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    1. Andrew Nyerere's Avatar
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      Default President Gerard Ford

      [H: You are now getting information, readers, that YOU can check out as to times and places.
      You can check in the places as to whether or not the “President” was PRESENT and identify
      people and places as being real—and the rest of the pieces will fit.]
      Imagine for a moment that a local pedophile pervert from your community, whom children fear and
      adults shun, suddenly became PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. How would it affect your
      perspective of the most powerful government in terms of wealth and military strength on Earth?
      I had known Jerry Ford before I grew eye level to the dreaded “fly” on his pants—before I started
      school—before I could write my own name. Ford was considered by those in the know to be the reputed
      Michigan Mafia pornography KING, the boss for whom my father, Earl O’Brien, manufactured kiddie
      porn through abusing us, his own children.
      My father’s sixth-grade education provided little income opportunities for our large family so he supplemented
      it with profits from illicit child pornography. I was filmed having sex with my brother, older men,
      other children, etc. I was at such an early age that I accepted it as a “natural” part of life. Soon after my
      father filmed me with his brother Sam O’Brien’s boxer dog, “Buster”, he was reportedly caught sending
      the bestiality child porn through the U.S. mail.
      My mother’s brother, Bob Tanis, was also implicated in the ordeal. Uncle Bob was a pedophile,
      pornographer, and pilot in the U.S. Air Force (Intelligence Division) who claims to “work for the Vatican”.
      Out of apparent desperation he informed my father of a U.S. Government Defense Intelligence Agency
      TOP SECRET Project to which he was privy—the MK-ULTRA Project MONARCH.
      Project Monarch is one of several mind-control operations which “recruits” multigenerational incestabused
      children with developed Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) for its genetic mind-control studies.
      (Multiple Personality Disorder [MPD], now referred to by professionals as Dissociative Identity Disorder
      [DID], is the mind’s sane defense to an insane situation. It is a way of dealing with trauma that is
      literally too horrible to comprehend. Incestuous rape violates primitive instinct and surpasses pain tolerance.
      By compartmentalizing the memory of such horrendous abuse, the rest of the mind can function
      “normally” as though nothing had happened. This compartmentalization is created by the brain actually
      shutting down neuron pathways to a specific part of the brain. These neuron pathways are triggered open
      again when the abuse recurs. The same part of the brain that is already conditioned to the trauma deals
      with it again—and again—as needed.)
      I was a prime “Candidate”, a “Chosen One”. My father seized the opportunity as it would provide him
      immunity from the U.S. Postal Authority prosecution. In the midst of the pandemonium that ensued, Jerry
      Ford arrived at our house with the evidence in hand for a meeting with my father.
      “Is Earl home?” he called to my mother, who nervously stood behind the screen door, hesitating to
      invite him in. (My mother often voiced complaints that she “could not see faces”, which personal experience
      has taught me implies that she was suffering from ongoing physical and psychological traumas, and
      therefore was not in control of her actions.)
      “Not yet,” my mother replied, her voice shaking. “He should have been home from work by now; I
      know he’s expecting you.”
      “That’s OK.” Ford turned his attention to me. I was standing outside on the front porch and he
      crouched down to my level. Patting the large, brown envelope containing the confiscated porn film tucked
      under his arm he asked, “You like doggies, huh?”
      “Buster is a nice doggy. He’s funny,” I replied. Not understanding why the dog had been whisked
      away when the porn was confiscated, I complained, “Buster’s gone.”
      “Buster’s gone?” Ford asked.
      “Yeah, My Uncle Sam took him away,” I told him.
      Ford laughed loudly at the irony of my statement. In my limited view I wondered why he found it
      humorous that Buster was gone. My father pulled into the driveway, honking the horn of his new tan
      convertible. Ford stood up and with his “fly” eye level to me, I noticed his penis was erect and reached for
      it—as conditioned.
      “Not now, honey,” he said, “I have business to tend...” Ford went inside with my parents to officially
      seal my fate.
      It was not long after that that my father was flown to Boston for a two-week course at Harvard
      University on how to condition me for this spin-off mind-control project of MK-ULTRA known as Project
      Monarch. Jerry Ford would weave in and out of my Project Monarch existence for three decades
      before I was rescued in 1988 by Mark Phillips.
      It was my experience that most pedophile sexual interest in me peaked and waned according to
      physical phases of my maturing.
      There were those who prefer sex with infants and toddlers (my father’s preference), those who like
      prepubescent kids (such as U.S. Congressman Guy VanderJagt and Canadian Prime Minister Pierre
      Trudeau), those who like developing teens (such as U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd who would become
      my “mind-control owner” when I was 13 years old). It appeared that age made no difference to Jerry
      Ford, as long as his traumatic sexual brutality produced mind-altering results. Ford assaulted me with his
      abnormally large penis virtually throughout my Project Monarch existence.
      Ford often indulged in his pedophile perversions with my brother, Bill, and me while I was still a
      toddler, since our house was located in the immediate vicinity of Muskegon Country Club where he
      routinely conducted business while golfing. At the age of four, my brother, who is one year older than me,
      climbed to the top of the highest tree he could find in our yard in an effort to avoid Ford’s always brutal
      sexual assaults. Ford’s intense and perverse sexuality sometimes included having sex with my mother and
      me at the same time. He sexually assaulted both of my sisters and me at the same time with our ages
      spanning 3-23. I routinely saw Ford at the Mackinac Island political retreat where I was often prostituted
      to him as a mind-controlled slave. It appeared to me that Ford knew no boundaries when it came to sex—
      or any other criminal activity.
      I was nine years old when my third-grade class (Bluffton Elementary School) took a field trip to the
      Michigan State Capital in Lansing. I was quickly ushered aside upon arrival. I was taken to State Senator
      Guy VanderJagt’s office where he was waiting along with his friend and mentor, then-U.S. Congressman
      and Warren Commission “ram rod” Gerald Ford. VanderJagt eagerly lifted my skirt, pulled down my
      panties which were embroidered with the day of the week, and laughed with Ford because they indicated
      “Sunday”. These two perverts knew that under mind control I could not keep up with what year it was let
      alone know the day. VanderJagt then placed me on his highly polished desk for sex with him and Ford.
      Afterward they laughed again as VanderJagt placed a small American flag in my rectum and instructed me
      to “wave it”.
      VanderJagt then escorted me back to the balcony of the Legislature where my classmates were gathered.
      He put his arm around me in front of all my classmates and presented me with the American flag he
      had just had me wave for him and Ford, with my rectum. Before my class left the State Capital to return
      to Muskegon, Ford and VanderJagt gave me a pen inscribed with the motto that would lead me for the rest
      of my mind-controlled existence, “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for
      your country.”
      What I “did for my country” through this enslavement dramatically increased over the years in direct
      proportion to the programming sophistication of my CIA/DIA MK-ULTRA Project Monarch mind control.
      I was programmed through TOP SECRET technology on various government, NASA, and military
      installations to mule enormous quantities of drugs out of the Caribbean and Mexico that funds the CIA’s
      Black Budget to pay operatives during the Reagan Administration. I followed New World ORDERS and
      delivered brief, programmed messages in conjunction with brutal prostitution as a White House/Pentagonlevel
      mind-controlled slave. I was vaginally mutilated and “carved” for the perversions of U.S. Senator
      Robert C. Byrd and others as well as for use in pornography. Pornography included exploitation by
      Ford’s and Reagan’s comrade in perversion, LARRY FLINT, who publishes the sex trash magazine
      Hustler. I was programmed to participate in various covert operations including Operation Shell
      Game in 1986 with which Ford was also directly involved. Operation Shell Game was a CIA covert
      operation designed to force Manuel Noriega into ceasing his formerly U.S. Government-sanctioned cocaine
      distribution during the course of the Iran-Contra affair. As evidenced by Bush’s 1991 follow-up
      Operation “Just Cause” and Noriega’s subsequent incarceration, Operation Shell Game was a failure.
      In preparation for my tenure as a so-called “Presidential Model” mind-controlled slave my body was
      routinely tortured, and my mind repeatedly traumatized, to create compartmentalization of memory necessary
      to robotically carry out orders. One such traumatic event occurred in the Fall of 1974 when I learned
      that the pervert I knew as a porn king had just taken the office of U.S. President.
      As an MPD/DID MK-ULTRA Project Monarch mind-controlled CIA sex-slave, I had no concept of
      time, did not know my own age and had no ability to either reason or question, and could not think to do
      anything other than exactly what I was told to do. My environment was totally controlled whereby I was
      told what music to listen to, what movies/television to watch, and had no access to news other than the
      slanted propaganda that was forming my mis-perceptions. The part of me that dealt with Ford and his
      perversions knew him only as a Mafia porn king. The part of me that experienced him at the State Capital
      in Lansing, Michigan perceived him as VanderJagt’s friend. In retrospect, had I been able to ponder who
      was actually Gerald Ford, my wildest imagination most likely could not have perceived him as President of
      the United States. [H: By the way—THIS IS WHY Gerald Ford did not seek election to any great
      extent in the general arena—for this information would have come forth. An attempt on Flint, to
      kill him and silence him, failed and Flint now resides in a wheel-chair. Too many people would
      have had to be silenced if Gerald Ford would have sought election fame. It should now also be
      obvious WHY HE PARDONED NIXON.]
      In the Fall of 1974 my father announced one day that our family was going to go camping “back in
      time” to an old fashioned festival in the small remote town of Cedar Springs, Michigan—for their annual
      Red Flannel Days celebration. My mother told me to pack my jeans, sweaters, and Catholic High
      School uniform, which she had washed and pressed just for the occasion.
      Cedar Springs was quiet, with the festival events including dilapidated amusement rides set up in a
      small parking lot, and contests were held where local farmers pitted their mules and horses against each
      other to see whose could pull the most weight. The main (and only) street of town was lined with the few
      local businesses, including the town’s well known red flannel underwear “long johns” factory. In the center
      of town a (mock) single jail cell had been erected to hold any and all parade participants who failed to be
      wearing the required attire of red flannel underwear. The jail was guarded by quasi-Keystone-type cops.
      I was amused when the townsfolk began lining up to march in the parade because there were very few
      people remaining to watch. A well known mentally retarded man carried the baton to lead the parade,
      followed by kids on bicycles, haywagons carrying elderly people, a grade school band and people walking,
      all in their red flannel underwear. The grand finalé of the parade, the town firetruck, was approaching
      as I watched, surrounded by numerous motorcycle police. I heard folks whispering, “The President is
      coming”. I assumed they meant the President of the underwear factory. I was wrong. I watched in horror
      as the firetruck rolled to a stop, and Secret Service helped then President Gerald Ford as he stepped
      down to the pavement.
      My father was excitedly tugging on my arm, half dragging me through the wall of Secret Service agents,
      to talk with President Ford. I looked around nervously as my father made the necessary arrangements
      with Ford to prostitute me to him later that evening. VanderJagt, who never missed a parade it seemed,
      was signing autographs. As he smiled at me, someone roughly grabbed my arm. Nervous and startled, I
      screamed. The crowd laughed as a Keystone Cop threw me in the jail, scolding me for not wearing my red
      flannel underwear while I was talking to the President. I was trying to be inconspicuous in hopes no one
      would see me with the likes of Ford, but then, they did not know him like I did. The flashbulb light-bursts
      further traumatized me. The Keystone Cop rattled on and on about “how lucky” I was until my father paid
      my bail and I was released from the cell.
      That night I wore my Catholic uniform as instructed and went into a dissociative trance as my father
      drove me to the local National Guard Armory where I was prostituted to Ford. Ford took me into an
      empty room, pushed me down on the wooden floor as he unzipped his pants and said, “Pray on this”.
      Then he brutally sexually assaulted me. Afterward my memory was compartmentalized through use of high
      voltage. I was then carried out to the car where I lay in the back seat, nauseated, muscles contracted,
      stunned, in pain, and unable to move.
      When we got back to Muskegon my father sent me to the beach as always, to let the repetition of
      crashing waves against the beach “wash my mind free of memory” while I watched the sun set. My
      memory of the event was indeed compartmentalized and “forgotten” until Mark Phillips rescued and deprogrammed
      me in 1988. Until then I was totally locked into the belief that truly there was “no place to turn”
      for help as I had been told and conditioned by my abusers—not even to the President of the United

    2. Capt Tamar's Avatar
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      Default Re: President Gerard Ford

      So what's your point?

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