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Website advocating for involvement in your county regulation process and suggestions for county ordinances responding to federal expansion of jurisdiction and authority and global governance.


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ORF is now monetized. This means you will see ads on the blog. By clicking on the ads, you help generate revenue for ORF. What is ORF going to do with revenue generated from this blog? We want to buy a blender. A really nice blender with multiple speeds. We also would like to buy a lava lamp. In addition to the items mentioned aforely, we would also like to buy a stuffed Jack-a-lope head. Nothing extravagant.

Uncle Sam

Uncle Sam

The Oath of the President of the United States

US Constitution, Article II, Section 1

Before he enter on the execution of his office, he shall take the following oath or affirmation: "I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."

The case could be made that Obama has violated the oath of the office of the Presidency of the United States in not closing the borders at the threat of a global pandemic of the Mexican flu, the violations of the U.S. Constitution in the CIFTA, and his refusal to clarify the circumstances of his birth. Think about it.

Link to the White House by Clicking on Photo

Link to the White House by Clicking on Photo


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Catron County Wolf Incident Investigator, Jess Carey, provide ORF with this document. This is what the ranchers in western New Mexico are living with.



Links to past ORF information on the Mexican Gray Wolf re-introduction program. Some of the links to newspaper articles no longer work.




They are watching. We're watching them watcing us watching you.


We've complied the best of the ORF cartoons all in one location.

Natural Climate Change - Real Science, Verifiable

Natural Climate Change - Real Science, Verifiable
Dr. Eric Karlstrom's excellent website on climate change, it's natural. The agenda is truth and the vindication of scientific method.

Title 17 U.S.C section 107

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Wednesday, September 12, 2007


Click on Post to read parodies in comments.


Otero Residents Forum said...


The following is parody.

The story begins.

I had just come from the city commissioners meeting. They were in negotiations with a company from China that wanted to manufacture chopsticks in Alamogordo. The city thought ‘Made in America’ chopsticks, produced locally, would be a boom to the local economy. I’m against this deal. The Forest Realtors were successful in saving the forests. Now, a real threat to the forests would be introduced in the form of an international power that would want the forests reopened to harvest timber for the production of chopsticks. We don’t need any international body telling us what to do with our forests! I went outside into the unrestricted heat of the day. According to my daily email from Global Hysteria, today was the hottest day in the history of the world. I had gone only a short distance when I began to feel faint, dehydrated, vulnerable, betrayed, lied too, exploited and targeted. I had to get out of the sun.

I sought shelter from the ever-growing catastrophe of global warming. I staggered into the courthouse. Once inside and safe from the unfiltered rays of the sun, I took in the chaotic scene on the first floor. The citizenry was assembled on the first floor, nervously milling about like wet chickens. Panicked chatter in nervous tones floated above the crowd like the smell of Brussels sprouts being boiled. Suddenly the crowd was silenced by a harsh voice coming from the second floor. “The room is open”, the voice barked from the top of the stairs. Citizens froze in place, eyes darting from pasty face to squalid grimace. Who would go up the stairs first? What cruel fate awaited them at the top of the stairs? Why is Coke so expensive from the vending machine in the courthouse?

Finally one brave soul, a woman dressed like an elf, started the long ascent to the second floor. Others followed. Wordlessly, they filed up the merciless stone steps to the second floor. I was last because my hand was stuck in the Coke machine. My Diet Coke didn’t fall all the way to the little chute at the bottom of the vending machine. Finally having my prize in hand, I bounded up the stairs. Once at the top I froze dead in my tracks. I came face to face with a sign written in threatening, authoritative English; were the words:


Across from the sign was an entire platoon of Otero Court House Deputies. They were dressed in black uniforms, with black leather belts cris-crossing their chests and adorned with various instruments and weapons intended for crowd control and group spaying. Over their heads was a marble façade that had these words etched in the stone:

I felt the eyes of the deputies upon me. They were watching me from behind their sandbagged and barb wired bunker. The deputy on the .50 cal drew back the slide and let it slam into place. A round was chambered. What was I doing to threaten security on the second floor? Then it hit me. I had a Diet Coke in my hand. I smiled sheepishly, twisted the top off the plastic bottle, and chugged the entire beverage in front of the sign and the deputies. I chugged for dear life. Finally I had consumed the entire Diet Coke. The bottle was empty. I proudly carried the bottle over to a trash container and dropped it in. I turned and smiled proudly at the deputies. ‘See’, I tried to say with my silent smile. ‘I have complied. I’m a good citizen. I can be trusted’, I said, pleading with my eye contact and appeasing smile. The deputies relaxed, but kept their stern expressions on their faces. I had come uncomfortably close to being turned into sweet potato pie by the drooling goon on the .50. I headed for the room where some sort of assembly was apparently taking place.

I caught up with the crowd at the door. They were still filing in. I asked a woman at the end of the line if this is where I could sign up for Amway. I needed a new detergent ball. She looked at me incredulously and told me this is where the Otero County Commissioners were going to vote on the United Nations designation of White Sands as a World Heritage Site. I was at a loss of words as I looked upon the angelic face of this simple, yet sophisticated woman who shared with me the news of the moment. I hadn’t felt this way since I saw Abba live in concert. What spiritual goddess had led me to this room? I wanted in. I wanted to be part of the global community. I wanted to feel the arms of my global brothers and sisters wrap around me as they welcomed me to my new global neighborhood.
I became manic in my desire to get a seat in the room. I pushed the woman aside in my panic! I knocked over an elderly man in a walker! I shoved a hillbilly in the cowboy hat. I burst into the room and saw there were still empty seats. I saw a table with papers on it. I hurriedly scooped up some papers and leaped for the nearest empty chair. I was in! I was going to there at the inception. Today our County Commissioners were going to cast aside the rough-hewn yoke of oppression that had so long isolated Otero County as a bastion of nationalist xenophobia and rural ignorance. I could see the future of Alamogordo as I took my seat among other revolutionaries and world citizens. We would have Star Bucks…and mass transit…an orchestra and ballet troop…dancing bears…a shrine to female wrestlers who had forged the way for other women!

Ah the women! I wondered what the U.N. babes would look like when they got to town. I fantasized they would be bra-burning techno babes in dire need of a pedicure. I would overlook their uni-brows. I dreamed of snuggling on a couch made of dried seaweed, watching my uni-browed U.N. babe’s favorite ‘chick flick’: Joe Dirt I always cry at the end of that movie. My U.N. babe would comfort me, nestling my head on her muscular shoulder, softly telling me something in a foreign language I can’t understand.

We would be on the map of global communities! I almost wept for joy.

I settled into my seat. Where was the warm up music before the show? I decided to read what was written on the papers I had grabbed in my haste to beat the old man with the walker, to this chair. (He was standing in the back of the room. He wasn’t fast enough to get one of the last empty chairs. It sucks to be him.) I began to read.

As I read my joy turned to disbelief and then to horror!

The County Commissioners were voting on a resolution to OPPOSE making White Sands into a World Heritage Site! I was stunned. I re-read what I had just read. I was re-stunned. I was more than re-stunned. I was aghast! If the County Commissioners somehow stopped the U.N. from becoming a community member then we were all cursed with another generation of county fairs, religious bumper stickers, oldies rock and roll, local talk radio, no sushi bars, cowboys with gun racks in their pickup windows, and women who chew tobacco! Our chances of becoming an elite, cosmopolitan, global utopia were about to be dashed by a bunch of inbred yokels who dined on Ho-Hos and had all the episodes of ‘Hee-Haw’ at home on VHS.

Then someone called us to order. The crowd grew silent. My head was spinning with scenarios of Walter Brennen look-a-likes dancing with each other at a square dance that we were all forced to attend. A thick, dull fog filled my mind. We were ordered to stand by someone at the tribunal podium. I stood with the rest of the attendees. We all placed our hands over our hearts and mumbled some party oath about ‘One Republic under God’. No wonder the Muslims hate us. With hateful diatribe like that, who wouldn’t? Then we put our hand out is if to ask for spare change and some other forced pledge was chanted. I had no idea what they were saying. I was experiencing an inner-rage. The meeting was called to order. The County Commissioners were at the tribunal podium. There were only two; it was explained. The absent Commissioner was at another meeting. I surmised he was at some exclusive cult meeting where the subject of mind control drugs secretly placed in the food of Alamogordo restaurants was being discussed. Oh, I was really mad now.

I endured an hour of discussion of county projects financed by taxes seized from the pocket of the poor and wretched of the county. Then it was announced the people would be given the opportunity to address the Commissioners with their concerns about White Sands and the World Heritage designation. For a moment I wished this had been an Amway meeting. Those detergent balls are really hard to find. The woman who was dressed like an elf cautiously approached the microphone at a table sitting directly in front of the tribunal of the Grand Commissioners. The position of the table was obviously meant to intimidate the citizens. She did not waiver. She did not crack. She began to speak. She courageously denounced the bullying of innocent citizens by gun toting petition gatherers who had coerced people into signing against the U.N. presence in Otero County. She eloquently debunked each and every factoid the closet members of the John Birch society had lied to the community with. When she was finished speaking, she floated back to her seat, leaving a trail of pixie dust.

Another man took his seat at the table. He was obviously against the designation. His cowboy hat in the clutches of his knuckle-dragging claws, tobacco stains on his chin; his disproportioned head bobbling on his no-neck shoulders, he simply said, “I don’t want no blue helmeted Chinese goat lovers in my county.” Suddenly the majority of the crowd went crazy. People were cheering this dolt at the table. Those who agreed with him were waving little American flags and holding Bic lighters aloft as a sign of solidarity with this backwoods buffoon. The woman I had met at out in the hall was holding an American flag in her pig-hoof hand. Her bovine features contorted into a smug snarl of satisfaction as someone from her side got in a lick. I’d get her. I mentally put her on my environmental profiling list for later.

I was in the midst of flesh eating, patriotic Americans. Now I really wished this was an Amway meeting. I was dead meat. They would flush me out and beat me to death with their Copenhagen canisters. Suddenly the room began to shake.

The interior of the courthouse was invaded by the boom-da-boom of some moron’s boom box stereo, blasting from his car on the street outside. When the U.N. comes to town, those hip-hop miscreants will all be rounded up and shipped off to United Nations Global Sensitivities Re-education Camps. Their cars will be confiscated and put on display in the U.N.’s museum of ‘Gratuitous and Opulent Inventions of the Old World Order. After being on display for a while, the cars will be melted down and turned into pogo sticks. The U.N.s preferred method of transportation for Americans is the pogo stick.

The head Commissioner was banging a cowboy boot on the podium. He commanded the crowd to take their seats and to stop cheering. When the crowd quieted down, and a chicken that had somehow been smuggled into the meeting was caught, another man approached the table. He was meek, non-threatening and appeared educated. He wasn’t
dressed like an extra from a John Wayne movie.

He was for the designation. He stated simple truths about the benefits of being a member of the global community. His voice flowed like the soothing sound of a babbling brook. Here was a guardian of truth. A bearer of facts. A man of wisdom and knowledge. As he spoke a gentle light seemed to fill the room with peace and tranquility.
The County Commissioners weren’t buying this man’s explanation. They fidgeted in their seats and spat tobacco juice in spittoons. One of the County Commissioners interrupted the kindly sage at the microphone. The Commissioner accused the man of simply stating his opinion and not voicing any concrete facts supporting World Heritage Sites. Did the man have any facts other than it’s an honorable designation?

In an instant the wise and knowledgeable man was transformed. He morphed into something…inhuman…something from another world. He got pissed.

Every pore of his body oozed anger and frustration. He began to shake violently. His face turned red as his blood boiled in his brain. His heart pounded in his chest like a gerbil trying to escape his cage in a San Francisco pet store. His eyes bulged from his head and spittle sprayed from the foam in the corners of his mouth, onto the table in front of him.

He spoke. “This meeting is a farce”, he screamed, fists flailing defiantly above his head. His voice was a shrill and irritating as a table saw buzzing through the dried bones of endangered species hunted for sport in Otero County. At that moment the Diet Coke I had chugged outside the meeting room, decided to make a statement. As much as I tried to stifle it, a loud, lumbering belch erupted from my mouth. I couldn’t believe that disgusting noise was coming from within me. All eyes in the room were upon me.

The man at the microphone slowly turned, his face contorted by rage. He looked directly at me. Our eyes met. He thought I was mocking him. I wasn’t! I couldn’t hold back that hideous belch. It was the trans-fats in the Coke! He telepathically said to me, in no uncertain words, “You will be first. You who mock us. We know who you are”. The words were burnt into my memory. I don’t like stuff burnt into my memory. I had to go to a de-programmer to have all the subliminal messages ABBA had planted in my head removed. ABBA’s world class CFR operative. Everyone knows that.

Now I was marked. The U.N. brain police would be looking for me. I was doomed.
What will I do when they come to my house? Should I turn in the family of gypsies down the street? They don’t take care of their yard and she interrupts in conversation.
What about the two guys who live across the street? They’re both interior decorators and like Broadway show tunes. I could give them up to the U.N. goons. This was survival and that meant no allegiances to any past acquaintances.

He did an abrupt about face, snapped his heels together and goose-stepped away from the microphone and out of the room. The crowd and Commissioners were stunned at this emotional outburst at the microphone. I immediately felt fear for my life…the second time in that meeting.

When the thunderous echoes of the man’s bootjack National Socialist two-step pitter-patter faded from the marble floors outside the meeting room, we all breathed a collective sigh of relieve. He was gone. We had somehow escaped his violent rage and anger.
The room remained silent. No one spoke or moved. Some poor fool on the other side of the room passed gas. Still, the room remained silent.

I saw my opportunity to escape.

I slowly stood up, knowing that any sudden move could provoke the mental pit bulls in the room. I slowly made my way to the back of the room. I was near the door. I exploded into action. I bolted from the room. I cleared the deputies’ machine gun emplacement before they could put down their tacos and lock and load. I bounded down the stairs. I burst out the door into the heat of global warming. I’d rather take my chances with the ozone then to be in that room full of foaming at the mouth globalists and nationalists!

A pickup truck was slowly driving down the street. There were loud speakers in the back and huge signs brazenly denouncing the United Nations. The message was bizarre and frightening. A loud voice warned of the U.N.’s agenda to purge Africa and India of all the ‘banana worshipers and dot-heads’. The U.N. planned to turn them all loose in the Otero County Wildlife corridor. These poor people would be given mud huts to live in and blunt sticks with which to start their new lives as hunters and gatherers. They would become easy biomass for the bio-genetically engineered giant hyenas the U.N. planned to release in the wildlife corridor. Scores of these helpless peoples would find their way into Alamogordo where they would take all the taxicab and convenience store jobs away from deserving Americans. The future looked bleak under the new U.N. global strategy.


Otero Residents Forum said...

Tuesday, August 28, 2007
It had been a week since I’d fled the County Tribunal debacle. I’d been gulping Prozac shakes and monitoring mood ring jewelry in an attempt to regain my composure.
I’d come dangerously close to being snuffed out by the nationalist horde. I was still on the hit list of the UN secret society of Amazonian Assassins. I had to make contact with the globalists and convince them I was one of them. This wasn’t going to be easy. It took every fiber of my being to muster the courage to tackle this assignment. Now I know how Jane Fonda felt when she vacationed in North Viet Nam. Did I mention I have all of her workout videos?

For the past week I had immersed myself in UN literature. The UN was going to put new roofs on all our houses that would enhance our quality of life and create habitat for endangered species of birds and some species of flesh craving monkey. I have to read more on those monkeys. It’s probably a good idea…it is the UN agenda for the world.

I was especially intrigued by the UN’s agenda for disposing of non-producing individuals when they croak.

The UN had developed a plan for the disposal of poor white trash and homeless Americans. This plan could be easily implemented in Otero County. Since poor white trash and homeless people are already in an advanced state of living decomposition, the convention hit on a brilliant idea. When one of these dullards died; instead of interring them in graves in the Earth Mother, catapult them over the City of Alamogordo, up into the Lincoln National Forest. Once the airborne corpses impacted terra firma, probably breaking up as they passed through natural barriers of pine beetle infested pines; the deceased would scatter upon the forest floor, creating natural compost and food for the giant crustaceans the UN wanted to release in our forests. The crustaceans would feed on elk, deer, badgers, porcupines, and hunters, thus evening the odds between the hunted and the hunter. Sounds ecologically sound to me.

I ventured outside my yurt, past the elephant dung bust of Leonardo DiCaprio I’d made, thanks to a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. DiCaprio is one of America’s leading scientific experts on the environment. The least he deserves is his caricature captured in elephant dung. I scouted above me for blue helicopters. Since the accidental mocking incident at the County Tribunal meeting, I knew ‘they’ were tailing me. I was in disguise. I dressed like Wally and Beaver’s mother, June. Complete with skirt and petticoats wide as a Volkswagen, and stylish 50’s curls hair, heels and just the slightest hint of rouge, I knew I was inconspicuous. I made my way onto 10th street and mingled with the usual crowd of retirees, local yokels, homeless charity CEOs and gang bangers. My disguise was working. I couldn’t see a blue helicopter anywhere. Drat! Those two interior decorators who live across the street were wearing the same outfit I was! I hate clashing fashion statements.

I had a set agenda for the day. I was going to gather covert information on local culture. I would take this information to the U.N. love crowd; UN LOVE for short.
The UN LOVE crowd would forgive me of my minor gaseous indiscretion of the other day and accept me back into the global neighborhood. My first stop was an obvious nationalist illegal black market operation. I stepped into a sporting goods store.

I must have looked pretty ‘hot’ in my disguise as every camouflaged wearing gun loving Neanderthal in the store had their eyes on me. They must have thought I was really the ‘Beav’s’ mom, as they all politely stepped aside for me as I approached the glass counter containing hand guns and other instruments of global destruction. In fact some of these throw backs from Rawhide even moved to the other side of the store.

Carefully placed on blood stained cloth in the glass display case were guns, guns, guns. I carefully deduced that every one of those hand guns was fully automatic and capable of sinking a battleship skinned with 16” armor plating. I had nothing but contempt for the dealers of death and the bozo gun nuts who bought these outdated insults to the global community of peace and uni-sex fondue parties. On the wall behind the counter were several longer guns with wooden handles. Some were made completely out of plastic with metal tubes. These weapons were probably stolen from the cold dead hands of third world patriots that had been conquered by American toy companies and corporate baby food manufactures. If only I had a pocket sized atomic bomb; I’d blow this museum of oppression and intolerance off the face of the Earth. I’d seen enough. I swirled out of that evil place back into the death rays of global warming.

A Mexican restaurant was next on my fact gathering mission. I eloquently entered the first restaurant with writing in the window in Spanish. I swished my way up to the counter, where a kindly peasant of Mexican descent watched me approach. I could see that these proud proletarians from Mexico had sadly been brainwashed into assimilating into capitalist myths and class oppression. This proud Mexican, a descendant of the Mayans and Incas, was obviously caught up in the meat grinder of capitalism. Just walking in this place was an inspiration. On my next mission I could dress like an Incan high priest skilled in heart surgery. Note to self: dress in pheasant and parrot feathers and breech cloth for next fact gathering mission.

I took out my pocket Spanish book for gringos and proudly spoke to him in his native tongue. “Viva de las abondegas!” I said confidently. I had meant to say ‘long life to the lawyers’, from which I would segue into my speech on the white man’s exploitation of the Mexican laborer and the UN’s agenda for elevating his people to the same class as workers in North Korea and Africa. He must have not understand my flawless elocution in Spanish as he responded with, “GET THE @#$% OUT OF MY SHOP!” I was somewhat taken aback by his response. I mean…my hair was perfect and I wasn’t sweating that much. His dark face revealed a discernable threat and his body language told me he was trained in the violent arts. I think he actually helped me out the door, because I remember briefly being airborne before hitting the concrete. Those people have no gratitude…after all we’ve done for them.

I decided to venture into the suburban nightmare of clap-trap housing where the dregs of the working class lived at the poverty level imposed upon them by the Bush family. I strolled delightfully by the community institution of indoctrination intended to crush the spirit of the individual adolescent: the high school. Just wait until the UN replaces the Founding Fathers and Manifest Destiny crap with a global curriculum of one world, feminism, and giving all your stuff to third world countries where they eat dogs and wear bushes for hats. I felt sorry for the stone faced robots milling about the commons in front of this factory of deceit and propaganda.

As I was passing by, a group of young men who were all prematurely bald and dressed in black approached me. This was the perfect opportunity to educate them on the UN’s agenda for global education of young people. I dug through my tiny sequined purse to find the appropriate pamphlet. As the group of young men approached it suddenly dawned on me; these guys weren’t prematurely bald…THEY WERE SKIN HEADS!
I started to run! Forget the pamphlet. I was blazing down the street, skirt dramatically flapping in the wind like the glorious UN flag. I couldn’t believe those kids were gaining on me. They were wearing Doc Martin boots! One of those boots must weigh twenty pounds. To make a long story short…I got stomped, humiliated, pummeled, taunted, bounced, and ridiculed. One of those little punks actually had the gall to tell me ‘Your mommy dresses you funny’.

It was at this point I thought I heard a blue helicopter. Darn! I’d forgotten to pack my foil hat. If it was a blue helicopter they could probe my brain with their mind reading micro-wave gun. They used this technique one unguarded moment and discovered I knew the entire state of Indiana is an alien army waiting for the order to conquer the world. I picked myself up from the concrete and headed home. The UN was right about society in the United States. America is populated with violent, ignorant brain-dead yo-yos’. Somehow I had to find a way to re-ingratiate myself back into the UN’s good graces.

Then it hit me. I had to infiltrate the anti-UN crowd here in good ol’ home town, U.S.A.
I should probably consult a wardrobe expert before I embark on that particular adventure.

The next day I dressed as a cowboy. I put on a big, white cowboy hat with rhinestones adorning the brim. One of the Village People had left it at a Turkish bath I used to work at in San Francisco. I donned a silver cowboy shirt that sported eloquent fringe on the sleeves and from the yoke pattern on the back. I slipped my arms through a pair of leather gauntlets with the engraved words ‘Buck-A-Roo’. I hitched up some blue jeans and tucked them into a great pair of white cowboy boots with little purple seahorses etched on the sides. I strapped my Greenie Stickem’ Cap Mattel Six Shooters around my hips, and tied off the holsters to my legs. To top off my outfit, I tied a red bandana around my neck. I looked like I had just returned from driving cattle around; or what ever cowboys do when they go on cattle drives. I was ready to go ‘cowboy covert’. Yippie-yi-ki-yay!

Checking for blue helicopters hovering above me, I exited the yurt and immediately started walking in my best John Wayne imitation. I headed for the cowboy bar. I hadn’t gotten very far when I was stopped by some toothless hag with bad hair. I pegged her as a ‘meth head’ drug user. When she stopped laughing…for some unexplainable reason she burst into laughter as I approached her…she asked me for a cigarette. This poor wretched creature. Addiction to meth is bad enough, but tobacco! I explained to this whacked out drug addict that I didn’t smoke. She asked me for some spare change. I told her I wouldn’t give her any money because she would just go out and buy drugs with it. She became insolent at my last remark. I took this opportunity to enlighten her on the UN’s program of rehabilitation for drug addicts, alcoholics, video game enthusiasts, and people who still celebrate Christmas. As I was speaking, her eyes glossed over and she wandered off like some sort of zombie. She stepped out into traffic on White Sands and was immediately impaled on the hood of a Mac truck. Probably for the better. That driver just saved the taxpayers the burden of detoxing and housing one more needle freak. Good for him! I’m big on ‘tough love’.

I sauntered over to the bar where the cowboys converge to discuss horses, rodeo, cow girls, and guns. I had prepped for my covert mission into cowboy country by watching ‘Urban Cowboy’ several times. I stepped out of the daylight and into the darkness of the bar. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When I could finally see what was going on, I didn’t like what I saw. Every cowboy and cow girl in the place was starring at me.
Oh oh. I had to quickly think of something to say. “HI! I’M TOBY KEITH!” I blurted out. Thinking back, that particular entrance line probably wasn’t the best I could think of. Remember the Pee-Wee Herman movie scene where he’s dancing on the bar in a biker saloon. Yep. You guessed it. After the cowboys grew tired of my dance routine, they asked me if I had ever ridden a mechanical bull. Sensing an opportunity to gain their confidence, I replied I ride the one at home all the time! Dang, says they…their mechanical bull was in the repair shop. Would I mind riding a real bull named ‘Daisy’.
What the heck? A cow named Daisy…this would be a cinch. I had ridden a pony as a child at a fair once. I told them I was rip’ snortin’ ready to go!

We were all instantly cowboy buddies. They were slapping me on the back, laughing and commenting on my attire, leading me out back to where the cows live. And then I saw Daisy. Daisy was the biggest cow I’ve ever seen. This monster beast had to be twelve feet tall, with nasty horns capped off with human skulls and a hump on it’s back the size of the Grand Teton! I was going to ride that thing? My urine began to flow.

They lifted me onto the beast’s back; all the while I was explaining I was late for my chair caning class (there was no chair caning class). They strapped me on, tying several layers of rope over my legs and under Daisy’s belly. They explained OSHA regulations required the bull rider be tied on securely and safely. I appreciated their genuine concern for my safety. Someone opened a gate while someone else slapped Daisy on the rump.
Two days later, a kindly rancher in Arizona corralled Daisy and cut me loose from the beasts back. I felt like Captain Ahab in Moby Dick returned from the dead. The kind rancher asked me if the circus was in town. I decided not to engage this guy in covert conversation. I couldn’t feel my butt. I couldn’t walk. I had no idea if the blue helicopters had captured this fiasco for United Nations cable T.V. I decided the cowboys weren’t the best crowd for a covert operation. I took the Greyhound back to Otero County. Some Mexican guy on the bus asked me for my autograph. He kept telling everyone on the bus I was Tom Mix. Ha ha. Very funny. I’m beginning to think maybe it would be easier just to tell everybody the truth about what’s behind the U.N. and World Heritage Sites. What’s the matter with me? For a moment there I had an ethical thought.

I almost revealed there might be an agenda concealed in divisive rhetoric and deception.
When I get home I’m going to re-evaluate my code of ethics and moral aptitude…what ever that means.

Otero Residents Forum said...

The man sitting in the open-air café in Juarez relaxed amidst the chaotic activity of the public market Pablito Mexicano. He wore a white suit, over a white shirt and white tie. He had a white carnation in his suit lapel. He wore his blonde hair cropped short.

Black sunglasses accented his exceptionally light complexion. He appeared more European than American. He gingerly lifted his glass of tequila on ice from the small table he sat behind. As he sipped his tequila he watched another man approach from the far side of the market. He was waiting for this man. The other man carried a small bundle, tucked under one arm, and protected by the other arm crossing the man’s midsection. The second man was obviously European also. He was dressed very similar to the man sipping tequila with the addition of a wide brim straw fedora. He too wore dark sunglasses that contrasted with his light skin. He approached the first man and stopped at the small table.

“Herr X”, the man with the package asked. He spoke English with a heavy German accent.

“Yes, I am Herr X”, the man seated at the table replied in English with an equally heavy German accent.

“What?” the man standing asked.

“I said I’m Herr X”, the sitting man said, mildly annoyed at having to repeat himself.

“You said you’re Herr X?” the standing man asked, somewhat frustrated with the sitting man’s heavy German accent. Though both these individuals were German, they hadn’t the slightest idea what the other was saying in English spoken in a thick German accent.
These occasional international ’farbles’ occur.

“What?” Herr X asked.

“I said, you’re Herr X?” the standing man repeated.

Herr X rolled his eyes behind his dark sunglasses and stared at the man standing in front of him.

“I’m Peter. We have friends in common”, Peter said, expecting a covert response identifying the man sitting at the table as his covert contact.

“What?” Herr X again asked.

“I said…” the standing man started only to be interrupted by the impatient Herr X.

“Yeah. Yeah. Is than my package?” Herr X demanded.

“What?” the standing man asked, obviously having no idea what Herr X had said.

“Just give me the package”, Herr X ordered, holding out his hands.

“You want the package?” the standing man asked, now showing his irritation.

“Yes, yes. Give me the package!” Herr X said angrily.

“You want the package? You got it; you mumble mouthed Bavarian peasant!” the standing man said, tossing the package to Herr X.

“Careful you idiot! Where did our people find a klutz like you anyway?” Herr X said as he carefully laid the package on the table.

“Wha’…forget it”, the standing man said. He looked around him and disappeared into the crowd in the market.

Herr X watched the man until he was out of sight. He placed his hand on the package and patted in gently. The covert transaction did not go as planned, but he had the package.

A Mexican waiter passed by Herr X.

Herr X held up his glass to get the waiter’s attention.

“Waiter! I’ll have another tequila on ice”, Herr X called out to the waiter.

“What?” the waiter replied.


I decided to take a walk, instead of waiting for my government entitlement to be delivered by the mailman. I qualify for a government entitlement because I’ve been diagnosed with SRS (Societal Reject Syndrome). Somewhere in my past, society failed me, abused me, ignored me, ridiculed me, oppressed me, taunted me, held me up to standards I couldn’t possibly comprehend, and finally turned a deaf ear to my desperate pleas for help. It was easy to qualify. I just went into the county welfare office, drooled like a common twit and started screaming hysterically when my caseworker asked me to take the pacifier out of my mouth. I think they loaded me up on social entitlements just to get me out of there. Whatever. I’d solved the hassle of cash flow with the government check.

I thought this would be the perfect morning to take Chancellor, my pet pumpkin for a walk. I won’t own a dog. I hate picking up dog doo-doo. I won’t allow a cat in my house. I hate having anything in my house that thinks it’s smarter than me. Besides, the new ‘green’ guidelines on pet ownership redefines a pet as a life companion and suggests plants instead of a living, breathing creature who should be free of the confines of a house or fenced backyard.

I loaded up Chancellor on his little red wagon, put on my big floppy sunhat and left the yurt. I was enjoying our walk when Mother Nature ‘called’. I had to find a Men’s room. How convenient; the courthouse is right there. I casually strolled into the courthouse, Chancellor in tow, and headed for the Men’s room. I passed people sitting in rows of plastic chairs, waiting for their turn to see the County Assessor, register to vote or who had jury duty and were told to wait outside the courtroom while the lawyers ordered out for pizza.

I pulled Chancellor into the Men’s room with me and headed for an empty stall. I debated about leaving Chancellor in his little red wagon outside the stall, but thought better of it. Someone might walk off with him. He is a striking pumpkin.

I made myself comfortable on the throne in the stall, sitting on ten layers of toilet paper carefully arranged on the seat, while holding Chancellor between my knees. Chancellor is a big pumpkin. I knew I was going to be in there a while. I wished I had brought some U.N. reading material in with me. I never noticed it before, but there isn’t much room in these stalls, especially when one has a large pumpkin sitting between one’s knees. My feet were pushed under the walls of the stall. No biggie. I was content to hold my dear friend Chancellor and go about my business. I started to sing a Marvin Gaye tune to myself. ‘Let’s get it on.’ My right leg started to go to sleep; probably because of the way I was holding Chancellor between my knees. I started to tap my right foot to get the blood flow going again in my right leg. My foot was still protruding into the next stall, but what the heck. I started to sing a little louder, ‘Let’s get it on!’ and tapped my foot a bit harder. Had to get that blood flow back. ‘Let’s get it on!’ I sang as I continued to tap my foot.

Strange…what’s that? There, coming from underneath the wall of the stall, was a hand holding some sort of badge. I leaned forward and examined the badge. Hmmm. It appears to be a County Sheriffs badge. I wonder if the guy in the stall next to me knew he was invading my space with his County Sheriffs badge. Being the good global citizen that I am, I decided to let him know, in a friendly manner, that his County Sheriff’s badge was actually on my side of the wall in my stall. I told him.

What happened next is a big blur. It happened so quickly I’m still confused. The guy in the stall next to me told me I was under arrest. Mau? What the heck for? Suddenly there were more Sheriff deputies standing outside my stall with guns drawn, flashlights on, and radios crackling. Someone was pounding on my stall door! At that instant I had no problem finishing my ‘business’. I somehow hitched up my drawers, cradling Chancellor in my arms, and unlocked the stall door. The door was violently pulled open from the outside. I had the presence of mind to flush, which I consider a plus in this case.
The Sheriffs all gasped when they saw Chancellor and me in the stall. One of them called me a pervert! Another Sheriffs wrestled Chancellor out of my arms while others reached in and yanked me out of the stall. Before I knew it I was lying on the floor of the Men’s room, probably swimming in other people’s DNA, being handcuffed and read my rights. Chancellor was sitting on the floor a few feet away, confused and frightened!
I was being arrested for propositioning a law enforcement officer and lewd behavior with a pumpkin. I started blubbering about my rights as a global citizen. I demanded to see their U.N. charter authorizing their unwarranted intrusion into a Men’s room stall. I couldn’t help agonizing over the fact I was face down in years of filthy DNA.
I felt small and insignificant. The bright side of this ordeal is I’ll probably qualify for another government entitlement for whatever emotional damage I’ll be scarred with for life. I can address that dynamic latter in counseling. Suddenly Chancellor moved.
Pumpkins will sometimes move, when placed off balance on tile floors. The Sheriff deputies caught the movement out of the corner of their eyes. One of them yelled, “Watch it! The pumpkin’s packin’ heat!”

I couldn’t believe what happened next! The Sheriff deputies all drew down on Chancellor with shotguns and pistols and fired, repeatedly. Chancellor was splattered all over the Men’s room. They fired at poor defenseless Chancellor for what seemed an eternity. Rounds were ricocheting all over the Men’s room. I heard one of the deputies yell out, ‘Take cover, the pumpkin’s shooting back!’ I yelled it was their own bullets bouncing around the tiled walls and floors of the Men’s room. I was ‘tazed’. I lay on the Men’s room floor, convulsing like a fish out of water while the Sheriff deputies cautiously approached what was left of Chancellor. I could hear myself wailing in tormented grief, while still vibrating from the taser charge.

I was issued a citation and given a court date. I was also told I was being placed in a list of people who were ‘trespassed’ from the Men’s room in the courthouse. I was told to take Chancellor’s little red wagon and leave. I was forced to leave Chancellor’s lifeless body in the Men’s room. I was not even allowed to retrieve my dear friends corpse for proper burial. Some sanitation technician was scrapping Chancellor off the walls, floors and ceilings and cussing about the nut jobs that wander into the courthouse.

I’m innocent! I wasn’t propositioning the guy in the stall next to me! And where does it say you can’t take a pumpkin into a Men’s room stall? I had to get legal representation.
Lawyers cost money, and as proud as I am of my government entitlement, I doubt my fixed income would cover attorney costs. This situation is just so typical of the inequities of class in the United States. The only reason I was targeted for persecution by the ‘man’ was because of my association with the global neighborhood. I was now a crusader for truth and justice. I would prevail. I would seek martyrdom if necessary. In the mean time I had to rush home and take an hour-long shower to wash off the DNA I knew was now crawling into every pore and crevice of my emotionally distraught body.

When I got out of the shower I began working on my next covert disguise. I was cleverly crafting the Lost In Space robot for my next mission. What could be more neutral than the Lost In Space robot lumbering through the mall, collecting cultural habits of the locals? ‘Danger Will Robinson!’ Suddenly a loud knocking at the door shattered my concentration. Grudgingly I went to the door. I peered through the curtains to see who was at my door.

Some guy dressed in a white suit holding a small package was standing outside. Cripes.
Who is this guy? He’s not handing out Watch Towers. I opened the door. I smiled but I was suspect of this dandy standing on my front porch. I was still emotionally reeling from my experience in the Men’s room at the courthouse. I was essentially in mourning. But how would this guy at the door know that. Besides, he was dressed like a backup dancer in a Fred Astaire movie.

“Yes”, I said in a pleasant voice.

“I am Herr X”, the man said in a strange accent.

“Hair-Ex?” I repeated, somewhat confused.

I continued my awkward greeting, trying to find something in common with this guy.

“Hair-Ex! Yes, I used Hair-Ex to remove unwanted body hair during my David Bowie phase”, I said, revealing what had been an embarrassing phase of my past.

“What?” the man in white said.

“Come in”, I said, motioning for Herr X, or Hair-Ex to enter my yurt. I was still on my blue helicopter watch so I knew I had to proceed cautiously. Herr X took in my living space, waiting to be offered a seat. Apparently this guy had manners, as he was very formal.

“Please, have a seat”, I said.

“Thank you”, Herr X replied in his heavy accent.

“Your global brothers and sisters have taken notice of your activities and your sincere desire to be part of the global community”, Herr X said.

“Uh-huh”, I replied. I had no idea what he had just said.

“We would ask that you carry out a covert mission for the global community. Can we count on you?” Herr X asked. I assume he asked; this guy spoke English like he had a mouth full of marbles.

“Okay”, I answered. For a brief moment his speech reminded me of the aliens who had abducted and probed me. I live in secret fear of my ‘probing’ showing up on My Space.

“We want you to follow very closely the instructions on this piece of paper. You will find in this box, the egg cases of the Piranha Ladybug. This little bug is a very aggressive and carnivorous species of ladybug from the Amazon jungle. I once watched a swarm of these little bugs devour a motorboat and the people in it. Be very careful how you handle these egg cases”, Herr X explained.

“Yep. Gotcha’”, I said but I was lying. Hadn’t the foggiest idea what he had just said.

“In this box you will find several Piranha Ladybug egg cases. The egg cases are small squares made of fibrous strands. They resemble small shredded wheat cereal. Whatever you do, do not allow them to get wet. Any exposure to moisture will cause the dangerous bugs within to hatch! They will immediately attack whatever they see! Do you understand?” Herr X continued, in an elevated tone indicating he had said something very important.

“Okie Dokie”, I replied. Still having no idea what the hell this guy was talking about.

“You will place the Piranha egg cases in a secluded part of the county. After the first rain immediately go back and ‘discover’ this rare ladybug. Then go to the Fish and Wildlife Service. They will immediately place the ladybug on the Endangered Species List, thus justifying the future creation of Otero County as a buffer zone, further justifying the designation of White Sands National Monument as a World Heritage Site. Do you understand?” Herr-X asked of me.

He had a very intense look on his face.

I nodded like I understood, but I had no idea what he was saying. I now was convinced I had let a mental case into my home. The sooner I shine this guy on, the sooner he’ll leave and go back to his room at the county nuthouse.

I maintained an intense look of interest, hoping he would take this as a sign of comprehension and be on his way. It worked. He stood up and adjusted his white suit.

“Well, good luck in your mission”, Herr X said. He stuck out his hand, as if he wanted me to shake it. I shook his hand, knowing I would immediately have to wash again after my swim in county DNA at the courthouse.

“It’s been a pleasure”, I said to Herr X. I noticed he was leaving without taking his box.
I was going to say something about the box, but I decided better of it. I can dispose of the box later. I just wanted this strange talking weirdo out of my yurt.

Herr X, or Hair-Ex, whatever his name was; exited the yurt and walked out to the street. I watched him walk down the street. What a nut job! I’m glad he’s gone. Now there was the matter of the box. What could possibly be in that box? It’s not my property. I shouldn’t open it. That would be snooping. I tore into the box! I had to know what was in that box. I ripped it open. There was a bag of min-wheats in the box. Mini-wheats? Those little shredded wheat bit sized cereal! What was this world coming too? Some guy dressed all in white comes to my house, blabbers incoherently and leaves a box of mini-wheats?

What’s on this piece of paper that guy gave me? Instructions for my mission?
What mission? Suddenly there was another knock at my door. Groan. Herr X had returned for his box. I opened the door. It wasn’t Herr X. It was Philip the homeless guy. Philip claimed he had a PHD in philosophy. According to Philip, living in harmony with the dictates of the world’s greatest philosophers, the noblest thing he could do was to abandon his opulent lifestyle and go out into the world relying on the charity of others. Sounded good to me. I let Philip the homeless guy in. He wanted something to eat. I told him to help himself to anything he wanted. I was concentrating on this piece of paper with Herr-X’s instructions on it.

Philip was going on about some conspiracy crap. He was going through the yurt’s kitchen looking for food. I was trying to decipher the instructions. Philip was saying something about Neil Diamond. The paper said something about egg cases and ladybugs.
Philip said something about Neil Diamond and Joe Namath being the same person.
Suddenly I was listening to Philip. Forget about these dopey instructions. I began to stare into space. Of course! Neil Diamond and Joe Namath were the same guy. That’s what the secret message was saying when I played ‘Crimson and Clover’ backwards.
Oh why couldn’t I have gotten that before? Philip was saying something about helping himself to the min-wheats on the table. I mumbled something about ’help yourself’. I suddenly knew what the secret message in Neil Diamond’s movie ‘The Jazz Singer’ was all about. Secretly, Joe Namath had wanted to break out of his jock lifestyle and reveal to the world that he was Neil Diamond! I pressed my clenched fists against my temples.
Philip was pouring milk on his bowl of mini-wheats. How could I have been so stupid as to not put it all together? I’d spent hours trying to interpret the secret backwards message on Crimson and Clover; and this homeless guy comes in here and lays it all out. Of course he does have a PHD in philosophy, regardless of his shabby appearance.
Philip was munching down on the mini-wheats. I was trying to compose my thoughts.
I had to find my VHS copy of Jazz Singer and all my Neil Diamond albums.
Do I hear screaming? Odd. Though I am very deep in intellectual contemplation; I could swear I hear someone screaming.

I turned and witnessed the most bizarre scene. Thousands of what appeared to be ladybugs, where coming out of Philip’s mouth! Philip was the source of the screaming.
Philip! What the heck are you doing? Philip was completely covered in ladybugs. It appeared that the ladybugs were eating Philip alive! Boy, I wish I owned a video camera.
I was frozen in fear and awe. Philip was devoured before my very eyes. In a matter of seconds those hungry little ladybugs ate Philip, clothes and all. Philip’s neatly cleaned skeleton collapsed on the floor. And folks let me tell you just how efficient those little buggers were; not one drop of blood stained the floor. I was impressed.

Then, as if on command, the nasty little ladybugs marched out of the yurt and outside to explore Alamogordo. I realized I had another problem to deal with. I tucked the instructions Herr-X had given me, in my pocket. I had to do something with Philip. I had a pile of bones to discretely dispose of. What to do, what to do? Just then a stroke of genius hit me like a bolt of lightening! I dug through my community playhouse wardrobe from years past! I found a shaggy wig and beard from when I played a pirate in a production of Peter Pan. I glued the wig and beard on Philip’s neatly cleaned skull.
I put his skeleton in a backpack and headed out the door. I had a great plan. I noticed more piles of bones on the sidewalk and in the front yards of other houses as I walked down the street. Those little ladybugs sure are persistent. I wonder if they go after aphids? Isn’t nature wonderful?

I walked all the way out to Lavelle Road. I went down into an arroyo, out of sight of prying eyes. I neatly laid out Philip’s skeleton, wig, beard and all. Then I found a flat rock. On the rock I crudely scratched the following: HERE LAY PILTDOWN MAN. MAY HE REST IN PEACE.

If I could pull this Piltdown Man farce off, then the entire area would automatically become a World Heritage Site based on irrefutable archeological evidence. I was bound for global stardom. I kicked some dirt on Philip’s skeleton, placed the flat rock by his hairy skull and vamoosed! Sure enough, a guy on a four-wheeler found the skeleton. An archeologist from the university was called in. This professor type declared the find as authentic, right down to the burial ritual to include the writing on the flat rock. Otero County had it’s own authentic caveman! The academic community was beside it’s self.
Richard Leaky came into town and threw a big bash for all the archeologists associated with the find! Otero County was on the cover of Discovery Magazine! We were destined for global protection as an officially designated World Heritage Site.

Then it all came crashing down. Some amateur archeologist said the whole thing was a sham. He proved some one had glued a wig on a contemporary human skeleton. Archeologists and academics fled Alamogordo in hordes. You’d have thought the plague was in town. Our moment in the global spotlight was dashed. We were a community of frauds and charlatans. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t reveal I was the one who put old Philip out there with the fake wig and beard. I have plenty to deal with on my plate with the citation for taking a pumpkin into the Men’s room. I eventually got around to reading the instructions Herr-X had given me. If I was you, I wouldn’t go anywhere without an ample supply of killer bug spray.

Otero Residents Forum said...

Wednesday, September 5, 2007
I’m always amused at the self-proclaimed proclamations of courage and perseverance feminists present as proof of the civil war of gender that was fought or is being waged today. Sometimes the burden of historical analysis is skewed by sudden outcries of oppression and gratuitous lifestyles. I’m always curious as to how American women like Ann Coulter have persevered in the face of such machismo manipulation and conspiracy.
Those American women who embrace the glorious Constitutional right of abortion are truly the stuff American heroes are made of.

Allow me to take their journey of feminist strife and victories to the next logical level of self-awareness and obtainment of goddess martyrdom.

I introduce to the feminist pro-abortion participant the newly created One World Life Fulfillment Agreement. This ‘agreement’ is binding and mandatory, in a benign sort of way, to all nations who sign on to it. What is Life Fulfillment? This benign and useful agreement applies only to women. Only women who have experienced gratuitous abortion are eligible. Men have no need for the Life Fulfillment philosophy, as they outlive their usefulness long before women do, and often have shorter life spans than women.

During the pro-abortion woman’s life, she lives out a window of time of childbearing years. It is in this window of time that she can choose to abort unwanted pregnancies. As an earth-goddess, it is her right to rationalize the dehumanization of the fetus to accommodate her gratuitous lifestyle to include abortion on demand. Abortions of this type are a tribute to those feminists who had gone before and fought the battle to remove the unwanted acorns infesting the womb. The courage and sacrifice of these women is legend in American politics and feminist history. But, at some point in every feminist’s life, she survives into her non-child bearing years. She can no longer become pregnant and depend on abortion on demand. Now comes Life Fulfillment.

The One World Life Fulfillment Agreement simply culls the world population of women who have out lived their usefulness to the global community. When women are no longer capable of either having babies or aborting unwanted pregnancies, they qualify for culling by the Life Fulfillment Agreement. Simply put, the One World agents of Life Fulfillment remove the woman from society and take them to a facility where their lives are terminated in a most humane and painless procedure.

These women, chosen for Life Fulfillment, had at one time courageously and selflessly aborted their unwanted fetuses. Now, these same women step into the role of the unwanted living tissue of human origin and surrender themselves to Life Fulfillment.
They will be removed from society. They will courageously unburden society with their strain on the global population and consumption of limited resources.
Their organs will be harvested for the living. Their hair will be used to make wigs for cancer patients. Their stem cells will be harvested for research.

Women who have never experienced an abortion are not eligible for Life Fulfillment. Those women who chose to bear children and contribute to a life time of child rearing and maintaining a family must be relied on to pass on their life experience to present and future generations. Mothers and grandmothers are priceless historical resources on culture and tradition.

What greater statement of commitment to the goddess of feminism than for the feminist to bravely announce, “I held power over the fetus by exercising my Constitutional right of abortion. Now I surrender myself to the powers of Life Fulfillment, to be culled for the benefit of the living. I gloriously go out knowing full well this is the logical conclusion to the path of abortion and those courageous women who forged the way before me”.

Otero Residents Forum said...

Monday, September 10, 2007
(Parody, but closer to the truth than you want to believe)

Dear Global Comrade:

I’m sending you the talking points we suggest to combat the nationalists and sovereignty fanatics who oppose World Heritage Sites designation. We’ve found that the following 'talking points' work very well in supporting World Heritage Sites and UNESCO, as well as portraying local anti-U.N. activists as conspiracy nuts and Neanderthal patriots.

1. Always elaborate on the honor of a World Heritage Site designation. Make sure your comments include the added layer of protection and increased tourism such a designation brings with it. Include the plaque and prestige of World Heritage Site designation. Do not diminish the role of the National Park and the staff who currently maintains the site. Do not create a divide between the locals and the current staff personnel. The anti-U.N. crowd can be accused of creating such a divide, even if they don’t actually attack the NPS staff.

2. Deny there is any implication of local sovereignty being threatened by the designation.Never reference any existing environmental litigation stemming from buffer zone designation. Should the question arise, concerning buffer zone impact on surrounding areas; deny such an impact could exist and immediately began accusing the detractor as conspiratorial and of being a xenophobe. When the time comes for environmental litigation and infiltration of local building and zoning codes by ‘green’ activism, we prefer such activity be of a stealth nature and out of the public eye. Don’t tip our hand early in the game. Never mention private property rights or any threat to private property owners. Never use the term buffer zone and private property rights in any opinion piece or letter to the editor. Private property rights are poorly protected in the United States.

3. Emphasis the world view of a community that opposes World Heritage Site designation. Always speak or write on the non-progressive mentality of those who oppose World Heritage Site designation. Do everything, within civil discourse, to create a caricature of the opposition as uneducated, archaic and, again, fanatic conspirators.
Try to avoid profane name calling, but do label them as dangerous and uninformed.
Allow these individuals to burn out on their constant portrayal of the facts concerning other World Heritage Site buffer zone impact on other American communities. Americans have a short attention span but over inflated egos. Americans who are undecided will remember the ‘the whole world is watching this fiasco and how backwards their community appears’, longer than they will even attempt to comprehend factual information on the United Nations agenda of global compliance. Americans are actually a stupid people who live gratuitous lifestyles and fancy themselves as masters of the universe. Use that ego infatuation to your benefit.

4. Do everything to create a liberal/conservative conflict along the lines of local politics. Portray the opposition as ‘right-wing Christian conservatives’ who seek to oppress, convert and isolate the rest of the community. Elevate liberal environmental and intellectual platforms as being the savior of the community and the logical partner of UNESCO/World Heritage Sites. Use political anger and extremism against the opposition. Recalling past political failures of conservatives is recommended. Include the failures of the Bush administration and the War on terror and the failures of the War in Iraq. We do owe a debt of gratitude to our Islamic nation members who are just as interested in seeing this designation be successful and our European and Western Hemisphere members are. Speak of Islam in favorable terms, if you can logically make the connection without alienating those Americans who are undecided about designation.

4. Deny any potential environmental lawsuits against the military in Otero County. Yes, we do have a blueprint for stopping over flights from Holloman AFB, but that will be a gradual and persistent agenda of litigious wearing down and economic diminishing of the entire area. We can beat the military in Otero County, like water drips wearing away at rock. Again, we don’t want to tip our hand yet. In fact, deny any implication and speak in glowing terms of the military. Patriots are simple minded creatures that will take you at face value. USE THAT!

5. Use climate change when referring to global warming. The term global warming has been beat to death and is losing its threat appeal in the United States. Highlight the U.N.’s effort to save glaciers by creating Bio-Spheres elsewhere in the world. Refer to the whales, commercial fishing and pollution and maritime ecology. Yes, this is an excellent opportunity to introduce the Law of the Sea Treaty into the dialog. Do not introduce any trans-boundary treaty into the conversation. Do not breech to subject of illegal immigration, as that particular dynamic is a sore point in your area. We will address human rights after buffer zone designation is in place and effectual.

6. Be consistent. Let the other side ‘be all over the board’ with their accusations and fact gathering. Believe me; no one will listen to facts when you can entertain them with passive eloquence and colorful stereo-typing of your opposition. Be creative and have fun with the credibility of those opposing you. Always take the moral higher ground without revealing any factual information which may hurt our cause.

7. We have money. We have a lot of money for newspaper ads, radio time and mailings. We can also provide your community with other organization’s support and solidarity. Just say the word and we can flood your community with protesters.

If you have any more questions, please contact us at the confidential address and always cloak your communication, via the sequence of communication we provided for you.

At this point we see no need to send in the lawyers. We are confident World Heritage Site designation will occur. Once this is complete, we will address the legal problem with the local opposition by placing our people on municipal and county boards. Until that time arrives, continue with your excellent agenda of stereo-typing and undermining the opposition.

Yours in the Global Community: