What I Saw At The Time-Travel, And The Obamaclypse.

By Jeffrey A. Friedberg

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I already know I’ll be scoffed at, challenged, and attacked for what I’m going to say here. That would be, because my outlook and opinions are from another era—and not part of the current, fashionable, “safe” Collective.

I’m not in synch with this more “advanced,” time, of millennials, false reality, lying media, scum politicians, pornographic Hollywood, multi-millionaire kneeling athletes, and other drugged hipsters.

But, I shall never take “the blue pill:” representing security in this Matrix of group lies, illusion—and the bliss of collective ignorance.

No, I choose the red pill: representing freedom, knowledge, and the real world—truth, justice, and the American way.

I just now went through practically the entire inventory of Netflix. This included examining many films and productions with “5 Star Ratings,” and it was all pretty damn dismal. I tried watching seven or eight sample productions with these so-called, “high ratings,” but they were mostly all crap in a wrapper.

The “standard” for “high ratings” seems to be: lots of herky-jerky Cgi; plenty of jumping around and fighting; wild chase scenes and big crashes; gratuitous and obligatory sex; and plenty of BIG guns shooting and “blowing” things away. In other words, it seems to me that to rate five stars, a film merely needs lots of violence in general, and modern people will love it.

“Plot and Structure,” now seem centered on the brain delights of a six year old child. Or, a monkey.

The concept of “Good Story” seems dead.

The concept of “Wanton Action” seems to rule.

You see: in my time Life was organized, and good to live. Among other things, we had good film and ethics to emulate: good, mythic plot, structure, and story. We had godlike greats, like, Bogart, Bacall, Cagney, Edward G. Robinson, Charles Laughton, Clark gable, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Gregory Peck, Gary Cooper, Peter Lorre, and many other imposing stars of the Mythic Screen.

And none of them took their clothes off or did sex scenes.

Oh…by the way, I’m coming to the political part. It’s up ahead. I’m working into it gradually. You will be rewarded.

While I’m on the topic, I did find two or three documentaries to watch on Netflix. These were barely okay, but I think the best thing on Netflix right now is the 100-episode offering of FUTURAMA.

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FUTURAMA is a silly, balls forward, cartoon series that takes place 1000 years in the future. It’s funny, tongue-in-cheek-racy, has rudimentary political and social orientation, and it works.

Okay, if you’re now doing it, stop the indignant “harumphing,” at me. I just don’t want to hear it.

I don’t care.

Netflix is like Life. Over the past two or three years of searching and wringing out Netflix like an old washrag, I did find maybe fifteen, tolerable productions, but almost nothing I can remember.

There were some memorable Korean shows and TV series, but I won’t go into them here. There were a few good movies; but only a few.

It’s like this: The Koreans are funny. The Japs do good horror. In a Thai film, everybody dies. In a French film, everybody’s dirty and nobody wins. In Nordic films you really need the subtitles to figure out what the hell is quietly going on. In Bollywood movies, you better like a lot of singing and dancing (I do). These productions all had very good actors. It’s like living in the real world.

In contrast, however, American films are rigid, formulaic, collectively safe and popular, and generally stink, as do American actors, who seem members of the same genetically altered, stultified flock.

That is to say, American actors have certain acting shtick that many will perform repeatedly, as if they are taught to do it. Or they just copy each other to be accepted and safe within their group. They also do this to obscenely attract attention to their needy selves.

They are like politicians, whose only job is to garner adulation, become popular, and be chosen by the collective to continue doing whatever they are doing.

Actors might: noisily rattle a glass and ice cubes; “dramatically” stop the action by pinching the bridge of their nose; take a noisy sip of a drink and then wipe their mouth with back of the same hand; snort, as if clearing snot; pretend to be eating (they just make chewy faces); hold their gun “artistically” with maybe three fingers as they “dramatically” flex and “act” with the other fingers; weave and “dance” down a hallway with their gun held snappily up behind their ear (so they can shoot themselves in the head).

IMG_8063Or, if a LONGMIRE, they constantly grip the gun and gun leather on their belt, when, in reality, this would wreck and distort the belt and fuck up the holster.

And they perform other, needless, arrogant, “dramatic nuances.” The most overacted and worst scene in film history was perhaps a Jeff Bridges scene—where he has Iron Man paralyzed on the couch. Bridges is so overacted, gesticulating, self-sliming, self-aggrandizing, self-soiling, and needy there, that I had to speed ahead Forward to get out of it. This was because it reminded me vicerally too much of today’s sickening, dishonorable, phony, American Politics.

I hate these American films. And politics. And Systems of control and rule and their enforcers.

Why is this the case? What the hell is my point, awready, you might ask?

It’s because I’m from another era. Some of us really are.

But “they,” the rulers and enforcers, would like to kill us off, because we remember how things were—and we make their job of controlling the populace more difficult.

For example, I’m from past golden ages of the 1940s and 1950s, when movies used to be good.

How they made us feel, alone in that dark theater; that’s what mattered. It was how we experienced and reacted to the film. How we felt. It enhanced Life.

I don’t get that same feeling from “modern” films.

Or, from this so-called, modern Life.

It makes me sick. It leaves me cold.

But Like I said, I’m not from here.

Because, speaking of “the future,” this is it. The future.

I time-traveled here, to this future. This place. This different Life. You see, when I was a child, horses still pulled wooden ice-wagons in the streets of South Philadelphia. You didn’t have a refrigerator; no, you had an “ice box.” How’d I ever time-travel the vast distance from there, to here?

I did it by the slow method: I lived through it.

I—and many others—lived through the Cold War, the Space Age, the New Age, the Clinton Age, the Obamaclypse, and the Age Of Collapse.

At one time, Life was good. It was secure. We knew who we were. We knew which restroom to pee in at the department store.

Then, the Age Of Collapse….

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That would be when standards collapsed. When a sickening, puerile, obscene, violent, pop-culture and a Collective, somehow took control of life on Earth. Perry Como became Kanye West; Doris Day became Lena Dunham; Frank Capra became Harvey Weinstein; Ginger Rogers became Miley Cyrus; and the Lone Ranger became Che Guevara.

It was when communication started to rot off the spine of Society. Nouns became verbs, as in “let’s Party…a good Read…I Gifted her,” and the rest of it. Words were purposefully altered and meant whatever the ruling liberal elite said they meant. Patriotism became Racism; the Christian religion became Hate; the Pope became a Commie Islamist.

The genius of the individual was twisted and warped into “safety” and acceptance by the Group. The all-suffering, all-mighty, all-ruling, all-punishing, alien, Religious Collective was born in America.

Groupthink.

Political correctness. “A prison for your mind.”

I have not synched up to these new standards. But that is not to say that I don’t understand and loathe them based upon an intellectual comprehension of them.

Because—although I am really, freaking old—I can still smell the peanut butter. And water at five miles away.

What this means, kids, according to the Internet, is that my brain still works.

And, also, that in my very long life on Earth, I have had time and experience enough to develop what is called,  Perspective.

I can just hear the derision—“Hah! A fucking old guy; a know-nothing, old fart!”

No. Wrong.

My generation and its immediate progenitors freaking invented television; antibiotics; polio vaccine; heart transplants; the transistor; stereo; the computer; space travel; Teflon; Gortex; Kevlar; bionic implants; the cellphone; the Internet, online dating, and other amazing things.

As near as I can tell, no generation after that invented a god damned thing of any importance.

Or, am I missing something here?

Sure, they improved some things, yes—but these were things We had already invented decades ago. Tell me something that’s new out there?

Star travel? Teleportation? The replicator? The Borg?

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That fricking anti-American pussy, Patty Stewart, “Jean Luc Picard?”

What?

Nothing important? That’s what.

What I’ve noticed is: that if I dare critique, or write negatively about a production—or ANYthing that the moderns—mostly the Millennials—somehow love, like socialism, Marxism, illegals, or Islam, then they will form up and mass like fish bait-balls, and—in a viscious horde—mob-attack me.

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Apparently they are trained to do this in the Government Indoctrination Centers called, “schools.” And by their “flash,” so-called, “social” milieu. And by the neverending, immersive, saturating tides, seas, and oceans of global, One Worlder,  mass-media lies.

It’s as if there is no longer any independent thought or imagination. No creativity. No deviating from the currently fashionable “norm.”

And no opinion at variance with the “mainstream” will be tolerated. At all. Which finally brings me to this clever  insight:

“Now we have a whole army of experts, whose job is to tell you success only comes with you being part of a group. Your status as an individual is transmitted to you through some diabolical portion of your brain that is loaded with false messages. Therefore, give up on the greatest [personal] adventure in the world. Take the elevator down to the basement, get off, and join the crowd. That’s where the love is. That’s where your useless courage dissolves into sugar, and the chorus of complaints will be magically transformed into a paradise of the lowest common denominator. Give up the ghost. You’re home. The sun never rises or sets. Nothing changes. The same sameness rules.” (The Underground, Jon Rappoport)

Kids, this all seems to follow along with Western adoption of corrupted versions of mystical eastern religions. Where we are admonished to absorb the karma, stay gray, surrender to the universe, be at peace, and other cosmic “balance,” and other bullshit.

This is where you basically hang around with your thumb up your ass waiting for the universe to answer your wants or something. The individual is crippled by indecision or false decisions, or make-believe feelings that she is trapped in some past life’s resultant. That she accumulated karma in a past life and must somehow pay for it in this life, by “doing no harm.”

Or by never being critical. Or imaginative. Or ever going against the group. She must be at One with the Collective. This is a sinister attack on our own humanity itself.

This all even all starts to seem like almost something intentionally cooked up. An internalized, self-policing PC plan to destroy the genius of individualism by taking away independence and the ability to create and follow through on our own, chosen Path. You give yourself over to the universe and the sameness of the group, and get stupid.

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But it is the risk-taker, the lone rider, the gamer of chance and action, who breaks free from the restrictive force of PC sameness and submission to the collective—to the domineering ants of the seething hive. The “gambler,” is the one, whom I think Jon Rappoport says, creates and lives her life as she sees it—anyway. Without fear. Without the fricking group.

The individual makes his own Way. He sets his own course and follows his own compass on the winds he chooses—damn the fucking torpedoes. And no matter what, he gallantly ignores the wishes and admonitions of…everybody. Except his own.

This all applies wonderfully to politics.

“The Constitution was far more than an extension of independence from England. The men who wrote the Articles and the Bill of Rights, and the men who voted for them and ratified them—to now argue for or against their ‘deeper motives’ is, in the end, a distraction from the fact that the Constitution contains ideas that aid the liberation of the free and independent individual.

“The ideas still stand.

“They are predicated on the notion that these individuals exist and will launch, despite all reasons not to, their own creative desires and make them fact in the world.

“Give us your huddled masses yearning to be free. Masses? No. A mass can never be free. And even if a mass can successfully demand freedom, on whom does that bounty then fall? The individual. This is where the buck stops, and no one can change that truth.” (Jon Rappoport)

Some will invariably choose the Religious Way Of Devotion To The Cause of the Collective, whatever that may be on any given day—a sterile and submissive end.

But—praise the Creator and America—there are always those who choose the Way Of Action—a driving instinct to be human. To find one’s own humanity: to discover and harness one’s own imagination, will, and creation.

Because—in the end, if you’re not careful, your own, small, single life can sadly end up as just another bad movie; with trite plot, bad acting, and a lousy denouement.

Or—you can choose the red pill, and break out of the stultifying collective hive itself—and be free to star in your own, great, pulsating, neon adventure on the brilliant, soaring winds of Life.

 

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