I’d like to tell you a story…
This year as every new one, on a hot and balmy evening in July, a man sat with his young son upon the balcony of his mansion in the hills overlooking the city. As the darkness of night began to encroach upon the day, the little boy began to get restless, for his yearly experience each 4th of July was quite different from most children, even anti-climatic in a way. From this distance and vantage point way above even the farthest of rockets launched, as the sun was just beginning to set, it appeared that the whole county was ablaze in tiny explosions, a ballet of distant flashes and bangs without the accompanying decibels. One might compare this scene to a war zone, if one had any such experience as that. But alas, as with all elite, such wars and battles are watched from afar.
But oh, how the boy would beg his father each year to take him to watch the fireworks shows up close and personal, only to be denied and silenced with a wisdom that he couldn’t quite fully grasp in these tender years. As the darkness settled and the intensity of each individual household’s shooting of multi-colored rockets into the air increased into a crescendo of non-rhythmic, barely controlled chaos, and as the spectacle of so many participants lit up the sky, the boy knew it was time for his father to speak his wisdom. For his pride was overwhelming, spilling over as he marveled at what he and his alliance of upper-class families had created to control and satiate the masses.
Though he knew the answer, the boy also knew it was time to prime his fathers ego, to ask his leading question not as an inquiry but rather as another actor might read his lines before the other spouts a monologue.
“Father,” said the boy, already knowing the answer to come, “why can’t we go down there some time to watch the fireworks?”
Pausing for only a brief moment, the father reflectively and with great care responded as such:
“Son, We are not like those people down there. We are above them. You will learn this in time. What you are seeing here from the vantage point of this high mountain is the best lesson you can learn in life. If you were down there, amongst the common goyim, you’d be under those explosions, the subject of them, marveling in stupefied awe at their artificial colors and sounds, imbibing on one of the many poisons we provide to them for such occasions. We do not participate in such low, base celebrations or sport. We always watch from afar. For we are the object of their subjection. Now, let me explain again to you exactly what you are seeing here, and every year, as long as we remain unseen high upon our hill, in our higher status and privacy. What you are seeing here is a collective farm of slaves celebrating their perception of freedom. You must never forget this fact. Our ammunitions corporations sell more gunpowder in these late weeks of June and early July than in any other month, and for that matter any other war. Where you see only tiny explosions, I see bright and beautiful dollar signs. We allow them to engage each year in the power and symbolic expression of war without actually destroying anything but their own bank accounts and credit. Their municipal taxpayer funds are squandered while their neighbors and even family members go hungry and homeless and their potholes go unfilled. What you see here are many fools that are more hopelessly enslaved to us than they can ever imagine, and the 4th of July celebration stands as proof of that fact. What you see here before you, son, is absolute control. Through these holidays, we are able to confirm each year as a sort of unspoken census that indeed our power and control over their minds as a collective is absolute, for they go through these same customary motions each year to celebrate the fact that they falsely believe they are free. It is these moments indeed, where the whole multitude can be seen expressing themselves through such ridiculous actions as lighting off gunpowder bombs and rockets, that we know with certainty our control grid remains in place. And the next day they will be back in their suits and ties and causing traffic jams again, just to carry on our agenda and corporate system, as if tonight’s delusion of freedom never even transpired. At this point, my son, they don’t even know why they are doing it. It’s purely a custom with no reason valid behind it. It is for most them just a night of licensed, controlled chaos sold as the loosest form of patriotism. Just as we turned Christmas into a celebration of greed and Passover into a celebration of one of our most addictive drugs, sugar, so too is the meaning and purpose of this night lost on most participants. As long as we can commercialize that which should be worshiped with respect and dignity, they will never wake up to our designs over them. Son, we are sitting here above them tonight not to watch the meaningless lights in the sky, but to witness the spectacle of all these people that can no more see past those lights than they can the shackles around their own necks. You must never be tricked by our own deceits as they are. You must always remain the object of their subjection. You must always be above their customs and fallacious holy-days. They must always be a spectacle for you to behold, and their voluntary participation in such debasing, low behavior must be imagined by them to be a product of their own choice and false beliefs. And for every 4th of July in the future I expect to find you as you are here today, with or without me, high above them, watching them as they celebrate in the darkness of our gunpowder lights, knowing you are their master whether they comprehend it or not. You must always be above them, for they are our sport. Do you understand, son?”
“Yes, father. I understand…” replied the boy unconfidently, fidgeting in place as his overwhelming childish desire to see those fireworks up close and personal still dominated his young passions.
“Now, son,” said the father, “we’ve been watching this non-stop charade patiently for over two hours. And amazingly, it will continue for a few more hours, as a non-stop barrage of waste and moral abandon. For as with their lamed wills, these goyim will eventually eat, smoke, and drink themselves to sleep, and nothing will have changed for it. There is no climax. There is no final show or grand finale. The will of these people has a shorter life than their attention span. Come now, let us retire and leave them to their pointless franchises. For tomorrow will be like yesterday to them and to us, for we must also continue in our roll as their unseen masters just as they as our unwitting servants. And son, while you may not understand this fully today, you will certainly understand when you become a young man and it is time to fulfill your inheritance. Until then, I forbid you to mix with those heathens or to speak in their base, common language. Now go and study your Latin.”
“Yes father. Good night, sir.” replied the boy.