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BREAKING: U.S. voting machines owned by Chinese Communist Party.

The front company which owns Dominion Voting Systems Received $400 million from Swiss Investment Bank — 75% owned by the Chinese Government.

SEC filings reveal that the firm which owns Dominion Voting Systems $400 million dollars from a Swiss bank with close links to the Chinese government less than a month before the election.

The investigation centers on Staple Street Capital, which acquired Dominion Voting Systems in 2018.

Dominion Voting Systems operates voting machines in 28 states and has been accused by President Trump and his supporters of being involved in deleting millions of votes for Trump in addition to switching votes to Biden on election night.

On Oct 8, 2020, Staple Street Capital filed SEC Form D offerings and sales amount of $400,000,000 with the Sales Compensation Recipient identified as UBS Securities.

The overall owners of UBS Securities Co LTD are;

– Beijing Guoxiang (33%)
– UBS (24.99%)
– Guangdong Comm. Group [zh] (14.01%)
– China Guodian (14%)
– COFCO Group (14%)

Aside from UBS, the other four owners of UBS Securities are all Communist Chinese front groups.

Guangdong Comm. Group 100% stakeholder is the Guangdong Provincial Government.

China Guodian is state owned enterprise administered for the SASAC for the state Council

COFCO Group is a state owned enterprise under the direct supervision of the SASAC.

SASAC The State-owned Assets Supervision and Administration Commission of the State Council (SASAC) is a special commission of the People’s Republic of China, directly under the State Council.

More to follow.

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Army Colonel “There are 1.2m fraudulent votes in Pennsylvania. The voting machines are built to be manipulated.”

At a Pennsylvania hearing on the election, retired Army Col. Phil Waldron said that voting machines used in the United States were built for manipulating elections.

He alleged that up to 1.2 million votes could have been altered in Pennsylvania and that a forensic analysis would be needed to determine the exact number.

“The voting systems in the U.S. and in Pennsylvania were built to be manipulated,” Phil Waldron, a cybersecurity expert dealing with intelligence and information warfare for some 30 years, said in the hearing.

Waldron told the committee that he personally debriefed the son of a Cuban intelligence officer who was told by Hugo Chavez’s family members “not to worry about the populist threat against Maduro’s election in Venezuela” because “it was guaranteed, their father invested the money to build the SGO voting machine system.”

Independent attorney Sidney Powell told Fox News on Nov. 16 that President Trump’s legal team has a sworn affidavit from a high-ranking official from Venezuela testifying that the SGO voting system is a tool for manipulation.

Waldron said U.S. election systems like Dominion have “similar code and similar function.”

“Our experts and other academics believe that up to 1.2 million Pennsylvania votes could have been altered or fraudulent, this is what we discovered in the last 22 days,” but that only a detailed forensic analysis would show how many Pennsylvanian votes had been manipulated, Waldron said.

Waldron said his team has been researching the voting system manipulation issues since August, and that many others were also reporting similar issues.

“There are many, many more teams like ours, small teams that are joined in this fight, and they are throwing the flag left and right, so there’s a lot of folks who are recognizing anomalies,” Waldron said.

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In a HUGE win for Trump, Federal Judge IMPOUNDS Election Rigging Dominion Voting Machines

“HUGE Win for Trump as a Judge Orders the Dominion Voting Machines in Georgia be IMPOUNDED!

In this video, we’re going to look at the roller coaster of rulings coming from one Georgia judge, how his latest ruling is a massive win for the deplorables, and how feckless establishment Republicans in Georgia have actually tried but failed to protect Dominion Voting Systems from the very citizens they claim to represent;

you are NOT going to want to miss this!”

The Federal Judge has taken the step of impounding the criminal evidence held within the voting machines, having previously declared in a ruling “that defendants are enjoined and restrained from altering, destroying, or erasing, or allowing the alteration, destruction, or erasure of, any software or data on any Dominion voting machine in Cobb, Gwinnett, and Cherokee counties.”He also ordered the Democrats to “promptly produce to plaintiffs a copy of the contract between the state and Dominion.”

MORE TO FOLLOW.

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CIA, FBI & NSA cyber expert testifies: “Hundreds of thousands of Trump votes were transferred to Biden.”

Dr. Navid Keshavarz-Nia is an experienced cybercrimes investigator and digital security executive.

Dr. Keshavarz-Nia says in an affidavit under penalty of perjury that: “I conclude with high confidence that the election 2020 data were altered in all battleground states resulting in hundreds of thousands of votes that were cast for President Trump to be transferred to Vice President Biden.”

In addition to his work with U.S. intelligence agencies Dr. Keshavarz-Nia currently works on cyber security and fraud, and among his clients is German Banking giant Deutsche Bank.

As one of the top cyber security analysts on earth, he has worked with the CIA, NSA, FBI, and U.S. military counterintelligence. He has also been featured as a star Cybersecurity expert in the New York Times for his role in exposing a fake CIA spy that had convinced many in Washington DC that he was real.

The New York Times spoke very highly of Dr Keshavarz-Nia for his role in exposing a scam artist named Garrison Courtney posing as a CIA spy.

“Keshavarz-Nia, those who worked with him said, ‘was always the smartest person in the room,’” the Times reported on September 9 in the story, “How One Man Conned the Beltway.”

Dr. Keshavarz-Nia shares his bombshell assessment in the affidavit he submitted as part of  the lawsuit filed by Sidney Powell in Georgia.

Dr. Keshavarz-Nia is just one of the top ranking & high-powered experts Powell has expert testimony from in support of her court filings.

You can read the conclusions of Dr Keshavarz-Nia on the fraudulent activity in the United States presidential election here:

You can watch and listen to an overview of the whole case in Georgia here:

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Federal Judge issues restraining order “to prevent wiping or resetting voting machines in Georgia.”

The continuing saga of the hotly disputed United States election continued today as a Federal Judge in Georgia ruled that all voting machines in the state be placed under a restraining order. The judged ruled that:

“It is hereby ordered adjudged and decreed as follows:

Defendents shall have until Wednesday, December 2 at 5:00 p.m. EST to file a brief setting forth the factual bases they have, if any, against the allowing the 3 forensic inspections. The brief should be accompanied and supported by affidavit or other evidence, if appropriate.

Defendants are hereby enjoined and restrained from altering, destroying, or erasing, or allowing the alteration, destruction or erasure of, any software or data on any Dominion Voting machine in Cobb, Gwinnett, and Cherokee Counties.

Defendents are ordered to promptly produce to Plaintiffs a copy of the contract between the State and Dominion.

This restraining order shall remain in effect for 10 days, or until further order of the court, whichever comes first.

It is so ordered this 29th day of November 2020 at 10:10pm EST.

Signed

Timothy C. Batten Sr., United States District Judge.

You can read the judgement here:

This comes after the FBI opened an investigation into US electoral fraud.

Black Lives Matter activist beats adopted 3-year-old white daughter to death after complaining about her “White Privilege” online.

What a disgusting animal.

GameStopGate: We’re about to see Hedgefund Managers jump from windows in numbers not seen since 1929.

Melvin Capital shorts GME. It’s a sure bet since GameStop is a dying company with a dying business model

whole bunch of other hedge funds get in on guaranteed money

uh oh, r/wsb and /biz/ find out the outstanding shorts add up to 130% of the existing shares. They start buying shares and refusing to sell since it’s guaranteed profits

when the short positions comes due, hedge funds have to buy every share on the market and then another 30% if they want to avoid getting assfucked by the SEC and every bloodthirsty lawyer on the planet for breach of contract and breaking tons of laws

the positions close Friday EOD

weaponized autism knew this would happen. Price per share goes from about $20 last month to $145 at close yesterday

any price above $175 means Melvin does not have enough assets to cover the purchase and their bank is on the hook for the difference

Elon “based African American” Musk tweets a link to a WSB about the whole thing. Probably because of a grudge from when Melvin bragged about shorting TSLA

GME opened at $340 this morning and only stayed below $300 after hours

/biz/ is confident it’ll hit $1000 by Friday

since there is a buyer that MUST buy every share (and then some) by a certain time, there is no theoretical upper limit to the share price. As long as the autism continues to HODL the price keeps going up

shills are everywhere desperately begging us to sell

We’re about to see hedgies jump from windows in numbers not seen since 1929

Twisted Twitter sued for hosting & monetising child porn of a 13 year old, then REFUSING to delete it – even after the victim’s MOTHER demanded it.

A mother is suing Jack Dorsey & Twitter after her 13 year old boy was blackmailed into sending a video of himself to an adult, who then posted the video to the social media platform. Twitter then monetised the video & refused to delete it.

Once the video of child pornography was posted, it received 170,000 views, 2,200 retweet and 6640 likes.

Twitter refused to delete the video after it was decided it “did not break terms of service.”

Compare and contrast this with Twitter’s policy when it comes to political opinions they disagree with, and the only thing we can conclude is that Twitter finds Conservative opinions unacceptable, but has no problem hosting child porn. Disgusting.

“Twitter refused to take down widely shared pornographic images and videos of a teenage sex trafficking victim because an investigation “didn’t find a violation” of the company’s “policies,” the lawsuit alleges.

The federal suit, filed Wednesday by the victim and his mother in the Northern District of California, alleges Twitter made money off the clips, which showed a 13-year-old engaged in sex acts and are a form of child sexual abuse material, or child porn, the suit states.

George Orwell Series: 1984 – Part 1, Chapter 4

4
With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day’s work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk.

In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston’s arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building.

Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon — not actually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words — which was used in the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran:

times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify

times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify current issue

times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify

times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling

With a faint feeling of satisfaction Winston laid the fourth message aside. It was an intricate and responsible job and had better be dealt with last. The other three were routine matters, though the second one would probably mean some tedious wading through lists of figures.

Winston dialled ‘back numbers’ on the telescreen and called for the appropriate issues of The Times, which slid out of the pneumatic tube after only a few minutes’ delay. The messages he had received referred to articles or news items which for one reason or another it was thought necessary to alter, or, as the official phrase had it, to rectify. For example, it appeared from The Times of the seventeenth of March that Big Brother, in his speech of the previous day, had predicted that the South Indian front would remain quiet but that a Eurasian offensive would shortly be launched in North Africa. As it happened, the Eurasian Higher Command had launched its offensive in South India and left North Africa alone. It was therefore necessary to rewrite a paragraph of Big Brother’s speech, in such a way as to make him predict the thing that had actually happened. Or again, The Times of the nineteenth of December had published the official forecasts of the output of various classes of consumption goods in the fourth quarter of 1983, which was also the sixth quarter of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. Today’s issue contained a statement of the actual output, from which it appeared that the forecasts were in every instance grossly wrong. Winston’s job was to rectify the original figures by making them agree with the later ones. As for the third message, it referred to a very simple error which could be set right in a couple of minutes. As short a time ago as February, the Ministry of Plenty had issued a promise (a ‘categorical pledge’ were the official words) that there would be no reduction of the chocolate ration during 1984. Actually, as Winston was aware, the chocolate ration was to be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty at the end of the present week. All that was needed was to substitute for the original promise a warning that it would probably be necessary to reduce the ration at some time in April.

As soon as Winston had dealt with each of the messages, he clipped his speakwritten corrections to the appropriate copy of The Times and pushed them into the pneumatic tube. Then, with a movement which was as nearly as possible unconscious, he crumpled up the original message and any notes that he himself had made, and dropped them into the memory hole to be devoured by the flames.

What happened in the unseen labyrinth to which the pneumatic tubes led, he did not know in detail, but he did know in general terms. As soon as all the corrections which happened to be necessary in any particular number of The Times had been assembled and collated, that number would be reprinted, the original copy destroyed, and the corrected copy placed on the files in its stead. This process of continuous alteration was applied not only to newspapers, but to books, periodicals, pamphlets, posters, leaflets, films, sound-tracks, cartoons, photographs — to every kind of literature or documentation which might conceivably hold any political or ideological significance. Day by day and almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date. In this way every prediction made by the Party could be shown by documentary evidence to have been correct, nor was any item of news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted with the needs of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record. All history was a palimpsest, scraped clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was necessary. In no case would it have been possible, once the deed was done, to prove that any falsification had taken place. The largest section of the Records Department, far larger than the one on which Winston worked, consisted simply of persons whose duty it was to track down and collect all copies of books, newspapers, and other documents which had been superseded and were due for destruction. A number of The Times which might, because of changes in political alignment, or mistaken prophecies uttered by Big Brother, have been rewritten a dozen times still stood on the files bearing its original date, and no other copy existed to contradict it. Books, also, were recalled and rewritten again and again, and were invariably reissued without any admission that any alteration had been made. Even the written instructions which Winston received, and which he invariably got rid of as soon as he had dealt with them, never stated or implied that an act of forgery was to be committed: always the reference was to slips, errors, misprints, or misquotations which it was necessary to put right in the interests of accuracy.

But actually, he thought as he re-adjusted the Ministry of Plenty’s figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the substitution of one piece of nonsense for another. Most of the material that you were dealing with had no connexion with anything in the real world, not even the kind of connexion that is contained in a direct lie. Statistics were just as much a fantasy in their original version as in their rectified version. A great deal of the time you were expected to make them up out of your head. For example, the Ministry of Plenty’s forecast had estimated the output of boots for the quarter at one-hundred-and-forty-five million pairs. The actual output was given as sixty-two millions. Winston, however, in rewriting the forecast, marked the figure down to fifty-seven millions, so as to allow for the usual claim that the quota had been overfulfilled. In any case, sixty-two millions was no nearer the truth than fifty-seven millions, or than one-hundred-and-forty-five millions. Very likely no boots had been produced at all. Likelier still, nobody knew how many had been produced, much less cared. All one knew was that every quarter astronomical numbers of boots were produced on paper, while perhaps half the population of Oceania went barefoot. And so it was with every class of recorded fact, great or small. Everything faded away into a shadow-world in which, finally, even the date of the year had become uncertain.

Winston glanced across the hall. In the corresponding cubicle on the other side a small, precise-looking, dark-chinned man named Tillotson was working steadily away, with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth very close to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite. He had the air of trying to keep what he was saying a secret between himself and the telescreen. He looked up, and his spectacles darted a hostile flash in Winston’s direction.

Winston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what work he was employed on. People in the Records Department did not readily talk about their jobs. In the long, windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles and its endless rustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into speakwrites, there were quite a dozen people whom Winston did not even know by name, though he daily saw them hurrying to and fro in the corridors or gesticulating in the Two Minutes Hate. He knew that in the cubicle next to him the little woman with sandy hair toiled day in day out, simply at tracking down and deleting from the Press the names of people who had been vaporized and were therefore considered never to have existed. There was a certain fitness in this, since her own husband had been vaporized a couple of years earlier. And a few cubicles away a mild, ineffectual, dreamy creature named Ampleforth, with very hairy ears and a surprising talent for juggling with rhymes and metres, was engaged in producing garbled versions — definitive texts, they were called — of poems which had become ideologically offensive, but which for one reason or another were to be retained in the anthologies. And this hall, with its fifty workers or thereabouts, was only one sub-section, a single cell, as it were, in the huge complexity of the Records Department. Beyond, above, below, were other swarms of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude of jobs. There were the huge printing-shops with their sub-editors, their typography experts, and their elaborately equipped studios for the faking of photographs. There was the tele-programmes section with its engineers, its producers, and its teams of actors specially chosen for their skill in imitating voices. There were the armies of reference clerks whose job was simply to draw up lists of books and periodicals which were due for recall. There were the vast repositories where the corrected documents were stored, and the hidden furnaces where the original copies were destroyed. And somewhere or other, quite anonymous, there were the directing brains who co-ordinated the whole effort and laid down the lines of policy which made it necessary that this fragment of the past should be preserved, that one falsified, and the other rubbed out of existence.

And the Records Department, after all, was itself only a single branch of the Ministry of Truth, whose primary job was not to reconstruct the past but to supply the citizens of Oceania with newspapers, films, textbooks, telescreen programmes, plays, novels — with every conceivable kind of information, instruction, or entertainment, from a statue to a slogan, from a lyric poem to a biological treatise, and from a child’s spelling-book to a Newspeak dictionary. And the Ministry had not only to supply the multifarious needs of the party, but also to repeat the whole operation at a lower level for the benefit of the proletariat. There was a whole chain of separate departments dealing with proletarian literature, music, drama, and entertainment generally. Here were produced rubbishy newspapers containing almost nothing except sport, crime and astrology, sensational five-cent novelettes, films oozing with sex, and sentimental songs which were composed entirely by mechanical means on a special kind of kaleidoscope known as a versificator. There was even a whole sub-section — Pornosec, it was called in Newspeak — engaged in producing the lowest kind of pornography, which was sent out in sealed packets and which no Party member, other than those who worked on it, was permitted to look at.

Three messages had slid out of the pneumatic tube while Winston was working, but they were simple matters, and he had disposed of them before the Two Minutes Hate interrupted him. When the Hate was over he returned to his cubicle, took the Newspeak dictionary from the shelf, pushed the speakwrite to one side, cleaned his spectacles, and settled down to his main job of the morning.

Winston’s greatest pleasure in life was in his work. Most of it was a tedious routine, but included in it there were also jobs so difficult and intricate that you could lose yourself in them as in the depths of a mathematical problem — delicate pieces of forgery in which you had nothing to guide you except your knowledge of the principles of Ingsoc and your estimate of what the Party wanted you to say. Winston was good at this kind of thing. On occasion he had even been entrusted with the rectification of The Times leading articles, which were written entirely in Newspeak. He unrolled the message that he had set aside earlier. It ran:

times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling

In Oldspeak (or standard English) this might be rendered:

The reporting of Big Brother’s Order for the Day in The Times of December 3rd 1983 is extremely unsatisfactory and makes references to non-existent persons. Rewrite it in full and submit your draft to higher authority before filing.

Winston read through the offending article. Big Brother’s Order for the Day, it seemed, had been chiefly devoted to praising the work of an organization known as FFCC, which supplied cigarettes and other comforts to the sailors in the Floating Fortresses. A certain Comrade Withers, a prominent member of the Inner Party, had been singled out for special mention and awarded a decoration, the Order of Conspicuous Merit, Second Class.

Three months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved with no reasons given. One could assume that Withers and his associates were now in disgrace, but there had been no report of the matter in the Press or on the telescreen. That was to be expected, since it was unusual for political offenders to be put on trial or even publicly denounced. The great purges involving thousands of people, with public trials of traitors and thought-criminals who made abject confession of their crimes and were afterwards executed, were special show-pieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of years. More commonly, people who had incurred the displeasure of the Party simply disappeared and were never heard of again. One never had the smallest clue as to what had happened to them. In some cases they might not even be dead. Perhaps thirty people personally known to Winston, not counting his parents, had disappeared at one time or another.

Winston stroked his nose gently with a paper-clip. In the cubicle across the way Comrade Tillotson was still crouching secretively over his speakwrite. He raised his head for a moment: again the hostile spectacle-flash. Winston wondered whether Comrade Tillotson was engaged on the same job as himself. It was perfectly possible. So tricky a piece of work would never be entrusted to a single person: on the other hand, to turn it over to a committee would be to admit openly that an act of fabrication was taking place. Very likely as many as a dozen people were now working away on rival versions of what Big Brother had actually said. And presently some master brain in the Inner Party would select this version or that, would re-edit it and set in motion the complex processes of cross-referencing that would be required, and then the chosen lie would pass into the permanent records and become truth.

Winston did not know why Withers had been disgraced. Perhaps it was for corruption or incompetence. Perhaps Big Brother was merely getting rid of a too-popular subordinate. Perhaps Withers or someone close to him had been suspected of heretical tendencies. Or perhaps — what was likeliest of all — the thing had simply happened because purges and vaporizations were a necessary part of the mechanics of government. The only real clue lay in the words ‘refs unpersons’, which indicated that Withers was already dead. You could not invariably assume this to be the case when people were arrested. Sometimes they were released and allowed to remain at liberty for as much as a year or two years before being executed. Very occasionally some person whom you had believed dead long since would make a ghostly reappearance at some public trial where he would implicate hundreds of others by his testimony before vanishing, this time for ever. Withers, however, was already an unperson. He did not exist: he had never existed. Winston decided that it would not be enough simply to reverse the tendency of Big Brother’s speech. It was better to make it deal with something totally unconnected with its original subject.

He might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of traitors and thought-criminals, but that was a little too obvious, while to invent a victory at the front, or some triumph of over-production in the Ninth Three-Year Plan, might complicate the records too much. What was needed was a piece of pure fantasy. Suddenly there sprang into his mind, ready made as it were, the image of a certain Comrade Ogilvy, who had recently died in battle, in heroic circumstances. There were occasions when Big Brother devoted his Order for the Day to commemorating some humble, rank-and-file Party member whose life and death he held up as an example worthy to be followed. To-day he should commemorate Comrade Ogilvy. It was true that there was no such person as Comrade Ogilvy, but a few lines of print and a couple of faked photographs would soon bring him into existence.

Winston thought for a moment, then pulled the speakwrite towards him and began dictating in Big Brother’s familiar style: a style at once military and pedantic, and, because of a trick of asking questions and then promptly answering them (‘What lessons do we learn from this fact, comrades? The lesson — which is also one of the fundamental principles of Ingsoc — that,’ etc., etc.), easy to imitate.

At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys except a drum, a sub-machine gun, and a model helicopter. At six — a year early, by a special relaxation of the rules — he had joined the Spies, at nine he had been a troop leader. At eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought Police after overhearing a conversation which appeared to him to have criminal tendencies. At seventeen he had been a district organizer of the Junior Anti-Sex League. At nineteen he had designed a hand-grenade which had been adopted by the Ministry of Peace and which, at its first trial, had killed thirty-one Eurasian prisoners in one burst. At twenty-three he had perished in action. Pursued by enemy jet planes while flying over the Indian Ocean with important despatches, he had weighted his body with his machine gun and leapt out of the helicopter into deep water, despatches and all — an end, said Big Brother, which it was impossible to contemplate without feelings of envy. Big Brother added a few remarks on the purity and single-mindedness of Comrade Ogilvy’s life. He was a total abstainer and a non-smoker, had no recreations except a daily hour in the gymnasium, and had taken a vow of celibacy, believing marriage and the care of a family to be incompatible with a twenty-four-hour-a-day devotion to duty. He had no subjects of conversation except the principles of Ingsoc, and no aim in life except the defeat of the Eurasian enemy and the hunting-down of spies, saboteurs, thought-criminals, and traitors generally.

Winston debated with himself whether to award Comrade Ogilvy the Order of Conspicuous Merit: in the end he decided against it because of the unnecessary cross-referencing that it would entail.

Once again he glanced at his rival in the opposite cubicle. Something seemed to tell him with certainty that Tillotson was busy on the same job as himself. There was no way of knowing whose job would finally be adopted, but he felt a profound conviction that it would be his own. Comrade Ogilvy, unimagined an hour ago, was now a fact. It struck him as curious that you could create dead men but not living ones. Comrade Ogilvy, who had never existed in the present, now existed in the past, and when once the act of forgery was forgotten, he would exist just as authentically, and upon the same evidence, as Charlemagne or Julius Caesar.

Joe Biden is “Killing 10,000 jobs & taking $2.2 billion in payroll out of workers pockets” on day 1. The next 4 years are going to be a catastrophe for the economy.

AOPL LAMENTS JOBS LOST ON BIDEN’S ON FIRST DAY

FOR IMMEDIATE Release. WASHINGTON, DC – Today, the Association of Oil Pipe Lines (AOPL) lamented the Biden administration’s first day action to block thousands of new jobs and deprive those workers of billions of dollars in payroll salary.

The losses are a result of President Biden’s expected revocation of the cross-border permit for the Keystone XL pipeline, currently under construction between Alberta, Canada and Nebraska. 


“Killing 10,000 jobs and taking $2.2 billion in payroll out of workers pockets is not what Americans need or want right now,” said Andy Black, AOPL President and CEO. 
Building the Keystone XL pipeline would create 10,000 good-paying American union jobs during construction.

U.S. employment wages would exceeded $2.2 billion under a Project Labor Agreement with four American labor unions. The pipeline’s builder was ready to award over $3 billion in contracts awarded to U.S. contractors and suppliers in 2020 with all new steel pipe for Keystone XL is Made in America. 


The project also offered significant environmental protections. Keystone XL would operate at net-zero GHG emissions. Its $1.7 billion investment in new, privately-funded renewable power infrastructure would provide 100% of the power to operate the pipeline.

The project sponsor also executed a renewable power MOU with North America’s Building Trades Unions to construct this renewable power infrastructure with a $10 million Green Job Training Fund for union workers.  


The Biden Keystone XL cancellation will also hurt Native American communities. Native American partnerships in the project would generated more than $1 billion in equity ownership opportunities with input into construction and operations.

The project sponsor committed over $500 million for Native American suppliers and employment opportunities for tribal communities. Rural America would lose out on over $100 million of annual property taxes that would have gone to rural communities.  


Blocking Keystone XL may ironically lead to an increase in greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions. Government analysis shows pipelines emit fewer GHGs when they make their deliveries compared to other modes of transportation.

Denying construction of Keystone XL means much of that crude oil will travel by train or truck instead, producing greater GHG emissions, more air pollution and more traffic congestion. 


AOPL represents liquids pipeline owners and operators transporting crude oil, petroleum products like gasoline, diesel fuel, jet fuel, home heating oil, industrial feedstocks like ethane and rural fuels like propane. AOPL represents over 50 pipeline companies with over 200,000 miles of pipelines across America delivering affordable, reliable and plentiful energy to American drivers, families, farmers, workers and shoppers. oil, petroleum products like gasoline, diesel fuel, jet fuel, home heating oil, industrial feedstocks like ethane and rural fuels like propane.

AOPL represents over 50 pipeline companies with over 200,000 miles of pipelines across America delivering affordable, reliable and plentiful energy to American drivers, families, farmers, workers and shoppers.

“President Trump never had to protect himself from American troops. Is there a worse start to a Presidency than Joe Biden hiding from American troops?”

Political commentator, writer and cartoonist Scott Adams sums up today’s sham “inauguration” :

“President Donald Trump never had to protect himself from American troops.

Let me repeat that for you three more times:

President Donald Trump never had to protect himself from American troops.

President Donald Trump never had to protect himself from American troops.

President Donald Trump never had to protect himself from American troops.

Is there a worse start to a Presidency than Joe Biden hiding from American troops?”

FBI designates Turning Point student organisation an “extremist group” in first of Biden administration political Purges.

Political Purges on day one are the hallmark of legitimacy, giving the signal that the incoming administration feels secure in its mandate. Double plus good comrade.

One of the metrics the FBI under the Biden administration is using to purge the National Guard and military is membership of the Student organisation founded by Charlie Kirk in the USA, by Ollie Anisfeld in the UK & with sister organisations throughout the anglophone world.

White House source: “The NRA, Turning Point & Patriotic Riders are three of many non militia groups on the list CID/FBI are using to cross reference vetting for potential “extremists.

They are looking at various Turning Point chapters in almost every uni verso and high school.”

Editorial declaration of interest: This writer was once the Editor in Chief of The Point News, Turning Points’ newsfeed for the UK. I resigned in protest over editorial policy.

I also worked with TPUK on an expose of Labour Party election fraud in the lead up to the 2019 UK election.

George Orwell Series: 1984 – Part 1, Chapter 3

3
Winston was dreaming of his mother.

He must, he thought, have been ten or eleven years old when his mother had disappeared. She was a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow movements and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered more vaguely as dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark clothes (Winston remembered especially the very thin soles of his father’s shoes) and wearing spectacles. The two of them must evidently have been swallowed up in one of the first great purges of the fifties.

At this moment his mother was sitting in some place deep down beneath him, with his young sister in her arms. He did not remember his sister at all, except as a tiny, feeble baby, always silent, with large, watchful eyes. Both of them were looking up at him. They were down in some subterranean place — the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very deep grave — but it was a place which, already far below him, was itself moving downwards. They were in the saloon of a sinking ship, looking up at him through the darkening water. There was still air in the saloon, they could still see him and he them, but all the while they were sinking down, down into the green waters which in another moment must hide them from sight for ever. He was out in the light and air while they were being sucked down to death, and they were down there because he was up here. He knew it and they knew it, and he could see the knowledge in their faces. There was no reproach either in their faces or in their hearts, only the knowledge that they must die in order that he might remain alive, and that this was part of the unavoidable order of things.

He could not remember what had happened, but he knew in his dream that in some way the lives of his mother and his sister had been sacrificed to his own. It was one of those dreams which, while retaining the characteristic dream scenery, are a continuation of one’s intellectual life, and in which one becomes aware of facts and ideas which still seem new and valuable after one is awake. The thing that now suddenly struck Winston was that his mother’s death, nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a way that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he perceived, belonged to the ancient time, to a time when there was still privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of a family stood by one another without needing to know the reason. His mother’s memory tore at his heart because she had died loving him, when he was too young and selfish to love her in return, and because somehow, he did not remember how, she had sacrificed herself to a conception of loyalty that was private and unalterable. Such things, he saw, could not happen today. Today there were fear, hatred, and pain, but no dignity of emotion, no deep or complex sorrows. All this he seemed to see in the large eyes of his mother and his sister, looking up at him through the green water, hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking.

Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a summer evening when the slanting rays of the sun gilded the ground. The landscape that he was looking at recurred so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain whether or not he had seen it in the real world. In his waking thoughts he called it the Golden Country. It was an old, rabbit-bitten pasture, with a foot-track wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on the opposite side of the field the boughs of the elm trees were swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring in dense masses like women’s hair. Somewhere near at hand, though out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream where dace were swimming in the pools under the willow trees.

The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across the field. With what seemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them disdainfully aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, indeed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant was admiration for the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside. With its grace and carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a single splendid movement of the arm. That too was a gesture belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the word ‘Shakespeare’ on his lips.

The telescreen was giving forth an ear-splitting whistle which continued on the same note for thirty seconds. It was nought seven fifteen, getting-up time for office workers. Winston wrenched his body out of bed — naked, for a member of the Outer Party received only 3,000 clothing coupons annually, and a suit of pyjamas was 600 — and seized a dingy singlet and a pair of shorts that were lying across a chair. The Physical Jerks would begin in three minutes. The next moment he was doubled up by a violent coughing fit which nearly always attacked him soon after waking up. It emptied his lungs so completely that he could only begin breathing again by lying on his back and taking a series of deep gasps. His veins had swelled with the effort of the cough, and the varicose ulcer had started itching.

‘Thirty to forty group!’ yapped a piercing female voice. ‘Thirty to forty group! Take your places, please. Thirties to forties!’

Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the image of a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-shoes, had already appeared.

‘Arms bending and stretching!’ she rapped out. ‘Take your time by me. One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of life into it! One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! …’

The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of Winston’s mind the impression made by his dream, and the rhythmic movements of the exercise restored it somewhat. As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, wearing on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling to think his way backward into the dim period of his early childhood. It was extraordinarily difficult. Beyond the late fifties everything faded. When there were no external records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which had quite probably not happened, you remembered the detail of incidents without being able to recapture their atmosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you could assign nothing. Everything had been different then. Even the names of countries, and their shapes on the map, had been different. Airstrip One, for instance, had not been so called in those days: it had been called England or Britain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had always been called London.

Winston could not definitely remember a time when his country had not been at war, but it was evident that there had been a fairly long interval of peace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an air raid which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was the time when the atomic bomb had fallen on Colchester. He did not remember the raid itself, but he did remember his father’s hand clutching his own as they hurried down, down, down into some place deep in the earth, round and round a spiral staircase which rang under his feet and which finally so wearied his legs that he began whimpering and they had to stop and rest. His mother, in her slow, dreamy way, was following a long way behind them. She was carrying his baby sister — or perhaps it was only a bundle of blankets that she was carrying: he was not certain whether his sister had been born then. Finally they had emerged into a noisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube station.

There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above the other. Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap pushed back from very white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were blue and full of tears. He reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old man loved — a little granddaughter, perhaps had been killed. Every few minutes the old man kept repeating:

‘We didn’t ought to ‘ave trusted ’em. I said so, Ma, didn’t I? That’s what comes of trusting ’em. I said so all along. We didn’t ought to ‘ave trusted the buggers.

But which buggers they didn’t ought to have trusted Winston could not now remember.

Since about that time, war had been literally continuous, though strictly speaking it had not always been the same war. For several months during his childhood there had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any given moment, would have been utterly impossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention of any other alignment than the existing one. At this moment, for example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. In no public or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three powers had at any time been grouped along different lines. Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge which he happened to possess because his memory was not satisfactorily under control. Officially the change of partners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia: therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that any past or future agreement with him was impossible.

The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be good for the back muscles) — the frightening thing was that it might all be true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and say of this or that event, it never happened — that, surely, was more terrifying than mere torture and death?

The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia. He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as short a time as four years ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed -if all records told the same tale — then the lie passed into history and became truth. ‘Who controls the past,’ ran the Party slogan, ‘controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.’ And yet the past, though of its nature alterable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed was an unending series of victories over your own memory. ‘Reality control’, they called it: in Newspeak, ‘doublethink’.

‘Stand easy!’ barked the instructress, a little more genially.

Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled his lungs with air. His mind slid away into the labyrinthine world of doublethink. To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget it again: and above all, to apply the same process to the process itself. That was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to understand the word ‘doublethink’ involved the use of doublethink.

The instructress had called them to attention again. ‘And now let’s see which of us can touch our toes!’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Right over from the hips, please, comrades. One-two! One- two! …’

Winston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains all the way from his heels to his buttocks and often ended by bringing on another coughing fit. The half-pleasant quality went out of his meditations. The past, he reflected, had not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For how could you establish even the most obvious fact when there existed no record outside your own memory? He tried to remember in what year he had first heard mention of Big Brother. He thought it must have been at some time in the sixties, but it was impossible to be certain. In the Party histories, of course, Big Brother figured as the leader and guardian of the Revolution since its very earliest days. His exploits had been gradually pushed backwards in time until already they extended into the fabulous world of the forties and the thirties, when the capitalists in their strange cylindrical hats still rode through the streets of London in great gleaming motor-cars or horse carriages with glass sides. There was no knowing how much of this legend was true and how much invented. Winston could not even remember at what date the Party itself had come into existence. He did not believe he had ever heard the word Ingsoc before 1960, but it was possible that in its Oldspeak form — ‘English Socialism’, that is to say — it had been current earlier. Everything melted into mist. Sometimes, indeed, you could put your finger on a definite lie. It was not true, for example, as was claimed in the Party history books, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. He remembered aeroplanes since his earliest childhood. But you could prove nothing. There was never any evidence. Just once in his whole life he had held in his hands unmistakable documentary proof of the falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion —

‘Smith!’ screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen. ‘6079 Smith W.! Yes, you! Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. You’re not trying. Lower, please! That’s better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole squad, and watch me.’

A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston’s body. His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and — one could not say gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency — bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes.

‘There, comrades! That’s how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again. I’m thirty-nine and I’ve had four children. Now look.’ She bent over again. ‘You see my knees aren’t bent. You can all do it if you want to,’ she added as she straightened herself up. ‘Anyone under forty-five is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don’t all have the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what they have to put up with. Now try again. That’s better, comrade, that’s much better,’ she added encouragingly as Winston, with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with knees unbent, for the first time in several years.