Scripty Typefaces, Swastika to Tilt What They Called a Star

This clip is an interesting and accurate snippet that can be used for decoding the slaughterhouse gene pool within you, and allow a little more Divine to come up through the Bovine it was bred to be. Knowing history is essential to the modern day manufactured consent about Town, and when you put it all together they will brand you Revisionist. I prefer "edited for accuracy" myself, but hey, I don't control the words now do I?

Wow huh? Consider that the hills were indeed alive with MUCH more than the sound of music, and maybe Weinerschnitzel attic spaces may not have been so girly a hiding space after all, but instead lonely prisons to those poor bastards in their own occupied country houses. Nuns who know of distributor caps surely are spies, that's all I'm sayin' sister.

Just watching the Hitler Channel... or History Channel to NFL fans, the evidence is overwhelmingly present to the wise observer. The sheer plethora of black and white newsRael footage made so easily available to documentarian archivists, under I'm sure, no corporate sponsor, is logically infeasible and subjectively insipid at best for any narrative. Endless streams of thundering jackboots marching nearly on top of some woeful camera boy on the ground filming it, every day there out in the sun. Dream job I know, but nonetheless obvious Communist militant propaganda at hand and.. foot.

To start with, having been a cameraman and filmmaker myself, it just doesn't make any sense how it was captured, or why even (they will say brilliant propagandists were at work and BRAVO there it is again - sinister shadows grinning back in the mirror of words), and so redundantly at that. Imagine your are a film student or some granola guy really interested in the revels of History, peering through the browning pages of B-roll footage indexes in a musty dark room off Sunset on hot July Hollywood afternoon. If only you could find some background transitional stuff.

Oh, here's some great cuts here.. Look at this find! The reel titles go:

"BOOTS MARCHING 1"

"BIG BOOTS AGAIN GO BY - LONGER VERSION"

"THAT'S WHAT IT'S ALL A BOOT"

And on and on. There is homage to this device we can all instantly relate to. George Orwell froze this psychological semiotic trick nicely into the collective unconscious with a nice dancestep in his "No-not-about-1948-at-all" novel that the Texas Repository required to be fed generations of public schoolchildren for insult and Magick.  We all remember the line, and it's no mistake we do. After all, the world's right there at your feet. Just boot up the PC.

Orwell, that masterful genius in Eric Blair witness to trenches of almost supernatural carnage in WWI, said, through character of course, that the Party had but one vision for all of mankind going forward together. It's almost as good as "Work Shall Set You Free" up there on the entry arches to the concentration camp gates forgotten during the first TRUE Holocaust in Russian revolutionary times. The endless blood sacrifices required for that God that like choosy moms chooses JIF indeed. The lofty ELITE ideal of human collectivism is captured thusly:

IMAGINE
A BOOT STAMPING
ON A HUMAN FACE
FOREVER.

I sure did, after getting by the stamp/stomp thing of course. Wowza. As I easily now recognize this was my filmstrip played like a mobile over my babycrib, pacifier of lugs into puberty pursued, its percussive pounding to Earth bipedal supreme the underdog runs daily through my mind with even the clicky sounds of the projector. That's my thing. But because it is - oh Pandora! The infectious sprites people find flying around me! Nike! Osiris! I do ponder at the layman never going back to that phrase though and really dissecting it for the power it truly has within. Or realizing like the Warhol one history has missed something BIG in its idle interpretation through repetition.

For instance, WHO is wearing this boot? "A" boot makes it seem so ... empty. Devoid of foot, of person, of spearing trajectory and hateful intent, like a tire on a big car. Surely, another human is wearing this boot, no? So... wait a minute now... what kind of human could do such a thing? An agent of State authority? Really?


Some cop in a jumpsuit who gets off at 11:00?

"Ah, what a day (yawn)," at the kitchen table at night. "Big day tomorrow - so many many faces to stomp STOMP STOMP. Oh well, off to bed," he says, laying the people killers down, somehow magically clean now, on the bedroom hardboards aside the printed quilts of peace, his holy socks dangling above, in sweet slumber.