Candidate Mike Huckster-Bee: Zionist Agent

May 10, 2015

You can’t beat Mike King in describing the Mike Huckabee entry into the presidential race.

This smooth-talking snake-oil salesman knows he can’t get the nomination, nor does he actually want it. There just aren’t enough Rapture Bunnies in the northern states. So, why bother? Hucksterbee’s candidacy has two objectives:

  • To draw votes away from other non-Establishment Republicans such as Ben Carson and Rancid Paul.
  • To personally benefit from the “face-time” that comes with participating in the Quadrennial Freak Show.

Huckster’s last GOP Primary campaign (2007-8) is what led to the cushy multi-million dollar talk show he currently enjoys at FOX, and the rapid rise of his numerous books up the New York Slimes Best Seller list and his $70,000 per speech motivational gig. “The love of money is the root of all evil, eh Pastor Mike?


With Beatings, Rape, Torture, Miracles Still Happen

May 10, 2015

I’ve just read parts of Thomas Goodrich’s book Hellstorm and viewed the documentary and now I firmly believe in miracles. The following description is from Goodrich’s book and is posted on his blog from which I have copied it. The victim is being tortured by the “benevolent” American soldiers after they won the ‘good war’.

Not surprisingly, with beatings, rape, torture, and death facing them, few victims failed to “confess” and most gladly inked their name to any scrap of paper shown them. Some, like Anna, tried to resist. Such recalcitrance was almost always of short duration, however. Generally, after enduring blackened eyes, broken bones, electric shock to breasts—or, in the case of men, smashed testicles—only those who died during torture failed to sign confessions.

Alone, surrounded by sadistic hate, utterly bereft of law, many victims understandably escaped by taking their own lives. Like tiny islands in a vast sea of misery, however, miracles did occur. As he limped painfully back to his prison cell, one Wehrmacht officer reflected on the insults, beatings, and tortures he had endured and contemplated suicide.

I could not see properly in the semi-darkness and missed my open cell door. A kick in the back and I was sprawling on the floor. As I raised myself I said to myself I could not, should not accept this humiliation. I sat on my bunk. I had hidden a razor blade that would serve to open my veins. Then I looked at the New Testament and found these words in the Gospel of St. John: “Without me ye can do nothing.”

   Yes. You can mangle this poor body—I looked down at the running sores on my legs—but myself, my honor, God’s image that is in me, you cannot touch. This body is only a shell, not my real self. Without Him, without the Lord, my Lord, ye can do nothing. New strength seemed to rise in me.

   I was pondering over what seemed to me a miracle when the heavy lock turned in the cell door. A very young American soldier came in, put his finger to his lips to warn me not to speak. “I saw it,” he said. “Here are baked potatoes.” He pulled the potatoes out of his pocket and gave them to me, and then went out, locking the door behind him.

Goodrich’s Hellstorm should be in every school and public library.


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