The Truth Is Right Here: Conspiracy Theory, The Entries

It has taken awhile, but there are those among you who have defied those who would silence you; challenged those who would intimidate you and mooned those who have ridiculed you.

Yes, you have left LOL Cats behind and taken on the world and revealed:

THE HIDDEN CONSPIRACIES OF THE AGES!


Now...it is up to you, dear readers, to comb through these intracacies of deception and determine the the the one you feel conspires the best.

There are nine of them ... nine.

Read them carefully and vote for 3. The most conspiratorial(#1) the second most(#2) and your third choice (#3)

PM me your votes, and only vote once.

Voting starts.... NOW

Voting ends at 3am EDT on September 29.

I'm Not a Smart Man But I Know What A Conspiracy Is: By Rhymegirl

My name is Forrest. Forrest Gu-uump. Some of you may've heard of me. Some may not. There was this whole book and movie about me. I just wanted to tell you about something they left out of that book and movie. It’s about when I was in the army with my best buddy, Bubba and Lieutenant Dan. What I never told anybody was that I always had this feeling that Lieutenant Dan was trying to kill me.

One morning I was laying in my cot before the sun came up. In the army, you have to sleep with lots of other people. Now some of those people were snoring. I was having lots of trouble sleeping on account of the snoring. I turned over to ask Bubba if he was having trouble sleeping, too, and Bubba was GONE!

That was my first clue that Lieutenant Dan was trying to kill me. I don’t think he liked Bubba either on account of the way he talked. Why one day he even said, “Bubba, I hate the way you talk. Some day I’m gonna kill you.”

Mama always said you should never say you’re gonna kill someone even if you don’t mean it.

Well, anyway, that morning I was laying there in my cot and I heard somebody laughing. It sounded like Lieutenant Dan. I went outside and looked around but nobody was there. Just as I was turning to go back inside somebody grabbed me.

“Gump! What are you doing out here!”

It was Lieutenant Dan. He had a really wild look on his face and he was holding some very sharp-looking scissors.

“What are you doing with those scissors, Lieutenant Dan?” I asked him.

“None of your damn business, Gump! Now get back inside. The enemy is all around this place.”

“But Bubba is missing, Lieutenant Dan.”

“Missing? He’s not missing. I just sent him packing. Same thing’s gonna happen to you if you screw up, Gump. Now get back inside!”

Now that turned out to be a lie. I found out later that Bubba was really tinkling behind a tree. He also told me that Lieutenant Dan was chasing him around the trees with those sharp-looking scissors.

That’s why I really thought Lieutenant Dan would also try to kill me.

Another time we were out on patrol looking for Charlie. Charlie is this enemy we were always looking for in Vietnam. Lieutenant Dan stuck his foot out as I was running along and I came this close to hitting my head on a rock. He said it was just my imagination and I should be more careful tying my shoelaces.

I could tell you lots more things about Lieutenant Dan trying to kill me but Mama always said “the past is past.” And probably nobody would believe me anyways. I’m not a smart man but I know what a conspiracy is.

Would you like a chocolate?

For your Conspiracy Theory contest By Write_at_First_Light

As if Monday mornings aren’t bad enough, today I’m petrified even more than usual by a shrieking fear. My mouth is as dry as the Mojave in a Santa Ana winds condition. Bad news. Definitely NOT advantageous for my job here on the production line at the No-E-Coli Mushroom Soup Emporium. I have to lick the labels and stick them on the cans and if I don’t make my quota of twenty-two cans per minute, no checkie this week. What a time to be spitless.

I’d spent the entire weekend at the iPhone Deprogrammer Clinic (you know it, the one that shares space with the Tofu Cook-Off Judgment Chambers) over on Wilshire and Grand. Chief clinician and analog human hero Doctor Raidey tells you the first of the 41 deprogramming steps is the toughest and that’s straight up. Step 1: Bash your head into the Anti-Gadget Cinder Block, once for every dollar you spent on The Ugliness. The iPhone. This maneuver accomplishes two objectives: It administers desperately needed self-punishment, and; it assists in removing the Hitchcock-like sketch of The Steve from your forehead. The one tattooed there during the iPhone Initiation ceremony.

When my coworkers saw me arriving this morning they were aghast. Six of them backed away from me, stumbled and fell into the master mushroom soup vat. They have not been seen since. My forehead bears a striking resemblance to Dante’s Inferno. What my former coworkers failed to notice is how The Steve sketch is now indistinguishable. Their loss. Meanwhile, I secretly congratulated myself on completing the first step towards becoming an anti-gadget, analog human being.

So there I am, an hour and a half into my shift, licking and sticking, when it happened. I casually looked at the top of one of the cans and there He was: Staring back at me was the evil visage of Doctor Raidey! A perfect likeness! How could I mistake those upturned pig eyes, that beady nose, those handlebar ear lobes and the chuck-wagon chin?

“Hey McWhiffy, wassup? You all right?”, interjected my soup mate Hilly Barkendorf.

“Nothing, Doctor Raid…”

I dropped the can, the seams burst on the factory floor and Alien-like, mushroom goo exploded outward. Hilly… Hilly was wearing Raidey’s face! Holy Christola! I grabbed my mushroom-shaped compact, opened the mirror and lasered in on my hellish head. Yes. YES! Bastard’s there! The sonofabitch Doc Raidey is on my head, in my head I’m gonna puke where’s the goddamn head aaaahhhHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhh…….

Rainbow Hair Conspiracy by DL Hegel

The man covered in a thick layer of whitish ash, he flicked his cigarette, his hand shaking as the ash fell. He took a long deep drag. He started to raise his restrained arm with no luck the metal cuffs clanked.
“Listen, Mr. Johnson I can help you but I need to know what happened.” I absently tapped my pen on the table.
“There was black van with the tinted windows. Started seeing it everywhere. Then I saw my neighbor Sheila Rhodes carrying a body wrapped in a black garbage bag. She had it over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She put the body in the black van, then it peeled out. I told the police but they wouldn’t listen. Plus her kind are real good liars…
“Her kind? What is her kind?” I asked.
“Aliens, Officer,” he whispered, “they’re everywhere. I’m afraid I’m putting you in danger by telling you.”
“Mr. Johnson don’t worry about me, I’m an East St. Louis Police Officer. Now we need to get back to what happened.”
“Aliens followed me. I’d catch them staring in the grocery store, laundry or on the bus. They knew I was on their plot to infiltrate our society undermine it from with in. Positioning themselves for power. But they have to kill people to take over their lives.”
“How does taking over a manager of a bar, Mrs. Rhodes, help with world domination?” All the violent nut balls in the world and the alien body snatching one, how often does that happen? Once or twice a month.
“Her nephew Senator Raul Paul will be making a run for the Whitehouse in four years. With him they could do serious damage. I followed Rhodes to a warehouse on 5th street. I could see her and her buddies though a window. Carl who worked at Popeye’s Chicken strapped to a chair. They put rainbow haired troll doll thing in his lap. I knew those things had another purpose. Its eyes glowed green and this small metal box with a glass orb on top floated around him in circles. I felt a sharp pain--then nothing.”
“I woke tied to a chair. Carl, Rhodes, and three other guys stood over me.
‘We know you know, Ted.’ Rhodes said, ‘We are going to make you one of us. Don’t worry it only hurts for a minute and then…’
‘I don’t think so, not going to give one of you things a cuddly human taxi ride!’ I screamed. They put the doll on me and the box began to float circle. I broke loose and smashed the floaty thing. The ground began to shake and I ran. I got outside and the whole place blew. Now I’m here.”
Johnson yelled incoherently. I told Sergeant Sharp to hold him for a psyche evaluation. When I left the station I notice a black van with tinted windows and no plates. I moved to investigate it pulled away. My day was just getting better…

Gotta Be A Conspiracy: B y Jeanne TCG

You know how you come onto a site, say a writer’s site. And at first people are all warm and welcoming?

That’s to suck you in.

Then, they get you involved. Start suggesting that maybe your opinions might help someone else, or maybe make someone laugh, or are just so weird as to invite interesting discussions.

That’s to hook you.

Then, THEN, they do a ‘contest’. Where they tell you, “Oh, write something for us. Come on, it’ll be fun. You’ll enjoy it. Maybe even win something.” You resist. “There might be prizes,” they tease. You resist some more. “Come on…look at the prizes…lookee, lookee, so shiny!”

So you try it.

And maybe you lose.

But everyone’s so supportive, and they swear your piece got a vote. So, the next time, you maybe try again. And maybe you lose again. But one of those times maybe…maybe you come in second or third and get a prize. Wow, right?

They HAVE you, then. After that, when the next contests show up? You feel guilty for not entering. “It’s just 500 words or less,” they wheedle. “Won’t take you any time at all,” they coo. “It’ll be fun. And we need more entries!” You try to resist. But then it hits you -- maybe this time…you’ll win. Win big!

So, despite your time restraints and your better judgment, you enter. Over and over again. They keep you writing and keep your creative juices flowing, all under the guise of ‘fun’.

Well. I know better.

It’s a conspiracy! They’re trying to trick us all into writing! Into trying new things and new ideas! I mean, the IDEA of that! How dare they? And don’t think they’re not all in on it, either. All the mods are a part of it. Most of the regular posters, too. Even some of the newbies. You can’t tell! A writing conspirator could be anyone…it could be the person you talk to the most! It could be…YOU.

And I’m not going to stand for it. Down with the sneaky contests to make us write thing! No way am I going to be a party to this kind of conspiratorial pandering! Not me, no sir!

Unless I win...

In which case, it’s the coolest thing EVER and everyone should do it! And conspiracy, what conspiracy? Oh, that? Ha ha ha ha ha, that’s just a joke! C’mon, look at my prize…all shiny…

Contest? Shmontest By Haggis

Contest? Shmontest.



This contest is rigged. And I ain't playing.

I know, I know. On the face of it, this looks like a perfectly innocent AW contest. There are rules, there's a time limit and there are prizes. And we all get to vote for the winner. Sounds pretty normal, doesn't it?

Think about it.

Who's running this contest? Jaycinth, right? And who's responsible for counting the votes? Jaycinth again. I ask you, what's to stop her from changing the vote total to reflect her own sick and twisted desires? What's to stop her from playing favorites? What's to stop her from taking a little kickback? For all we know, the winner may have been decided before a single entry was submitted.

I know what you're thinking--But Jaycinth wouldn't do that. She's trustworthy. She's a mod. Let me ask you straight out: who among you actually trusts mods?

That's what I thought.

Here's a little more fuel for the fire. It's well known that Jaycinth hangs with a group of disreputable freaks down at the Comedy Cabaret. And by a strange "coincidence," the contest's first prize is a Comedy Cabaret t-shirt. No one in his right mind would want one of those things, unless...unless he or she happened to be one of those barflies. It's a conspiracy, I tell you.

Of course, every conspiracy needs co-conspirators. And I can't say for sure who's working with Jaycinth in this despicable contest. But I have a few ideas.

Could it be the other mods? It certainly could. Who among us is privy to their conversations in their hidden mod room sanctuary? Who can say with certainty that Birol and Dawno aren't yucking it up right now at the thought of some poor struggling member wasting her valuable time by entering this contest? Who can say with certainty that OFG and Soccer Mom aren't randomly adding adverbs to all the submissions? And I ain't mentioning any names, but maybe, just maybe this conspiracy goes all the way to the top.

But perhaps it's not the other mods. Maybe it's the drunken slugs who hang at the Comedy Cabaret. You know the ones I'm talking about. There's that little rat dog who rides around in Jaycinth's cleavage. Co-conspirator. There's the filthy-mouthed floozy with the gimpy knees. Co-conspirator. And the Jessica Aban-besotted battery. Co-conspirator. There's the drunken Brit who pours his breakfast of gin into a bucket. The bug, the ferret, the thinking train, the half quick witted bunny. They even have a yak, and we all know how yaks are. And worst of all is the round-faced circle with two hundred teeth, the scourge of Absolute Write, Rolling Thunder. Co-conspirators, each and every one.

So, you go ahead and enter, if you want to. Go ahead and waste your valuable time. As for me, I'm going to go out to the Seven Eleven and buy me a Lotto ticket. At least I have a fair chance to win.

What is Eastern Standard Time by Feiss

See that man? The one in the middle of all that sand. The one with the rake. Yes, the sand gardener. How do you suppose he gets out of the his garden when he‘s done? Without leaving footprints, I mean. Sure, he could rake his footsteps away as he leaves, but it seems too simple. What? He does not have a pogo stick hidden under that kimono. Idiot. There would be round pogo marks all over the smooth white plot. I bet the CIA airlifts him out, after he’s finished his spying for the day. We are in Baghdad. What better cover, than a sand gardener in a desert country? Sooner or later, this whole place will be one manicured sand land, and we’ll know everything about these bastards. Hm? The wind from the helicopter blades would destroy the sand garden? I didn’t think of that.

You know? I bet it‘s the Japanese that have got a hand in this. He’s probably gardening the secret entrance to an underground Japan. They’ve probably got robots down there, ruling the sub-surface. Those damn Japanese, too clever for their own good, and always trying to solve the space problem. I read on Newsweek the other day, they’re renting closets between jobs. Must’ve had to move to the Middle East to make their T.V.’s and retire their old. Before long, the machines took over, melted antennas and bedpans for iron ore, and fried all the senile retirees. Bet that sand gardener’s a robot too, solar powered. He could garden forever, never needs to shut down and recharge, doesn’t have to worry about getting out of the garden without mussing it up. Not long before they fry us too, turn our SUVs into robot cities. This world is not long for the living.

You think I’m paranoid? What do you expect, Marilyn? I haven’t been able to believe anything I hear. Not since finding out it was the Cuban government that abducted you, trained you to be an assassin, learning it was you on that grassy knoll in 1963. Happy birthday Mr. President indeed.

The thing about elbows By Raxen


You know, I’ve always wondered why elbows are called elbows. I mean seriously, who thought that up?
Yeah okay, they can be ‘L’ shape, but if you bend them just so, suddenly your arm is a straight line; more like a capital ‘I’, so why not ‘aybow’ or even ‘vebow’ if you were bend your arm instead of straighten it?
Do you think whoever came up with it had a thing against elbows bending at any other angle or something, maybe they had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or something.
It Could have been one of those weird Victorian idiosyncrasies where if you don’t do it you’re suddenly possessed or you have too much blood in the brain and need holes cut out of your skull to relieve the pressure… do you suppose that’s it? Blood pressure?
The angle of your arms might affect the blood flow or pressure in your body, no one knows anything for certain do they?
If you think about it, if you hold your arms at strange angles for an extended period of time they begin to ache. Aching is a pain in the muscles, but pain doesn’t actually come form the muscles, it’s from the brain; brain receptors and all that dance. So it’s not like it’s completely impossible, I mean it could cause neurons to misfire and cause a seizure or something.
Do you think we always had them? I mean way back when, like before we were monkeys or whatever. What if something attached them to us on purpose? They could use them for the purpose of wiping out the human race in a mass-synchronized seizure epidemic?
…Makes the name knee kind of disappointing really doesn’t it?

C.I.A: Contrary-Intelligence Allen By SM SARBER

I was faithfully following my daily routine; walking around the fountain in the town square. It was the one thing I could rely on to keep them out of my head. Then I realized that was exactly what they wanted me to believe. There was no freedom for Allen, for Allen knows too much!

I have heard their plans. It may be time for another move.

I came here to Tipton’s Meadow, New Hampshire because it was quiet. It was an old small town, and one could seemingly be safe here. Maybe not.

I heard the splashing even before I felt the cold fountain water seep into my shoes. Damn! They would stop at nothing. Keeping my mind occupied long enough to steer me straight into the fountain. That was their great joy, making me look a fool, and right in the middle of lunch hour. I saw the cute girl from the University campus library laughing along with everyone else.

Yes, it was time for another move. But how to get away without setting off the alarms?

An idea struck! I would write down the name of every state on separate pieces of paper, then mix them up and pick one at random. Then write down the names of every city in the state I picked, mix them and draw again. They couldn’t track me if I wasn’t making any conscious decisions, right?

The following week I was in Butte, Montana. This had to be better, far away from the source of their power. The Washington Monument. It was really just a huge antennae. Most of us never even notice its presence; don’t fool yourself- it is there. Probing. But the signal has to be weaker two-thirds of the way across the country.

I was walking around the town proper when I happened on some disturbing news. This had been a great mining area. There were massive amounts of copper in the ground here. Another conductor.

That was when I heard the voices again. It may be time for another move. Maybe the noise of Las Vegas can drown out their voices. Maybe not.

I had a feeling the only way to truly escape would be to destroy them all. If I only knew how.

Pair a’ Noids by AMUSING MUSE

“Can you see it?”
“Where?”
“Down there. Look, follow my hand; see where I’m pointing? Down there.”
“I don’t see a thing…”
“By the blonde in red, carrying that pink bag.”

“There’s nothing there.”
“Oh my God, it’s right there!”
“The only thing there is the crossing light.”
“That’s not a crossing light.”
“It’s not?”
“No… It was installed late last night, I heard them outside talking.”
“So? Best time to work is late, when no one’s around.”
“No… They were in a hurry and kept looking around.”
“Of course they were, there was traffic and they wanted to get it done without causing an accident.”
“No… They saw me watching so I hid.”
“Why would you do that?”
“They’re government agents.”
“They’re… oh come on…”
“They told me to knock it off and go away.”
“Well, you were freaking them out.”
“No… They didn’t want me to see the control chips.”
“The… the what?”
“The control chips for the subliminal messages.”
“What subliminal messages?”

“Okay, look… you see the sign now?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it doing?”

“There’s a guy walking.”
“See, they’re walking across the road.”
“Well… ya, they’re supposed to.”
“But, what are they doing now?”

“Waiting.”
“And the sign?”
“There’s a hand flashing.”
“It means they can’t walk.”
“Well… ya.”
“See what I mean?”

“Err, no.”

“Why don’t they cross when the hand is flashing? It’s a message I’m telling you, to control us …”
“You want to cross when the hand is flashing and get killed?”
“They’re preparing us...”
“Preparing… us… for what?”
“One day they’ll flip a switch...”
“I think there’s a bit of flip switching going on right here and now…
“Have you tried to cross when the hand is flashing?”
“No, of course not, if I did that, I’d be run over by a car.”

“See the messages are working. They’ve got you convinced you’ll die.”
“That’s just common sense. And what messages?”
“The ones they put behind the signs. They’re everywhere drilling into our brains. Look around you. Over there, see those signs? All with hidden subliminal messages.”

“So what are they all using those messages for?”
“Well, that’s obvious.”
“For some.”
“It’s to get us to do things.”
“Like what?”
“All those fast food places... The signs get us to eat that crap and that’s how they get those chemicals to us without our knowing.”
“Chemicals?”
“Have you not been listening? To control us!”
“Why would fast food joints want to control us?”

“You’ve been asleep all these years, haven’t you?”
“I must have been.”
“They want us all under control, passive… they want people to conform.”
“Conform… to?”
“Their way of thinking.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know that yet. But it will be big.”

“You take your meds today?”
“No…”
“How about we go get them and you can tell me your theory about Chinese food.”
“Okay, but those pills are just another way of controlling us.”
“I sure hope so.”