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Archive for November 19th, 2010

Jesse Ventura Will No Longer Fly Due To Abuses From Fascist TSA!

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November 19, 2010: Kurt Nimmo / Infowars.com – November 19, 2010

Appearing on the Alex Jones Show today, the former governor of Minnesota and host of the popular TruTV show, Conspiracy Theory with Jesse Ventura, announced he will no longer use commercial airlines due to the egregious abuses of the TSA and the government.

Ventura said he made the decision to avoid public aircraft after he found himself becoming too comfortable with being routinely searched. He said he was subjected to pat down and search three or four times a week when he traveled for his television show. Ventura had hip surgery and the metal in his body invariably sets off airport metal detectors.

Jesse said he will no longer be forced by the TSA to prove he is not a criminal or terrorist. He refuses to be considered guilty until proven innocent by the government in violation of the Fourth Amendment. He also admitted the decision not to fly may put an end to his career.

After the Department of Homeland Security announced the TSA will conduct “enhanced” pat downs of people opting out of naked body scanners following the toner non-bombing fiasco earlier in the month, the Drudge Report teamed up with Infowars.com and Prison Planet.com to cover exploding public resistance to the new effort by the government to normalize the populace to ever-increasing police state tactics under the rubric of staged and false flag terrorism.

Resistance to airport Gestapo zones gained critical momentum after pilots and flight attendants opposed searches and threatened to sue the government. “Nationwide outrage against the TSA is not only bringing to light new cases of airport abuse, it’s throwing fresh attention on previous incidents that have been going on for years,” Paul Joseph Watson wrote on Thursday.

Several people have initiated lawsuits against the government, including a 21-year-old college student from Amarillo, Texas, who had her breasts exposed by a TSA goon and a businessman and frequent traveler who is so infuriated by TSA workers sexually groping passengers, squeezing breasts and genitals, that he has filed a lawsuit in federal court in Miami requesting an injunction against the TSA to prevent them from touching private areas without reasonable suspicion.

Jesse Ventura: Will No Longer Fly Due To TSA Abuses

The Tonka Report Editor’s Note: Another excuse for a bailout is coming as people stop flying! – SJH  

Link to original article below…

http://www.infowars.com/breaking-former-gov-ventura-will-no-longer-fly-due-to-abuse-hes-endured-at-hands-of-tsa/

Another Outrageous Example Of TSA Abuse In “Land Of The Free!”

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November 19, 2010: Nicholas Monahan / Lew Rockwell.com – December 21, 2002

This morning I’ll be escorting my wife to the hospital, where the doctors will perform a caesarean section to remove our first child. She didn’t want to do it this way – neither of us did – but sometimes the Fates decide otherwise. The Fates or, in our case, government employees.

On the morning of October 26th Mary and I entered Portland International Airport, en route to the Las Vegas wedding of one of my best friends. Although we live in Los Angeles, we’d been in Oregon working on a film, and up to that point had had nothing but praise to shower on the city of Portland, a refreshing change of pace from our own suffocating metropolis.

At the security checkpoint I was led aside for the “inspection” that’s all the rage at airports these days. My shoes were removed. I was told to take off my sweater, then to fold over the waistband of my pants. My baseball hat, hastily jammed on my head at 5 AM, was removed and assiduously examined (“Anything could be in here, sir,” I was told, after I asked what I could hide in a baseball hat. Yeah. Anything.) Soon I was standing on one foot, my arms stretched out, the other leg sticking out in front of me à la a DUI test. I began to get pissed off, as most normal people would. My anger increased when I realized that the newly knighted federal employees weren’t just examining me, but my 7½ months pregnant wife as well. I’d originally thought that I’d simply been randomly selected for the more excessive than normal search. You know, Number 50 or whatever. Apparently not though – it was both of us. These are your new threats, America: pregnant accountants and their sleepy husbands flying to weddings.

After some more grumbling on my part they eventually finished with me and I went to retrieve our luggage from the x-ray machine. Upon returning I found my wife sitting in a chair, crying. Mary rarely cries, and certainly not in public. When I asked her what was the matter, she tried to quell her tears and sobbed, “I’m sorry…it’s…they touched my breasts…and…” That’s all I heard. I marched up to the woman who’d been examining her and shouted, “What did you do to her?” Later I found out that in addition to touching her swollen breasts – to protect the American citizenry – the employee had asked that she lift up her shirt. Not behind a screen, not off to the side – no, right there, directly in front of the hundred or so passengers standing in line. And for you women who’ve been pregnant and worn maternity pants, you know how ridiculous those things look. “I felt like a clown,” my wife told me later. “On display for all these people, with the cotton panel on my pants and my stomach sticking out. When I sat down I just lost my composure and began to cry. That’s when you walked up.”

Of course when I say she “told me later,” it’s because she wasn’t able to tell me at the time, because as soon as I demanded to know what the federal employee had done to make her cry, I was swarmed by Portland police officers. Instantly. Three of them, cinching my arms, locking me in handcuffs, and telling me I was under arrest. Now my wife really began to cry. As they led me away and she ran alongside, I implored her to calm down, to think of the baby, promising her that everything would turn out all right. She faded into the distance and I was shoved into an elevator, a cop holding each arm. After making me face the corner, the head honcho told that I was under arrest and that I wouldn’t be flying that day – that I was in fact a “menace.”

It took me a while to regain my composure. I felt like I was one of those guys in The Gulag Archipelago who, because the proceedings all seem so unreal, doesn’t fully realize that he is in fact being arrested in a public place in front of crowds of people for…for what? I didn’t know what the crime was. Didn’t matter. Once upstairs, the officers made me remove my shoes and my hat and tossed me into a cell. Yes, your airports have prison cells, just like your amusement parks, train stations, universities, and national forests. Let freedom reign.

After a short time I received a visit from the arresting officer. “Mr. Monahan,” he started, “Are you on drugs?”

Was this even real? “No, I’m not on drugs.”

“Should you be?”

“What do you mean?”

“Should you be on any type of medication?”

“No.”

“Then why’d you react that way back there?”

You see the thinking? You see what passes for reasoning among your domestic shock troops these days? Only “whackos” get angry over seeing the woman they’ve been with for ten years in tears because someone has touched her breasts. That kind of reaction – love, protection – it’s mind-boggling! “Mr. Monahan, are you on drugs?” His snide words rang inside my head. This is my wife, finally pregnant with our first child after months of failed attempts, after the depressing shock of the miscarriage last year, my wife who’d been walking on a cloud over having the opportunity to be a mother…and my anger is simply unfathomable to the guy standing in front of me, the guy who earns a living thanks to my taxes, the guy whose family I feed through my labor. What I did wasn’t normal. No, I reacted like a drug addict would’ve. I was so disgusted I felt like vomiting. But that was just the beginning.

An hour later, after I’d been gallantly assured by the officer that I wouldn’t be attending my friend’s wedding that day, I heard Mary’s voice outside my cell. The officer was speaking loudly, letting her know that he was planning on doing me a favor… which everyone knows is never a real favor. He wasn’t going to come over and help me work on my car or move some furniture. No, his “favor” was this: He’d decided not to charge me with a felony.

Think about that for a second. Rapes, car-jackings, murders, arsons – those are felonies. So is yelling in an airport now, apparently. I hadn’t realized, though I should have. Luckily, I was getting a favor, though. I was merely going to be slapped with a misdemeanor.

“Here’s your court date,” he said as I was released from my cell. In addition, I was banned from Portland International for 90 days, and just in case I was thinking of coming over and hanging out around its perimeter, the officer gave me a map with the boundaries highlighted, sternly warning me against trespassing. Then he and a second officer escorted us off the grounds. Mary and I hurriedly drove two and a half hours in the rain to Seattle, where we eventually caught a flight to Vegas. But the officer was true to his word – we missed my friend’s wedding. The fact that he’d been in my own wedding party, the fact that a once in a lifetime event was stolen from us – well, who cares, right?

Upon our return to Portland (I’d had to fly into Seattle and drive back down), we immediately began contacting attorneys. We aren’t litigious people – we wanted no money. I’m not even sure what we fully wanted. An apology? A reprimand? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter though, because we couldn’t afford a lawyer, it turned out. $4,000 was the average figure bandied about as a retaining fee. Sorry, but I’ve got a new baby on the way. So we called the ACLU, figuring they existed for just such incidents as these. And they do apparently…but only if we were minorities. That’s what they told us.

In the meantime, I’d appealed my suspension from PDX. A week or so later I got a response from the Director of Aviation. After telling me how, in the aftermath of 9/11, most passengers not only accept additional airport screening but welcome it, he cut to the chase:

“After a review of the police report and my discussions with police staff, as well as a review of the TSA’s report on this incident, I concur with the officer’s decision to take you into custody and to issue a citation to you for disorderly conduct. That being said, because I also understand that you were upset and acted on your emotions, I am willing to lift the Airport Exclusion Order….”

Attached to this letter was the report the officer had filled out. I’d like to say I couldn’t believe it, but in a way, I could. It’s seemingly becoming the norm in America – lies and deliberate distortions on the part of those in power, no matter how much or how little power they actually wield.

The gist of his report was this: From the get go I wasn’t following the screener’s directions. I was “squinting my eyes” and talking to my wife in a “low, forced voice” while “excitedly swinging my arms.” Twice I began to walk away from the screener, inhaling and exhaling forcefully. When I’d completed the physical exam, I walked to the luggage screening area, where a second screener took a pair of scissors from my suitcase. At this point I yelled, “What the %*&$% is going on? This is &*#&$%!” The officer, who’d already been called over by one of the screeners, became afraid for the TSA staff and the many travelers. He required the assistance of a second officer as he “struggled” to get me into handcuffs, then for “cover” called over a third as well. It was only at this point that my wife began to cry hysterically.

There was nothing poetic in my reaction to the arrest report. I didn’t crumple it in my fist and swear that justice would be served, promising to sacrifice my resources and time to see that it would. I simply stared. Clearly the officer didn’t have the guts to write down what had really happened. It might not look too good to see that stuff about the pregnant woman in tears because she’d been humiliated. Instead this was the official scenario being presented for the permanent record. It doesn’t even matter that it’s the most implausible sounding situation you can think of. “Hey, what the…godammit, they’re taking our scissors, honey!” Why didn’t he write in anything about a monkey wearing a fez?

True, the TSA staff had expropriated a pair of scissors from our toiletries kit – the story wasn’t entirely made up. Except that I’d been locked in airport jail at the time. I didn’t know anything about any scissors until Mary told me on our drive up to Seattle. They’d questioned her about them while I was in the bowels of the airport sitting in my cell.

So I wrote back, indignation and disgust flooding my brain.

“[W]hile I’m not sure, I’d guess that the entire incident is captured on video. Memory is imperfect on everyone’s part, but the footage won’t lie. I realize it might be procedurally difficult for you to view this, but if you could, I’d appreciate it. There’s no willful disregard of screening directions. No explosion over the discovery of a pair of scissors in a suitcase. No struggle to put handcuffs on. There’s a tired man, early in the morning, unhappily going through a rigorous procedure and then reacting to the tears of his pregnant wife.”

Eventually we heard back from a different person, the guy in charge of the TSA airport screeners. One of his employees had made the damning statement about me exploding over her scissor discovery, and the officer had deftly incorporated that statement into his report. We asked the guy if he could find out why she’d said this – couldn’t she possibly be mistaken? “Oh, can’t do that, my hands are tied. It’s kind of like leading a witness – I could get in trouble, heh heh.” Then what about the videotape? Why not watch that? That would exonerate me. “Oh, we destroy all video after three days.”

Sure you do.

A few days later we heard from him again. He just wanted to inform us that he’d received corroboration of the officer’s report from the officer’s superior, a name we didn’t recognize. “But…he wasn’t even there,” my wife said.

“Yeah, well, uh, he’s corroborated it though.”

That’s how it works.

“Oh, and we did look at the videotape. Inconclusive.”

But I thought it was destroyed?

On and on it went. Due to the tenacity of my wife in making phone calls and speaking with relevant persons, the “crime” was eventually lowered to a mere citation. Only she could have done that. I would’ve simply accepted what was being thrown at me, trumped up charges and all, simply because I’m wholly inadequate at performing the kowtow. There’s no way I could have contacted all the people Mary did and somehow pretend to be contrite. Besides, I speak in a low, forced voice, which doesn’t elicit sympathy. Just police suspicion.

Weeks later at the courthouse I listened to a young DA awkwardly read the charges against me – “Mr. Monahan…umm…shouted obscenities at the airport staff…umm… umm…oh, they took some scissors from his suitcase and he became…umm…abusive at this point.” If I was reading about it in Kafka I might have found something vaguely amusing in all of it. But I wasn’t. I was there. Living it.

I entered a plea of nolo contendere, explaining to the judge that if I’d been a resident of Oregon, I would have definitely pled “Not Guilty.” However, when that happens, your case automatically goes to a jury trial, and since I lived a thousand miles away, and was slated to return home in seven days, with a newborn due in a matter of weeks…you get the picture. “No Contest” it was. Judgment: $250 fine.

Did I feel happy? Only $250, right? No, I wasn’t happy. I don’t care if it’s twelve cents, that’s money pulled right out of my baby’s mouth and fed to a disgusting legal system that will use it to propagate more incidents like this. But at the very least it was over, right? Wrong.

When we returned to Los Angeles there was an envelope waiting for me from the court. Inside wasn’t a receipt for the money we’d paid. No, it was a letter telling me that what I actually owed was $309 – state assessed court costs, you know. Wouldn’t you think your taxes pay for that – the state putting you on trial? No, taxes are used to hire more cops like the officer, because with our rising criminal population – people like me – hey, your average citizen demands more and more “security.”

Finally I reach the piece de résistance. The week before we’d gone to the airport my wife had had her regular pre-natal checkup. The child had settled into the proper head down position for birth, continuing the remarkable pregnancy she’d been having. We returned to Portland on Sunday. On Mary’s Monday appointment she was suddenly told, “Looks like your baby’s gone breech.” When she later spoke with her midwives in Los Angeles, they wanted to know if she’d experienced any type of trauma recently, as this often makes a child flip. “As a matter of fact…” she began, recounting the story, explaining how the child inside of her was going absolutely crazy when she was crying as the police were leading me away through the crowd.

My wife had been planning a natural childbirth. She’d read dozens of books, meticulously researched everything, and had finally decided that this was the way for her. No drugs, no numbing of sensations – just that ultimate combination of brute pain and sheer joy that belongs exclusively to mothers. But my wife is also a first-time mother, so she has what is called an “untested” pelvis. Essentially this means that a breech birth is too dangerous to attempt, for both mother and child. Therefore, she’s now relegated to a c-section – hospital stay, epidural, catheter, fetal monitoring, stitches – everything she didn’t want. Her natural birth has become a surgery.

We’ve tried everything to turn that baby. Acupuncture, chiropractic techniques, underwater handstands, elephant walking, moxibustion, bending backwards over pillows, herbs, external manipulation – all to no avail. When I walked into the living room the other night and saw her plaintively cooing with a flashlight turned onto her stomach, yet another suggested technique, my heart almost broke. It’s breaking now as I write these words.

I can never prove that my child went breech because of what happened to us at the airport. But I’ll always believe it. Wrongly or rightly, I’ll forever think of how this man, the personification of this system, has affected the lives of my family and me. When my wife is sliced open, I’ll be thinking of him. When they remove her uterus from her abdomen and lay it on her stomach, I’ll be thinking of him. When I visit her and my child in the hospital instead of having them with me here in our home, I’ll be thinking of him. When I assist her to the bathroom while the incision heals internally, I’ll be thinking of him.

There are plenty of stories like this these days. I don’t know how many I’ve read where the writer describes some breach of civil liberties by employees of the state, then wraps it all up with a dire warning about what we as a nation are becoming, and how if we don’t put an end to it now, then we’re in for heaps of trouble. Well you know what? Nothing’s going to stop the inevitable. There’s no policy change that’s going to save us. There’s no election that’s going to put a halt to the onslaught of tyranny. It’s here already – this country has changed for the worse and will continue to change for the worse. There is now a division between the citizenry and the state. When that state is used as a tool against me, there is no longer any reason why I should owe any allegiance to that state.

And that’s the first thing that child of ours is going to learn.

The Tonka Report Editor’s Note: And this happened 8 years ago! – SJH

Link to original article below…

http://lewrockwell.com/orig3/monahan1.html

“Don’t Touch My Junk!” (The TSA Hustle Song): The Health Ranger!

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November 19, 2010: Mike Adams / Prison Planet.com – November 19, 2010

Don’t Touch My Junk takes aim at the TSA with its obscene pat-downs and naked body scanners now installed at airports across the USA. Written by Mike Adams (the Health Ranger), a strong advocate of freedom and civil liberties, this song is based on a true story by a traveler named John Tyner who told the TSA, “If you touch my junk I’ll have you arrested.”

Don’t Touch My Junk

The Tonka Report Editor’s Note: We all must put a stop to this outrageous violation of the Constitution! – SJH

Link to original video below…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhEMRSp7vaY&feature=player_embedded

TTR’s “Just Because!” Red Grange: The Galloping Ghost Of Chicago

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November 19, 2010: Larry Schwartz / A Special Report For ESPN.com Sports – 2007

In sport’s Golden Age, he was football’s golden boy. Red Grange was the name, though he was commonly known as The Galloping Ghost.

While it’s a shame they don’t make nicknames like that any more, it’s even more disappointing they don’t make many players like the three-time All-American halfback.

“This man Red Grange of Illinois is three or four men rolled into one for football purposes,” wrote Damon Runyon. “He is Jack Dempsey, Babe Ruth, Al Jolson, Paavo Nurmi and Man o’ War. Put together, they spell Grange.”

If you made a football movie and the star scored four touchdowns, covering an incredible 262 yards, in just 12 minutes, would anyone think it was anything but fiction?

But that’s what Grange accomplished against one of the best defenses in the country. That 1924 game against Michigan so inspired Grantland Rice to give Grange his nickname and write:

A streak of fire, a breath of flame
Eluding all who reach and clutch;
A gray ghost thrown into the game
That rival hands may never touch;
A rubber bounding, blasting soul
Whose destination is the goal.

Then less than a week after the remarkable No. 77 completed his college eligibility in 1925, he was breathing life into the struggling professional game. While it was a national television contract four decades later that eventually made the NFL truly major league, it was Grange who first gave the pro game legitimacy. His exhausting coast-to-coast 67-day barnstorming tour with the Chicago Bears filled stadiums and newspaper space.

Not big at 5-foot-11 and 175 pounds, his philosophy was simple: “If you have the football and 11 guys are after you, if you’re smart, you’ll run.” And while he could run like the wind, he also could shimmy his hips like an exotic dancer, becoming as elusive as an invisible man.

“I will never have another Grange, but neither will anyone else,” said Bob Zuppke, his coach at Illinois. “They can argue all they like about the greatest football player who ever lived, but I was satisfied I had him when I had Red Grange.”

The storybook life of Harold (later to be called Red) Grange began on June 13, 1903 in Forksville, Pa. After his mother died when he was 5, his father Lyle, a foreman for a lumber company, moved the family to Wheaton, Ill., where four brothers had settled.

 

While Lyle switched professions and worked his way up to chief of police at Wheaton, his son starred in athletics. At Wheaton High School, he earned 16 letters in football, baseball, basketball and track (a four-time sprint champion).

Working summers as a helper on an ice truck enhanced his physical development. Eventually, he would be given the nickname, “The Wheaton Iceman.” Despite scoring 75 touchdowns and 532 points in high school, Grange considered skipping football at Illinois and competing in basketball and track. But some fraternity brothers got Grange to change his mind with the use of a large wooden paddle.

In his first game, Grange scored three touchdowns, including a 66-yard punt return, against Nebraska in 1923. In seven games as a sophomore he ran for 723 yards (5.6 average) and scored 12 touchdowns in leading unbeaten Illinois to the consensus national championship.

Not until the Michigan game on Oct. 18, 1924, did Grange reach legendary status. He returned the opening kickoff 95 yards for a touchdown. Then he scored on runs of 67, 56 and 44 yards. All this in the first 12 minutes. The four touchdowns were as many as Michigan had allowed in the two previous seasons.

Tired, he took a rest. But he came back to run 11 yards for a fifth touchdown and passed 20 yards for a sixth score as Illinois won 39-14 to end Michigan’s 20-game unbeaten streak. He totaled an amazing 402 yards — 212 rushing, 64 passing and 126 on kickoff returns.

As a senior, in a 24-2 upset of Penn in Philadelphia, Grange rushed for a career-high 237 yards, including touchdown runs of 56 and 13 yards, through ankle-deep mud. With rumors of Grange turning pro swirling, he helped Illinois win its season-finale, 14-9 over Ohio State. In his 20-game career, he ran 388 times for 2,071 yards (5.3 average), caught 14 passes for 253 yards and completed 40 of 82 passes for 575 yards. Of his 31 touchdowns, 16 were from at least 20 yards, with nine from more than 50.

The day after the Ohio State game, Grange announced he was turning pro. C.C. Pyle, a Champaign, Ill., theater owner and promoter, negotiated an elaborate deal with Bears owner and coach George Halas in which Grange was guaranteed a reported $3,000 per game and a varying percentage of the gate.

Grange’s jump to play for pay brought credibility to the pro game and shocked the collegiate world. “I’d have been more popular with the colleges if I had joined Capone’s mob in Chicago rather than the Bears,” Grange said.

The Bears concocted a hybrid schedule — part regular season, part exhibitions — in which they played 19 games in 67 days. The first part of the frantic tour was 10 games in 18 days in the East and Midwest. After a two-week break, they played nine games in the South and West Coast. While 7,500 attended the Bears’ last non-Grange game, a standing-room only crowd of 36,000 jammed into Cubs Park (now known as Wrigley Field) on a snowy Thanksgiving to see Grange’s pro debut. It was reported that Halas cried while counting the receipts. Grange didn’t do much in a 0-0 tie with the Chicago Cardinals.

While some games drew fewer than five figures, others attracted amazing crowds, such as the more than 65,000 that attended in New York and Los Angeles. Grange played in 17 games (injury kept him out of the other two), and when the tour ended on Jan. 31, 1926, he went home to Wheaten weary but wealthy, driving a new $5,500 Lincoln and wearing a $500 raccoon coat. Pyle also made his client richer by getting him several lucrative endorsement deals.

When a bid by Grange and Pyle to buy a piece of the Bears was rejected by Halas, the two formed their own league, the American Football League, in 1926, with Grange playing for the New York Yankees. The league folded after a year. The Yankees, though, joined the NFL, but in the third game of the 1927 season, Grange suffered such a severe knee injury that he never was the same dashing runner he had been.

After missing the 1928 season, he returned with the Bears in 1929 and played six more years, becoming more valuable as a defensive back than as a running back in this era of one-platoon football. In the NFL’s first championship game in 1933, his touchdown-saving tackle late in the fourth quarter preserved the Bears’ 23-21 victory over the New York Giants.

In the 1920s, Grange made two films and a movie serial, called “The Galloping Ghost.” After his retirement, he made money in the insurance business. Later, he became an analyst on Bears games for 14 years until 1963 and on network television college games. A charter member of both the College Football Hall of Fame and Pro Football Hall of Fame, he died at age 87 of pneumonia on Jan. 28, 1991 in Lakes Wales, Fla.

About his success as a football player, Grange had said, “They built my accomplishments way out of proportion. I never got the idea that I was a tremendous big shot. I could carry a football well, but there are a lot of doctors and teachers and engineers who could do their thing better than I.”

Red Grange

NFL Top 100 Players: #48 – Red Grange

The Tonka Report Editor’s Note: Sports isn’t the problem. The obsession with sports is the issue– SJH

Link to original article below…

http://espn.go.com/sportscentury/features/00014213.html

Written by Steven John Hibbs

November 19, 2010 at 2:28 am