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SEVEN DAYS have passed since the presidential elections. Six days have passed since Concession Day, when the Kerry camp entered into an eerie silence that continues, unbroken, to this day. And so it is on this day -- Tuesday, the ninth of November, in this foul year of our Lord 2004 -- that yer old pal Jerky is pulling the plug on Hope. Prolonging extraordinary measures beyond this point would be cruel and inhumane to both the victim and the bereaved.
Yes, I am fully aware that there is a growing body of evidence that suggests historically unprecedented levels of election fraud; intimidation more brazen than in 2000, manipulation more obvious than in 2002.
And yes, I am fully aware that Kerry's concession is not legally binding, and that the fight, such as it is, technically isn't over until the electors cast their votes in Washington next month. I know all that. I will continue to write about all that. But Hope? My Hope is dead.
To those of you who refuse to concede, who refuse to allow last week's events to crush your faith in your fellow citizens, I have nothing left to offer but my bewildered admiration. You are blessed/cursed with the passion of Quixote, the resolve of King Canute. I feel that I must warn you, however, that compared to what you're fighting against, windmills are pushovers; shushing the seas, a breeze. That which you combat is no mere human construct, no simple force of nature. You struggle against forces on a cosmic scale.
Even if every allegation of Republican electoral fraud turns out to be accurate -- and even if, as some insist, Kerry actually won the popular vote -- it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because the Powers That Be have succeeded in their project.
They have spent decades honing their Dark Arts on oblivious subjects both foreign and domestic. They have succeeded in spiritually mutating a critical mass of American citizenry into a catalytic substrate with which to effect a species-wide alchemical transformation. Just as our humble Moon is capable of blotting out the all-powerful Sun, a motivated minority -- absolutist ideology made flesh -- is all that is needed to begin the next phase of their Grand Experiment.
This spell has been cast many times before, and this particular manifestation has been long in the conjuring. Once again, Gnostic priest-whores have breeched forbidden thresholds on behalf of their murderous, whoremonger Super-Masters. Once again, the sequence of events has been meticulously timed and executed. Once again, the initiatory mass conditioning has been brutal and thorough. Once again, they are slowly and solemnly drawing a blanket over all our heads, convinced of the righteousness of the sacrifice to which they have volunteered us against our will.
And so I salute you, futile resisters, in your valiant struggle against odds beyond reckoning. I salute you even as I abandon you, turning now towards the new frontier, curious eyes fixed on the sunrise side of this latest Holy Mountain. I salute your refusal to acknowledge the folly of your hope. I salute your pig-headed denial, which I admire greatly.
Good luck.
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