Dr. David Ray Griffin in Vancouver

Dr. David Ray Griffin will be speaking at St. Andrews Wesley on May 16, 2007

more info

Struggle at the Gate

Many who criticize the Truth Movement like to quote the gatekeepers, in particular George Monbiot. It is important, therefore, to pick apart the stuff these guys keep coming up with. In response to the gatekeepers, I wrote the following piece, which can be read in “The Canadian”:

9/11 gatekeepers muzzle truth toward societal dumbing-down

Monopoly Date

This story originally appeared in Adbusters Issue #68. I created this post with a link to the Adbusters website. Recently the story was removed from the Adbusters server. Therefore I am replacing the dead link with the text of the story itself:

She reaches for her seatbelt, realizing then she’s already wearing one. He, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to need his. Doesn’t have that kind of patience – to sit still for any length of time.

Riding in his car, she understands for the first time in her life, the feeling of being a passenger. But the car is a Jaguar. Fear and excitement mingle in the pit of her stomach, storehouse of ambiguous feelings. He steps on the accelerator. She wonders bravely about what lies in store.

He had picked her up at seven.
“Where are you taking me?” she had asked, kicking off her uncomfortable shoes.
“My place,” he had said, with the air of someone used to taking shortcuts with impunity.
And now, much too soon, they are there. The drive has left her feeling empty, like an over-priced amusement that ended too abruptly and too soon.

“Would you like to come upstairs?” he asks, gallantly holding the door. She smiles feebly, as if she has just been given an option. He leads her to the elevator. Once inside, she watches him press “P” for “penthouse.”

The studio is spartan, in an expensive way. Twin towers of speakers stand guard on either side of the large bay window, yet there are no CDs to be seen or heard. The sparsely populated bookshelf contains classics such as Seven Habits of Highly Effective People and Development for Fun and Profit.
The wide open space is dominated by a futon and a low table, on which he has set up a board game. For refreshment, there are chips and coke.

“Let’s play monopoly,” he says, as if this just now occurred to him. He seems comfortable in this mode of mock spontaneity.

“OK,” she replies unenthusiastically, wondering if dating white boys is always this exciting. Soon the game is underway – he the sports car, and she in the role of an old shoe with a gaping hole, game pieces he has chosen and laid out beforehand.

After the opening round, he owns the utilities, and she has to pay up.

“What was that?” he asks, but she didn’t say anything. The potato chips are gone, and her stomach has begun to growl.

“Nothing,” she says, rolling two sixes for the third time in a row. How appropriate, she thinks, to be rotting in jail. (For the uninitiated: Though the rule is contentious, it is a criminal offence to roll doubles three times in a roll – punishable by incarceration!)

After that, neither says anything for a while, though her stomach continues to growl conspicuously. She thinks that maybe she could like him, if only he were different somehow, or, perhaps, a different
person altogether.

He buys and buys and buys. He acquires Pennsylvania Avenue, and Park Place, and also manages to purchase Reading Railroad. “I should marry this guy,” she muses bitterly from her jail cell.

He has always been under the mistaken impression that the reason he gets what he wants is that he’s a “risk taker.” Such is the arrogance of privilege. The real reason, of course, is that there is no reason; that it is an unreasonable expectation to have everything one wants.

The experience of this date is surreal enough, for her not to realize quite how miserable it is. For one thing, she knows that win or lose, all games must end – eventually. But more keenly, she is aware of the fact that things could always be worse, somehow.

It is this mixture of hope and dread that makes it possible for her to continue, one toss at a time. A mixture that is symbolized by a stack of pink cards in the middle of the board: the stack called “Chance.”

The board itself is best described as a square circle, or perhaps a circular square. The same misery resurfaces over and over. Somehow, she manages to stretch the $200 she earns to cover her utilities and railway fares, to live another day. And every time she has to pay, she glances briefly at the pink deck of cards, taunting her like a lottery stub hidden in one’s pocket.

For him too, these are busy times. He has started to develop his properties. It begins with a few houses here and there, but he is looking ahead. His ultimate dream is for two luxury hotels – one on Park Place, and the other – he salivates as he thinks of it – Boardwalk.

It would be wrong to suggest that she owned no property at all. She does aquire Baltic, and Vermont, and a few others as well. And at one point he even lands on Vermont, and is forced to pay her for a change. He pays his 12 dollars graciously, in cash, and seems to harbor no ill will towards her.

CHANCE
“Go on, pick it up,” he says, unsmiling. And yet his voice is not without warmth. She has landed on chance after all, and he is happy for her. And then he surprises her with something akin to kindness. “Don’t be afraid,” he says.

What he noticed was not her hesitation, but the slight trembling of her fingers in picking up the card, and of her lips in reading it, first to herself and then aloud. But these tender moments pass. In the end, the card, as most things in life, proves a bitter disappointment.

“Get him a beer,” she reads, unable to mask her incredulity. But any doubt as to the authenticity of the card is quickly dispelled by his humorless smile. And so she does as she must, lingering in the kitchen just long enough to steal a pickle from the pickle jar. Surely he won’t notice it missing, even if this happens to be the only food in the fridge. She does know, of course, that in life, as in Monopoly, stealing is against the rules.

He seems genuinely grateful for the beer, even confiding that he prefers a glass, and telling her, in a completely non-threatening way, where glasses are kept. At the same time she lands on Pennsylvania Avenue, with its three pretty green houses, and for the first time in the game she can’t pay.
“I can’t pay,” she says.

“You could mortgage Vermont,” he offers. She follows his financial advice.

COMMUNITY CHEST
Though he lifts the card with some trepidation, his fears are soon laid to rest.
“The city is having a celebration in your honor,” he reads. “Your opponent shall bring you a beer.” He passes her the card to prove that he isn’t making this up. (For the uninitiated: the Community Chest is yellow, not pink). And while she’s in the kitchen, getting his beer, he does something dreadfully unsavory; he helps himself to an extra $500 from the bank. He then uses the money to build another house on Pennsylvania.

When, a little later in the game, she visits Pennsylvania for the second time, there is nothing left for her to mortgage.

“I have nothing left to mortgage,” she says.

“I will let you borrow from the bank,” he offers graciously. This is a clever bending of the rules on his part. Allowing her to borrow from the bank, rather than lending her the money directly, frees up some extra cash for him to invest. In this way the game is prolonged past its natural end, something he sees as a win-win situation.

COMMUNITY CHEST (again)
Here she can be forgiven for hoping, absurdly, that maybe, finally, it will be his turn to get her a beer. She reads the card in utter disbelief.

“You have violated the public dress code. Remove your blouse.”
She looks at him helplessly. He has no comfort for her, his cold hard gaze already focused on the garment about to be removed.

The game continues for another half hour, during which time he allows her to borrow the entire bank, so that all cash in circulation is now in his possession. At the same time, she finds herself violating the dress code on two more occasions, forcing her to remove both her skirt, and her bra. And to top it all off, she is forced to clean his toilet, on her hands and knees, leaving her to conclude that this could be absolutely the worst date ever, in the entire history of dating.

BOARDWALK (with hotel)
Finally, his grand vision has been realized. And the only sad part of it is that even the bank has no money left to lend her.
“The game is over,” she sighs, shivering slightly in her socks and panties. “I guess I lost.”

“No,” he says quietly, without a trace of humor in his voice. “The game is not over, and will not be over, until you pay back what you owe.
“That’s ridiculous. We can start writing promissory notes if you want, but I will never ever climb out of this financial hole. I have no properties, and no income to speak of. My debt can only grow.
“That’s not true.”
“How can I possibly pay you back?”

“You can suck my cock,” he says evenly. And she finds herself wondering when this game became so serious, and what it would take for someone – anyone – to point out that the rules make no sense. She tries to formulate this new-found realization in her brain. Perhaps, she is even trying to give voice to her thought, but there is no point. It has become impossible to say anything with his cock already embedded in her throat

Defensive Shield

The heat was a real thing. The way it distorted the landscape into floating lines – the heat alone was tangible, reducing all else to pre-apocalyptic chimera.

The white cobblestones glared at him, daring him to trespass. A doberman unleashed would have been as welcoming. The doorbell, when he finally reached it, performed the same wavy dance in front of his sweat-stung eyes; its post post-modern design mocking his fleshy finger’s attempt to operate it.

“Hold still”, he said out loud, poking wildly at the dancing apparition.

A bikini-clad girl answered the door. He at once cursed and blessed this heat, that made her so appealing, and him so hapless. His tie was too loud, the starched white shirt too itchy, and the suit, like his profession, held over from a previous era.

“Good day, Ma’am. You have a pool?” he asked, letting his duffel bag drop, narrowly missing her bare feet.

“No,” she said simply, then added “The Wannemakers do.” She assumed, naively, that he had knocked on the wrong door; which, in a way, he had.

“The Wannemakers?” he asked, looking at her kind of funny, as if perhaps he wasn’t sure where he’d heard the name before.

“They live next door.” Boredom kept her there, unable to slam the door on this clown.

“You must be on your way over there right now.” And, seeing her expression clouding over, he said “It being such a hot day and all.”

“All this is going somewhere?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t introduce myself.” The man introduced himself as Gary Wilson, offering up a mushy hand. From the bowels of the colossal bungalow, Gary could hear a male voice. “Who is it?”

“Its Gary Wilson,” the girl shouted into the hallway. No response. And, turning to Gary, “You were saying then?”

“Was that your Dad? I’d like to speak to him.”

“Daddy. Gary Wilson wants to talk to you,” she screamed, forgetting this time to turn her head towards the house.

An unkempt man in his fifties shuffled to the door. The heat was less kind to him, than to the girl, his off-white tank top nothing but a sweat stain.

“Alright then. What are you selling?”

“Are you safe, Mr – ?” But So-and-so would not fill in the blank.

“Come again?”

“Are you protected? Real protection – peace of mind, this is, is what I can offer you.”
Gary found himself wondering whether this man had chosen the tank top expressly to showcase his impressive outcroppings of armpit hair.

“You’re here to sell me something. So what is it?”

“Imagine, if you will, an intruder. How would you protect your daughter?”

The bikini girl began to giggle stupidly. “A device to ward off intruders. How ironic”.
Gary ignored her.

“We have an alarm,” the man said wearily, sounding embarrassed. The girl stretched onto her tippy-toes, leaned against his steaming chest and gave him a long sloppy kiss on the mouth.

A salesman should never allow himself to be surprised. But surprises, by definition, catch one off guard. The trick then, is not to let it show.

“We’re married actually,” the man said lamely. He clearly found the situation less bearable than she did. Then he clarified, “I mean to say, that I am not her father”.

But certainly old enough, Gary thought to himself. He had at least thirty years on her.

“He hates it when I call him Daddy,” the girl piped in, hanging on his arm now.

Gary knew the time for pleasantries had passed.
“An alarm is not enough.” Gary let this statement hang a while, before elaborating. “An alarm functions once the intruder has penetrated your defensive shield. It is ineffective as a deterrent.”

“It’s hot.” the girl said having become bored of the intercourse.

“How well do you know the Wannemakers?” Gary was on the offensive now.

“Gary and Sue-Ellen?” the man asked. Great, another “Gary”, thought Gary.
“They’re nice enough.”

“But do you really know them?” Gary Wilson pressed on. And then, in conspirational tones. “You do realize that the Wannemakers’ R-triple-O is installed and operational.”
Gary knew the effect this would have. He could see it confirmed in the sour contortions of Mr. So-and-so’s face.

“What is this triple R-thingy anyway?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“The R-triple-O?” Gary tried to let himself in. “Is there a place we could set it up?”
But the girl had stepped into his path, blocking him softly with her tits.

“How come you know so much about the Wannemakers’ defensive capabilities?”

“Why only last week – I installed it myself.” One lie more or less – it made no difference now.

“And they’ve got it pointed at us?” she wanted to know.

Gary clinched his teeth. Her rational side was getting on his nerves.

“The bastards,” the man with the off-white tank top stepped aside to let Gary into the house. Gary dragged his duffel bag over the doorstep, taking care to avoid contact with the wild tangle of armpit hair. Together, they strode off down the hallway.

The young wife, trailing behind them, was still not impressed.
“If it’s meant to work as a deterrent, how come the Wannemakers never told us they got one?”

Her hairy husband saved Gary the trouble of having to conjure an answer. “Obviously, the Wannemakers are not to be trusted,” he ejaculated into her ear.

I’ll have to remember that, Gary thought to himself.

The hallway led them straight through the house and into the yard, where Gary plunged into his duffel bag. He picked a suitably secluded corner of the yard and set up the device.

The unit itself hardly merits description. A rocket is a rocket, whether one calls it that, or one refers to it as a “shield”. The difference between an offensive and a defensive weapon lies primarily in its use, not its shape. The model Gary had brought looked in-offensive enough, appealing even, in beige with a pink cone on top.

“I doubt we would ever need such a powerful defensive weapon,” the girl purred, but the way she gently stroked the shaft told Gary that she wanted it.

“What does this button do?” Her index finger flicked ever so lightly across the knob, dancing a circle around it, teasing but not touching.

“Oh my Lord. Never ever…” Gary turned white as an unstained sheet.

But it was too late. The little knob was throbbing now, indicating that the anticipatory self-defense mechanism had already been activated.