I love conspiracy theories. especially those that didn't need much brain cells to crack and nuts to decimate. Secret Societies are one of my favorite subject because, on one hand, the mysterious aurora captivates me to readily repulse its negligence of democratic rights in favor of New World Order, and on the other, perhaps somewhat more self-conceptualizing or self-delusional, I am desperate of wanting to join its elite round-table, for a chit chat like those youngsters in Starbucks.
The secret societies I desire is not those mafias and Yakusa, or Singapore version of Hokkien-speaking delinquents, or even religious cults which Singapore in itself owns many Mcdonald-like franchises - those are not powerful enough to start a war or broker a rise in oil prices, or bonding with future politicians, billionaire businessmen and spies that could help me kick-start my otherwise dismal career prospect. I wanted to be involve in Bilderberg Group, whose past members account of the likes of Bill Clinton, Henry Kissinger, Conrad Black, and countless granny-Queens and sugar-Kings for 'Lizard of Aussie' to work his own magic. I want to be accepted into the exclusive Skulls and Bones, where the members practice their concupiscence in the confines of a building in Yale - a structure of no window except shrieks of despair and enjoyment all mixed into inscrutable code oozing out from the tightly bolted door.
To better prepare myself for the possible invite, since I am very forthcoming, I set my watch to the 'babarian' time - five minutes faster than usual, assemble my ancestors lineage to fit according to the princeling bloodlines however distant it can be, and try to practice the correct idiosyncrasies - knifing pizzas or hamburgers, delicate with each slicing, using Victorian English, and sucking in boggies instead of blowing it out because, if I did blew out, it would be improper. I too apprehend their custom and tradition, which its members are to abide to, like giving respect to Madam Pomfrey skulls, be petulant to human rights organizations and postmodernists to 'suck-up' to the elites, and keep in contact with all the European and United States hotels for its whereabouts so as not to miss my appointment when my time comes.
But if the time arrives, three possible scenarios could be anticipated. One, I can be Groucho Marx, with pompous self-gratifying quote like 'I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members,' which in fact only impedes my future prospect. Two, I can be Salt, playing double agent between two rival organizations, one promoting autocracy and the other democracy, equivalent to a hungry dog chasing after two bones rolling down from opposite sides of a mountain. Three, I can be George Bush, opening up Arbusto Energy corporation with the inner-circles, insidiously handshake with Osama in Carlyle Group, while being shoe thrown by Iraqi Reporters. That analysis can postpone, at least I need my letter of acceptance first.
The secret societies I desire is not those mafias and Yakusa, or Singapore version of Hokkien-speaking delinquents, or even religious cults which Singapore in itself owns many Mcdonald-like franchises - those are not powerful enough to start a war or broker a rise in oil prices, or bonding with future politicians, billionaire businessmen and spies that could help me kick-start my otherwise dismal career prospect. I wanted to be involve in Bilderberg Group, whose past members account of the likes of Bill Clinton, Henry Kissinger, Conrad Black, and countless granny-Queens and sugar-Kings for 'Lizard of Aussie' to work his own magic. I want to be accepted into the exclusive Skulls and Bones, where the members practice their concupiscence in the confines of a building in Yale - a structure of no window except shrieks of despair and enjoyment all mixed into inscrutable code oozing out from the tightly bolted door.
To better prepare myself for the possible invite, since I am very forthcoming, I set my watch to the 'babarian' time - five minutes faster than usual, assemble my ancestors lineage to fit according to the princeling bloodlines however distant it can be, and try to practice the correct idiosyncrasies - knifing pizzas or hamburgers, delicate with each slicing, using Victorian English, and sucking in boggies instead of blowing it out because, if I did blew out, it would be improper. I too apprehend their custom and tradition, which its members are to abide to, like giving respect to Madam Pomfrey skulls, be petulant to human rights organizations and postmodernists to 'suck-up' to the elites, and keep in contact with all the European and United States hotels for its whereabouts so as not to miss my appointment when my time comes.
But if the time arrives, three possible scenarios could be anticipated. One, I can be Groucho Marx, with pompous self-gratifying quote like 'I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members,' which in fact only impedes my future prospect. Two, I can be Salt, playing double agent between two rival organizations, one promoting autocracy and the other democracy, equivalent to a hungry dog chasing after two bones rolling down from opposite sides of a mountain. Three, I can be George Bush, opening up Arbusto Energy corporation with the inner-circles, insidiously handshake with Osama in Carlyle Group, while being shoe thrown by Iraqi Reporters. That analysis can postpone, at least I need my letter of acceptance first.
