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Bush Blew up the Twin Towers

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  • Robert Sterling
    Please send as far and wide as possible. Thanks, Robert Sterling Editor, The Konformist http://www.konformist.com From Pitch.com Bush Blew up the Twin Towers
    Message 1 of 1 , Dec 5, 2006
      Please send as far and wide as possible.

      Robert Sterling
      Editor, The Konformist

      From Pitch.com

      Bush Blew up the Twin Towers
      And other 9/11 conspiracies, thought up right here in Kansas City.
      By Ben Paynter

      In a recent episode of South Park, the elementary-school-aged
      troublemakers spend most of the half-hour figuring out whether the
      U.S. government planned the attacks of September 11, 2001. As they
      close in on the answer, a squad of poorly drawn, machine-gun-toting
      Secret Service agents kidnaps Kyle and Stan, along with a 9/11
      conspiracy theorist. All of them are whisked away to the Oval
      Office, where President Bush confesses to everything.

      "We've all worked very hard to keep our involvement in 9/11 a
      secret, but you just had to keep digging," Bush cackles. Then the
      president pulls out a handgun. He sticks the muzzle in the
      conspiracy theorist's mouth and blows his brains out. The cartoon
      blood splatters on a black shirt with the words "911Truth.org."

      Bush then explains that he planted explosives in the base of the
      World Trade Center towers. The missing planes were diverted to an
      airport in Pennsylvania. Two military jets filled with explosives
      flew into the twin towers. Then he blew up the Pentagon with a
      cruise missile. Bush boasts: "It was only the world's most intricate
      and flawlessly executed plan ever ... ever."

      By the end, the show has mocked everybody involved. But the
      following day, Web traffic to 911truth.org multiplied by five times,
      spiking the site's number of views to 58,000 a day. A fact omitted
      from the South Park episode — and from the Web site itself — is that
      911truth.org is run by Janice Matthews, a single mother of six from
      Kansas City, Missouri.

      Matthews has become well-known nationally within what's called the
      truth movement: those who believe that Bush and his buddies were
      behind 9/11. The idea that the World Trade Center fell in order to
      fuel President Bush's war machine has become the trendy conspiracy
      theory, replacing such old standards as aliens in Area 51 and
      government agents on the grassy knoll.

      But those behind the 9/11 conspiracy theories aren't comics-store
      nerds lamenting the loss of The X-Files. In Kansas City, they
      include the owner of a popular theater, a dentist, and a group of
      conservatives that meets every week.

      Mostly, truthers, as they call themselves, meet online. The Internet
      has become their way to spread a message they say is suppressed by
      the mainstream media and ignored by those who provide research
      funding. Of course, Matthews knows many people ignore the truth
      movement because it includes a whole lot of kooks posting some
      bizarre theories. "We have a whole society to remake," she
      says. "You go, 'God, people, focus.'" Matthews fights back tears in
      the children's section of the Plaza Branch of the Kansas City Public
      Library. She's surrounded by hundreds of brightly bound bedtime
      stories. Nearby, sunshine filters through a row of large windows.

      She has short brown hair streaked with gray and piercing blue eyes
      that are intently focused, despite the tears. She has a silver stud
      in her nose and a Disney Pooh watch strapped to one wrist. She wears
      a baby-blue version of the shirt featured on South Park.

      On this early Monday morning, she has just returned from dropping
      off her kids at school. Sometimes, the weight of her mission just
      gets to her. She's surrounded by mothers who are still oblivious to
      the idea that the 9/11 attacks were carried out by the U.S.

      She explains that she began crying when she thought of the 9/11
      victims: the rescue workers, the orphans, the family members of
      those who died.

      "It is just the pain," she says, "that our society isn't even
      looking at what these people are living through and dying through,
      that we could be so callous to this depth of pain on so many

      The mothers circling the stacks ignore Matthews. She says she's
      positive that she's being watched.

      "I don't have some sense that they are out to persecute truth
      seekers," Matthews says of the phantom G-men she thinks she's seen
      around town. "I think they are just doing their jobs."

      Matthews wasn't always this way. She earned a psychology degree from
      the University of Kansas in the '80s and trained as a midwife. A
      conservative Christian, she voted for Bush in 2000. On 9/11,
      Matthews was raising her children in the small central Kansas town
      of Lindsborg. "I had a gradual reawakening," she says.

      In November 2001, she moved to Kansas City to work as a secretary.
      Then she read The 9/11 Commission Report. She says the congressional
      document found that a large number of stock shares in United
      Airlines had changed hands before the attack, which shows that
      certain segments of big business knew to expect the attacks.

      Two years later, Matthews helped found the national 9/11 Visibility
      Project, a group that encourages people to protest government cover-
      ups. It's now active in 35 cities. She organized rallies on the
      Plaza but realized that most people wanted to avoid the stigma that
      came with protest marches. A year later, she founded 911Truth.org,
      which serves as a networking forum, a research hub and an
      independent news source.

      In July 2005, she organized the D.C. Emergency Truth Convergence in
      Washington, D.C. The conference pulled together various watchdog
      groups, including Project Censored and the Oklahoma City Bombing
      Committee. She says their cell phones didn't work at the event,
      their remote-control car-door openers failed and their computers
      crashed. "Then we realized it was all electronic jamming," she says.
      Returning to Kansas City, Matthews found her front door unlocked.
      She believes her computer was hacked.

      She says she learned a month later that her house was bugged, after
      a friend called and left her a prank message, pretending to have
      been captured by G-men. "You got me! You got me!" the friend shouted
      into her answering machine. But after the friend hung up, the
      machine kept recording. Matthews says she heard two people
      laughing. "They said, 'Yeah, we got her. We got her,'" she says.

      In September, she joined a public-records request filed by peace
      organizations. The groups asked the government for documents
      detailing government surveillance of Kansas City-area anti-war
      activists ("Granny the Terrorist," September 21).

      After the South Park slam, Matthews received hundreds of e-mails
      calling her "retarded," the same word that the show's characters had
      used to describe the truth movement. The tone of her usual hate
      calls shifted. "The reaction is much stronger," she says. "It went
      from 'you are fucking lying' to 'you are going to burn in hell, and
      your children are going to burn in a fire, you fucking cunt.'"

      The calls excited Matthews. They were evidence that people were
      taking notice — even if the attention came with threats and the
      occasional c-word. "It reflects people's panic," Matthews
      says. "People feel much more reactionary about this recently, and
      the ones who can't let go of their belief structure are much more

      Matthews sees her role as providing a public forum for others to
      post theories about what happened on 9/11. "We don't want to control
      what people do," she says.

      But that leaves users free to push any theory. Some think planes
      never actually hit the towers but were superimposed on newscasts.
      Others believe that the planes carried explosives. Some claim that
      aliens abducted everyone from the twin towers.

      Including everyone's voice has been a liability for the fledgling
      movement. On the fifth anniversary of 9/11, a corps of truthers
      rallies at the Uptown Theater. They have been directed there by a
      post on 911Truth.org. The event culminates a weekend of activities
      headlined by showings of independent films, including one that uses
      physics to make an argument that it's impossible for jets to have
      brought down the twin towers.

      Outside, protesters shout and shake signs that read "9/11 was an
      inside job." They hand out copies of the low-budget films to
      commuters stuck at traffic lights.

      "Steel buildings don't just fall down," shouts Ed Kendrick, a
      heavyset dentist with a practice on Independence Avenue. Kendrick
      believes that the buildings actually collapsed because of what he
      calls a "controlled demolition" from bombs already set inside the

      Inside, the lobby resembles a traveling carnival. Tables are
      littered with pamphlets and petitions that go as far as advocating
      presidential impeachment. A giant American flag dominates the faux-
      Mediterranean interior. The mingling conspiracy theorists, some
      dressed in tie-dyed clothing, refer to one another in religious
      terms — "brothers" or "believers" who spread "the word." In a corner
      of the room, a man talks about the 40 astrological signs that keep
      us from understanding our inner impulses. A cell-phone ring tone
      emits The X-Files' theme song.

      Uptown Theater owner Larry Sells stands away from the crowd to
      monitor the action. He provided the venue free of charge. Sells has
      been questioning government party lines since the John F. Kennedy
      assassination. In the '60s, he was student body president and head
      of the Young Democrats at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. He
      served as a Marine during the Vietnam War and has a black belt in
      karate. Sells imported custom furniture until he bought the Uptown
      in 1993.

      For the past few months, Sells has been playing the conspiracy-
      theory documentary Loose Change in his lobby during concerts and
      events. He has handed out 1,500 copies of the movie and other 9/11-
      related DVDs.

      To that end, Sells thinks that he has found a new way to spoon-feed
      his message. He recently gutted the vacant lobby space abutting the
      south end of his theater. Sometime next year, he hopes to open a
      reading salon and a themed restaurant called The Conspiracy. Plans
      include something of an adult arcade where visitors can try to hit a
      target with a vintage replica of Lee Harvey Oswald's rifle. Many of
      the library books will be stocked from Sells' personal 2,200-square-
      foot library, which spans a four-car garage inside his large home in
      the Valentine neighborhood.

      Sells has investigated the similarities between the World Trade
      Center collapse and Germany's 1933 Reichstag fire. Each event
      empowered its country's leader to suspend civil liberties, build up
      a military and launch invasions. He often compares Bush with Adolf
      Hitler. "What we are talking about now is as bad as it ever was in
      Nazi Germany," he says.

      At the Uptown on the 9/11 anniversary, a guy reeking of booze
      stumbles into the reception. Dave Nicholson, a 29-year-old server at
      Fred P. Ott's, has been canvassing midtown with fliers advertising a
      drinking book club. Standing outside trying to talk to the
      protesters, Nicholson grows agitated when they keep handing
      him "propaganda" videos. "I don't seem to be able to get anyone to
      talk to me," he says loudly.

      Stuart Auld approaches Nicholson. Auld is a member of the
      Constitution & Freedom Society, a Johnson County group that opposes
      what it sees as a new world order. As a real-estate and insurance
      broker in Leawood, Auld considers himself a staunchly conservative
      Republican. But over the past five years, he has learned to loosen
      his party loyalties and standards. Nicholson might be drunk and
      antagonistic, but he receives an open invitation to join the
      rebellion nonetheless. Auld hands Nicholson a copy of 9/11
      Revisited. "I bought that for you," Auld says. On a rainy autumn
      Wednesday night, 35-year-old Jason Littlejohn waits in a community
      room in the Department of Motor Vehicles building in Mission.
      Littlejohn runs a weekly meeting for Midwest Concerned Citizens, a
      conservative Christian political action group. A former Navy
      officer, he also is host of a weekly talk show called Lives in the
      Balance on KCXL 1140 in Liberty. On-air, he talks about issues such
      as the pending energy crisis and the need to guard the Mexican

      He believes that the U.S. government had prior knowledge of the
      attack but simply allowed it to happen. "As far as direct
      complicity, I don't think the proof is there," he says. Still, he's
      interested in an independent investigation of 9/11. And he says he's
      concerned about the legislation meant to keep us safe that tramples
      civil liberties.

      "Our country is moving in a certain direction that is beneficial to
      a handful of people but detrimental to our country and other
      countries around the world," Littlejohn says. He has slicked-back
      hair and broad shoulders. As usual, he wears a pair of tinted
      aviator shades, though he is indoors and it's well after dark. "I'm
      trying to create more of a broad base from which I can project this

      Littlejohn spent the anniversary of 9/11 at the Uptown but, unlike
      the lefties, shares ideals with the far right. At this Midwest
      Concerned Citizens meeting, it's clear that the truth movement spans
      both sides of the aisle.

      "A lot of Christians believe that there are very powerful forces
      that are in control of government around the world," he says. "It
      was foretold in the Bible. If you actually look at what's been said,
      as opposed to what's occurring, you can draw some parallels that are
      rather convincing."

      Finally, Littlejohn opts to start the meeting. He expected about a
      dozen people tonight, but the rain has kept away all but four
      believers: 79-year-old retiree Esther Miller, 74-year-old part-time
      file clerk Shirley Mignon, and Roger and Judy Tucker. Roger is 67
      and retired. Judy is 50 and between jobs.

      The crew skips the usual pledge of allegiance and gathers in a
      semicircle of chairs. A few large tables are stacked with file
      folders and satchels filled with photocopied news clippings with
      blaring headlines ("Fatal Vision — The Deeper Evil Behind the
      Detainee Bill," "The New World Disorder: 'Shadow' Agency to Issue N.
      American Border Pass").

      "What will happen is, a lot of these articles will come out in
      newspapers, but when you go back to look for them, they will be
      gone," Littlejohn says. He stores thousands of duplicated pages at
      his home in Lawrence.

      The five take turns reading long passages from the articles,
      shuffling their stacks between turns. Sometimes, two people read
      over each other.

      "I'm sure of this," Littlejohn tells the group. "I know what's
      coming. See, 9/11 was bad. But what's coming out is a whole lot

      He asks to borrow Mignon's bottled water. She nods, and he takes it.
      Everyone in the room looks excited. They've seen him do this before.
      Littlejohn places the bottle in front of him like a prop. "In the
      Bible, it says there will come a time when no one will be able to
      buy or sell something unless it has the mark of the beast," he says,
      paraphrasing Revelations 13:17.

      "The mark of the beast," Mignon echoes.

      Littlejohn turns the bottle until he can see its bar code. He says
      the symbol's longer lines represent the sign of the devil. "Six,
      six, six," he says.

      "If we don't do something," Littlejohn continues, "our way of life
      as we know it could come to an end."

      As usual, they've gotten off the subject of 9/11. Miller adds that
      three sixes occur in a congressional bill limiting the rights of
      prison detainees. Everyone agrees that this, too, might be a sign of
      the coming apocalypse. Kendrick thinks that the woman who enters his
      dental office on a cool Friday afternoon might be a closet truth-
      movement sympathizer. She has arrived early for a regular tooth
      cleaning, and Kendrick has invited her back to his small office to
      share the word.

      The woman faces a screen glowing with a PowerPoint presentation.
      Kendrick used this for a Communiversity class he taught at UMKC a
      few weeks ago, "9/11, an Inside Job." The daylong seminar drew 40
      people. He reaches over his patient to click the mouse, and
      President Bush appears on the screen, repeating the word terrorism
      over and over during various speeches. Kendrick explains that he
      uses this footage to desensitize his audience to the hot-button
      words that the Bush administration uses to manipulate Americans.

      Kendrick, dressed in brown scrubs, a pair of magnifying goggles
      around his neck, flips through a series of slides depicting national
      tragedies that he believes were acts of "state-sponsored terrorism":
      Pearl Harbor, the Kennedy assassination, the Oklahoma City bombing.

      When an image of the collapsing World Trade Center appears on the
      screen, he points to the "squibs" — signs of controlled demolition —
      of air blasting out of the sides of the buildings.

      The 50-something woman stares, slack-jawed, at the computer. She's a
      nurse at a local hospital. She has tousled hair and wears thick
      glasses and a rainbow-colored shirt that clashes with her red

      "Yeah, I'm trying to think," she says. She looks around the room.
      It's filled with anti-Bush magnets and dental X-rays. Four spools of
      blank CDs await Kendrick's truth-movement videos and PowerPoint
      presentation, which he will pass out to patients.

      "So what's the purpose? Just for evil?" she asks.

      "What it's about is control," he says.

      A hygienist in a white coat arrives outside his door with a
      noticeable sigh. "Excuse me, I need my patient," she tells Kendrick.

      Kendrick hands the patient a copy of the two videos, "9/11
      Revisited" and "Terrorstorm," and a six-page handout listing 14
      parallels between fascism and the Bush administration. So far, he
      has handed out nearly 500 CDs.

      When everyone leaves the room, he becomes somber. "We don't have
      much time," he says. "I can't help but wonder whether there may be
      another horrific event."

      Kendrick knows that personally delivering his message to patients
      will get the word only so far. Unlike most people in the movement,
      he has been trying to find a way to reach people who aren't already
      inclined to agree. His plan: Hit the streets to find them. Standing
      at the entrance to the UMKC Student Center, Kendrick looks like a
      desert commando. He's clad in a beige sweat suit with a canvas vest,
      and he carries an oversized backpack. His beard is trimmed, and he
      has a sharp flattop.

      To talk to students in the cafeteria, he must get past the food-
      court manager, a Hispanic guy in a blue polo shirt who stands guard
      at the cash register. Kendrick greets the manager and launches into
      his canned speech about how the World Trade Center collapsed by

      The manager cuts him off. "I believe it. I very much believe it,"
      the manager says earnestly. The man steps aside to grant Kendrick

      Kendrick approaches a girl eating a fruit salad by herself. She
      wears diamond earrings and a glittery barrette in her hair. He asks
      her if he can talk politics.

      "I know nothing about politics," she says dismissively.

      Kendrick asks her a series of questions anyway. "How many buildings
      came down on 9/11?"

      "Two," she says.

      "It was three. I want to give you this." He slips her a CD of his
      PowerPoint presentation, like a consolation prize.

      "Did you know that a third building came down by controlled

      Finally, she cuts him off. "Thank you," she answers flatly. "It was

      The next table is occupied by a trio of chemistry students. Kendrick
      introduces himself and slaps down his CD. He waves his dentist's
      clipboard up and down to demonstrate how the towers fell.

      Kendrick repeats the words terrorism and 9/11 over and over,
      imitating the slides in his PowerPoint presentation. "That has
      become this administration's mantra," he says.

      Kendrick's last stop is a table with two members of the UMKC women's
      basketball team, one blond and the other brunette. The blonde tells
      him that she plans to be a history teacher. The brunette wants to be
      a broadcast journalist.

      "People in the towers were murdered," he tells them.

      "I've never heard this before. This is new to me," the brunette
      says. She takes a long sip of soda.

      He says that just days before the towers fell, they had been leased
      by Larry Silverstein, a businessman who took out a huge insurance
      policy on them. He says President Bush's brother Marvin was a
      principal at Securacom, the agency in charge of security at the
      World Trade Center, Dulles Airport and United Airlines.

      The blonde stops him. The president's brother —she asks, "That guy
      in Florida?"

      He adds that he believes Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld
      ordered Flight 93 shot down.

      The brunette, too, has a question: "Who is Donald Rumsfeld?"

      After his speech, the students gladly accept Kendrick's CD and
      business cards, which he asks them to give to their
      professors. "Tell them there's this crazy dentist," he says, "who
      wants to stir up campus riots."

      The young women tell him that they totally sympathize. They'd join
      the truth movement, they say, if it wasn't for their constant
      basketball practices.
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