamaway Truth Program. The show started:

Will he, or won't he?

As you remember from last week's Dreamaway Truth show:

The Letz Rob Minton [tm] doll was making preparations to open fire on the enemy, himself ...

Ready ....

I HAVE READ THE TRUTH AND I BELIEVE Aim ....

I HAVE TRUTH AND YOU DON'T.

Fire ...

S I L E N C E

Disguised Digitized Voice: CUT!! We can't show him shooting himself. We could be sued for libel if we did that. My lawyers tell me that we can insinuate everything up to that point, but we cannot actually show the deed without exposing ourselves to an unacceptable level of risk. Just leave it like that. Everyone will fill in the 'mystery' with the obvious.

The important thing is: we're in the clear.

Digitized voice continues: In the meantime, we need more coverage. The fact that the audience thinks he's dead makes no difference. I want him typecast DOING MORE DEALs with the cult. The public needs to be howling in rage, not feeling sorry for him. Repetition is the key here. They have to know again and again and again that they are being ruthlessly manipulated by the puppet of an evil brainwashing cult! Over and over.

Repetition breeds certainty! Certainty breeds confidence! In us. Like this. Headline.

Local level:

Day Care services continue despite turncoat atrocities

National level:

Controversy surrounds mysterious treason

International level:

Critics break down in tears at loss of purpose

with underlying allusions to phase II:

Dreamaway Truth Inc. Finds Truth, Unites Critics, Restores Sanity.

The Digitized Voice continued: We are dealing with enemies. Therefore ANYTHING we can't be sued for can and must be used. That way we're perfectly legal (heh heh). And thanks to THAT TRAITOR, we're all out of money, too. No matter. We still need maximum publicity for the upcoming proceedings, but it only works if we have deniability. We need more recruits! And no one knows you come from this office and no one knows who I am, not even you. Understand?

Loyal Crew: Yes, sir, Ms. Dreamaway.

Digitized Voice: WHAT?

Loyal Crew, covering eyes with cupped hands: Yes sir, Ms. Anonymous.

Digitized Voice: Tatoo this on the inside of your skulls -- we want people on OUR side, dammit! We are the ones they need to believe. Our hands are clean. We have the truth. Anyone else is part of that friggin brainwashing cult. They are hypocrites, traitors and kooks. And those sissies'll never prove different because they can't! Now go out there and spread the word. The only justice the public will ever know will be the justice you implant in their consciousness. Anything else is just a matter of money, (and you can leave that part to me.)

Loyal crew in unison: Yes sir, Ms. Anonymous!

Ending song an altered version of a Joe Cocker tune:

I am so beautiful.... to me. Cancha see O cancha see.

I'm everything I ever hoped for. I'm everything I'll ever need.

I am so beautiful .... to me.

Teary eyed, I reluctantly tore my eyes away from the tube, looked at my parents and said, "Mommy, Daddy, I love you. Can we go to the Dreamaway Org now? I need to increase my power flow." "That's a good boy," they answered in chorus, then quickly looked at each other and smiled self-consciously.

"You've turned into a fine young man," my father said warmly.

Mother tried to hold back her tears as she realized she had just lost her little boy. It was all she could do to nod with joy and approval. Her little baby was growing up. Now he would know where heaven is.

-*- For exciting prior episodes, visit http://members.tripod.com/cic_ops/counter_warfare/dreamaway_truth.htm -*-

Joe Cisar

Support peaceful, mutual agreement. Don't practice the Press and Public Relations Policies of Layfayette Ronald Hubbard http://www.xenu.net/archive/thesis/cisar-home.html http://cisar.org

Go Back