Hollywood's Ad Hoc Morality versus Fatty Arbuckle's Killer Penis

While researching for the second edition of Anvil of the Psyche, I was struck by how, in the five years since the initial  publication, an astounding revealing and unfoldment of the distorted realities that have begun away at the Psychopathic Control Grid. The mainstream media is rapidly losing ground to alternative and citizen journalists, and the seemingly once indestructible concept of globalization has taken a severe beating. People are indeed waking up, and no one is more surprised than I am. With this bewildering confusion at the top of the control structure, those of us who can see it for what it is are being presented with new potentials and possibilities for personal and social growth in terms of the creative forces such disruptions within the manufactured zeitgeist unleashes. 

At the very least, the so called concerns that the media and politics are foisting upon the masses—adding to their already accumulated neuroses and fears—appear laughable and absurd to those of us on the sidelines and who know how the game is rigged. We are enjoying the desperate attempts to keep the consensus casinos of the Psychopathic Control Grid solvent. The opening act is over, and the real show is about to begin.

Apart from technology, very little has changed in the last three thousand years in terms of how our minds are cultivated for social and political control purposes. We remain the filled vessels of incorporeal realms which have invaded our personal and collective psyches and from this external cannibalization and reengineering of the mind, generates the world we experience and how we relate towards it. From Babylon to the BBC, our consciousness—both collective and personal—is still being invaded via the art of extraneous 'agents' and 'ghosts' corralling our psyche into pre-determined cultural, political and social enclosures. There is very little about most people that is 'real' in any honest or organic sense. Even the very emotions they are subject to—are more often than not—conditioned triggered responses derived from minefields of varying dogmas and inclinations place within the population by everything from education to advertising, and from religion to government. 

Most 'normal' people are more akin to flesh golems than it is often comfortable enough for them to come to terms with and  accept. Generally, humans as a whole are someone's, or something else's creation. Or at least we remain so until one day our engagement with the chimera of this engineered five sense reality shows cracks around the edges. That, what we previous assumed was solid and authentic, begins to dissolve—often to our initial psychological and intellectual resistance—and from this we begin to develop our own model of reality. 

One that at first feels more akin to a traumatic boot camp of the consciousness. But a bespoke reality model, which in time, gives up a far more rewarding and less disappointing life experience when we finally embrace it and break free from the cultivated mirage. A life more rewarding simply because we are more in control of who we are as individuals, and are less subject to the sorcery, and to the Trash Magic of the pathological magi who made us into the flesh golems to begin with. The Lords of Perception—who are the hunter gathers of our psychological and emotional resources—have stalked and trapped most humans very well indeed. 

These methods and practices of our psychological enslavement have not changed since the time when our hysterical ancestors were spellbound by the parade of 'idols' under the glow of blazing torches on their way to the Ishtar Gate in ancient Babylonia. A time when the shaman or druid was replaced by the priest class, and the twilight world of our spiritual and secular lives were replaced with the middle men of god who became the exclusive representatives of the supernatural entity they either invented, or were possessed by. Such as the murderous and jealous Jehovah posing as the creator of the universe. 

Today, the same screams of religious fundamental ecstasy and salvation are delivered towards the parades of Hollywood 'stars' walking along the red carpet to the Oscars or Grammys. Now, under the glow of the 'low carbon' spotlight. While a few streets away some homeless person is dying in pool of their own urine as the likes of the psychosis-ridden Moby somehow decrees it to be exclusively the fault of Donald Trump and not all the other politicians he voted for who led up to this point.

Nothing has changed. Nothing at all. From the time of the priest classes of Babylon who were sequestered behind their guarded luxurious palaces on the on the banks of the Euphrates thousands of years ago pontificating on morality and decency while they placed another infant on the Molech shine to be roasted alive. 

The gods and goddess of mass media who are their decedents today, are now as insane and pathological as the demon Jehovah of the Old Testament. As is their ever replenishing parades of increasingly half-witted Hollywood stars and Z-list lounge acts who have taken it upon themselves to be missionaries of this sanctimonious Trash Magic as they pontificate to the masses on topics ranging from politics to the environment. 

Moby. He is Perfectly Fine with Obama's Tuesday Morning Kill List, the NSA, Bombing Seven Muslim Nations and also, our Moby is Fine with Enjoying Hillary Clinton doing a Merry Dance After Hearing about A Man Being Anally Raped with the Bayonet Before Having His Throat Slit Without Trial. Just As Long as No One Says 'Grab Em by the Pussy' as a Private Joke Over a Decade Ago. Moby has Morals. A Special Kind of Celebrity Morality.

These pontificating celebs are nothing more than glorified monkeys on the mass media's barrel organ and who have also seemed to have developed an extreme psychosis in that they honestly assume that we should give a shit what they pontificate about—along with the shallow and superficial platitudes which they issue forth forth—as they attend another narcissistic-driven temple of their own self adulation for achievements, that in terms of any symbolic meaning, are no more vital than the monkey on the barrel organ being handed another handful of peanuts. 

More and more ordinary people are recognising this absurd showbiz dreamscape for what it is and have a desire to move beyond the Trash Magi, and to remove the pathological spell that has been foisted upon them since birth. 

More than anything else, we can see the games they are also playing as well as the hidden hands behind the scenes doing everything they can—from phony protests and overblown economic and social woes—to the, at times, comical attempts by the increasingly insane celebrities trying to portray themselves as social justices crusaders and great sages. When in reality, they look like the mindless and demented clowns most of them actually are. 

Their fears are not for us. They are terrified of their own absurdly over-important status in society being exposed for what it truly is, and therefore the inability for them continuing to hide their own sexual and other sordid lifestyles which—if their political associates are anything to go by—are increasingly pedophilic and psychotic. Being a celebrity no longer insures them from rotting in a jail cell or psychiatric hospital as it once did. 

In a post-OJ Simpson and Jimmy Savile age, that benefit of being famous has come to an end. This is the root of their increasing hysteria and absurdity with each political candidate they endorse over another whom they attack. They are attempting to stack up their own personal odds against going to jail, or going into a straight jacket. The scam is ending. 

No sane person cares that some washed-up TV star has energy saving light bulbs in their multi million dollar mansion. We pay these monkeys to entertain us and nothing more.

On April 12, 1922 the jury verdict in the third and final trial of silent movie star Roscoe Conkling "Fatty" Arbuckle was delivered by an adoring jury to finally, once and all, determine if Arbuckle was guilty of literally murdering a woman with his penis. 

The woman in question was actress Virginia Rappe who had become seriously ill during a wild sex, alcohol and drugs-fueled party hosted by by Arbuckle at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco in September 1921. After having been involved in a wild sexual orgy with Arbuckle and others during the party, severe internal bleeding was caused by Arbuckle's penis rupturing Virginia Rappe internal organ. She collapsed and died four days later. The case was a sensation and became the truly first great scandal involving a Hollywood superstar. But it would also be the first were the bright lights of celebrity would give them protection from the consequences of their own actions.

When the jury finally found Arbuckle unanimously 'not guilty' in the third trial—a sizable portion of the jury's six minute deliberations were little more than a star struck fan club meeting—five of those minutes were spent writing a formal statement of apology to Arbuckle for putting him through the ordeal.

“Acquittal is not enough for Roscoe Arbuckle. We feel that a great injustice has been done him. We feel also that it was only our plain duty to give him this exoneration, under the evidence, for there was not the slightest proof adduced to connect him in any way with the commission of a crime. He was manly throughout the case and told a straightforward story on the witness stand, which we all believed. The happening at the hotel was an unfortunate affair for which Arbuckle, so the evidence shows, was in no way responsible. We wish him success and hope that the American people will take the judgment of fourteen men and woman who have sat listening for thirty-one days to evidence, that Roscoe Arbuckle is entirely innocent and free from all blame.” 

Although the verdict was probably fair in the sense that Arbuckle had—from what we can tell—no intention of deliberately harming Virginia Rappe, what the jury's behaviour brought to light was the idea that a Hollywood star should not go to prison for crimes that would have almost certainly would have resulted in a long custodial sentence for a regular male of no fame in the same position. 

The precedent had been set. In the USA, and later, the rest of the world, celebrities were more worthy of protection from the morals and laws of society for no other reason than they were famous. They jury in all three trials of Arbuckle did not find him guilty not because of the lack of evidence, but because they were simply spellbound by someone whom had enchanted them under the flicking lights of cinema projectors with his very literal 'movie magic'.

The star struck condition of the jury was brought further into focus when, after the reading of the apology statement from the jury, and following this, in single file—akin to pilgrims attaining a blessing from the Pope or some other great holy man or woman—all twelve members of the jury, along with the two jury alternates walked up to Arbuckle and personally apologised to him while embracing him or shaking his hand. 

The fiasco then culminated in the entire jury posing with Fatty Arbuckle for a group photo with smiles on their star struck faces. 

Virginia Rappe was still in her grave. 

In the end it mattered not, as Arbuckle—and his lethal cock—could no longer be marketed as the loveable movie character which had made him a major star. Instantly, the classic Hollywood 'shunning' of him by his former Hollywood friends and associates began with the usual ruthless efficiency. Not because of the death of Virginia Rappe, but because they were worried about their own perverted lifestyles being possibly being discovered.

Roscoe 'Fatty' Arbuckle died in obscurity from a heart attack June 29, 1933 after an attempt at a brief comeback at age 45. Ironically, the following morning The Screen Actors Guild (SAG) became a union and began working according to industry and civil guidelines, while on the other side of the Atlantic, the German Propaganda Ministry, controlled by Joseph Goebbels, by decree of Chancellor Hitler, placed all movies and entertainment under the control of the Third Reich. 

The age of the Entertainment Industrial Complex had arrived. From Beverly Hills to Berlin, if celebrities served the interests of the state, then their perversions and pathology would continue to be indulged, and the law would always turn a blind eye. The stage had been set for the likes of Jimmy Savile later on in history to weave his only trail of degenerate destruction with the blessing and protection of the government owned BBC. The gods of celebrity had been made infallible. Once, they served the system...

Now their days of infallibility are ending, and boy don't they know it and are they showing it...