Alien ET talks to the President

Alien ET talks to the President

By Jon Rappoport

July 21, 2014

http://b4in.us/1mlxy6N

No one in the White House knew it happened except the President. He was sitting in the Oval Office when the alien showed up, materialized in front of him, and plunked himself down in a leather arm chair.

The alien looked human. Roughly six feet, brown hair, brown eyes. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, red tie.

“Mr. President,” he said, “I’m not from around here, and I thought this was the best way in. Hope I didn’t startle you.”

The President was paralyzed for almost a full minute. He came back slowly, and took deep breaths. He thought about calling for his Secret Service people, but he was afraid this person, thing, creature might have other tricks up his sleeve.

The alien nodded. “Yes, sir, better to leave those gun-toting folks out in the corridor. I’d hate to hurt them. I’m basically a pacifist, but that’s because I know how to deploy lethal force. Anyway, I’m here to give you a report. I thought about going to the Pope, but I decided his whole Church frame of mind would get in the way of understanding me.”

The President swallowed and tried to keep himself from passing out.

“This is big stuff,” the alien said. “What I have to tell you is so weird it might not sink in. I need to take a chance, though. I feel it’s my duty. It’s about what actually happens to people when they die.”

“When they die?” the President croaked.

“Yes, sir. I’ve been watching the process for ten or fifteen years now, and I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I’m not sure how far back it goes into your history, but it’s there. Everybody’s partaking.”

“Illusion,” the President said aimlessly. He was green around the gills. He wanted to weep and he had no idea why. He wanted to get down on his knees and pound the carpet and scream. He wanted to cross himself and he wasn’t even Catholic. He wanted to say a prayer in Hebrew, a language he didn’t speak. He desperately ached for a prayer rug. He wanted to light candles and finger a string of beads and kiss the floor and do a back flip.

“Calm down,” Mr. President, the alien said. “I realize you’re processing something you don’t understand, but try to focus. See, when humans die, they drift out of their bodies and float up into space. Most of them don’t know what’s happening and they reach out and grab for anything they can. Sort of like you’re doing now. Some of them thought they’d be dead forever and, what do you know, they’re not. Others expected a day of judgment or transport to paradise or hell and they’re just floating.”

“Floating…in the air?” the President thought.

“Yes,” the alien said. “We could split hairs and try to define the types of spaces they end up in, but let’s not bother. Point is, they’re searching for a clue. They’re trying to figure out what to do. And then Bob comes along.”

“Bob…”

“That’s his name. I mean, that’s what he calls himself. He appears to dead people. Basically, he’s sitting behind a little table on a cloud.”

The President took another deep breath and let it out. He wondered whether an alien ET could be a complete psycho as well.

“I assure you, sir,” the alien said, “I’m quite sane. The set up that I’m describing is insane. That’s called a distinction. I hope you can grasp it.”

The President waved his hand vaguely. His heart was pounding.

“Good,” the alien said. “So a soul, a psyche, a being, an essence leaves his body, floats up, and runs into Bob. Bob says sit down, let’s talk, and the soul does. Bob tells him he can go back and have a new life, jump into a new body and start the whole growing process, as a baby born from a mother. Get it? But Bob tells him there’s a catch. Every life has a ceiling and this soul has to describe what his ceiling will be before he returns.”

“Like a ceiling in a room?” the President thinks.

The alien sighs. “No. Not like that. A ceiling on what you would call consciousness. A limit the soul won’t exceed in his next life.”

“Hmm,” the President thinks, steepling his hands and resting his chin on them. His favorite gesture when clueless.

“Try to understand the next point,” the alien says. “This soul that just floated out of his body has done this Bob interview many times before. He’s chosen ceilings for who knows how many incarnations on Earth. Fifty? Five thousand? A hundred thousand? So he’s used to the idea of a ceiling. In fact, he likes it. He’s institutionalized, so to speak. And that’s a problem. Imagine, if you can, a few billion souls living on Earth, all of whom have ceilings.”

The President wondered whether Jim, his brother, and Sara, his sister, had ceilings. He tried to imagine them walking around with plaster blocks above their heads. It reminded him of a Salvador Dali painting of Dali’s wife, Gala. There were variously shaped blocks floating around her.

“Reincarnation,” the alien said. “That’s what I’m talking about, sir. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept. I’m just explaining how it actually works. Stay with me. Ceilings on consciousness. For example, you could materialize and dematerialize if you didn’t have a ceiling.”

“I could?” the President blurted out. He was sure his ex-wife was having an affair with a reporter from the New York Post. Suppose he could appear in a corner of her bedroom in Manhattan and find out?”

“Yes, you could do that,” the alien said. “You could also suddenly appear behind a podium in Los Angeles at your next Hollywood fundraiser.”

“Those damn movie stars would bow down to me if I did,” the President thought. “They’d be scared out of their wits. They’d worship me.”

“See,” the alien said, “that’s the whole problem. You Earth people have your natural faculties all mixed up with religion. It’s a mess. Just like you folks have dying all mixed with heaven, instead of just remembering Bob.”

“Bob,” the President said.

“Every human on Earth has Bob in a corner of his memory. He just won’t admit it.”

The President felt nauseous.

“The wastebasket,” the alien said. “Use it if you need to. Anyway, Bob has assumed the status of a guide, a counselor to the dead. He spells out the ‘fact’ that picking a ceiling is necessary before a soul can jump into another physical form and be reborn on Earth for another go-around. But it’s not true. A soul doesn’t need to have a ceiling. It’s a straight-out con. And that’s why I’m here. To explain that. I didn’t know who else to talk to. I finally chose you. Maybe I made a mistake.”

“No!” the President said, jumping out of his chair. “That was the right thing to do! Can I get rid of my ceiling right now? Can I blow it up and start materializing like you did?”

“You could try. I doubt it would work. But I could give you a boost.”

“How?! What do you need? How much money do you want?”

“It’s free,” the alien said. “I just want one thing in return.”

“Anything! Name it!”

“Appoint me as your new press secretary.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll do all the press briefings.”

“Why?” the President thought.

“Call it a fetish,” the alien said. “Call it anything you want to. But give me the job.”

“And you’ll help me do your trick?” the President said.

“Yes.”

Invigorated, inspired, thrilled, the President walked over to the alien and shook his hand. Immediately, he vanished from the Oval Office and reappeared in his ex-wife’s bedroom on 76th Street in Manhattan. No one was there. He spent a few minutes looking through the night table drawers and the closet.

Then he was back in the Oval Office.

“Wonderful! Fantastic!” he said.

Two days later, the White House press secretary announced he was leaving the administration to spend more time with his family.

The alien, who took the name Michael Jones, was given the job. A dossier detailing his fictional past was concocted in the bowels of a little think tank in Maryland.

Over the course of the next few months, the alien whisked the President, disguised to avoid recognition, to many locations around the world. Basically an incurious man, the Chief Executive was so thrilled he barely noticed the features of the places and people he was seeing. The alien thought of the President as a secret vacationer who had no desire to change things for the better.

So be it.

Meanwhile, as Michael Jones, the alien carried out his televised press conferences with aplomb. He stuck to the official script on every issue.

But under the surface, something was happening, because television audiences around the world were affected by his presence.

In fits and starts, bits and pieces of memory were returning: glimpses of deaths from prior lives, episodes of floating in space grasping for an anchor in the void of the afterlife…

One day, at a press conference focusing on the latest upheaval in the Middle East, a reporter from CBS News rose to ask a question, glanced at his notepad, and froze.

The alien waited patiently. The reporter finally looked up at him and said, “You seem familiar, Michael.”

“Excuse me?” the alien said.

“You look familiar,” the reporter said.

Everyone in the room laughed.

“Well, let’s see,” the alien said. “You’ve been in this room for what, twenty briefings since I took office? I hope I’m familiar.”

Two days later, during a campaign speech in Nashville, the Governor of Tennessee wandered off script and told an audience of a thousand people he remembered a life as a blacksmith in Paris in 1902.

The Governor later claimed someone had spiked his water with a hallucinogen.

A Los Angeles prosecutor interrupted his cross-examination of a witness in a murder trial to proclaim he was an effective attorney because he’d practiced law for the Vatican in 1794.

A physicist at Oxford University, interviewed live on BBC about the discovery of a new quantum particle, stated, “This whole search started in ancient Athens, you know. I was an academy student there. I tried to gain admittance to Socrates’ inner circle, but I was refused.”

Josef Putin, the inheritor of his great-grandfather’s dynastic throne in Russia, claimed he was an effective President because he’d been a thief in a prior life.

A colonel in the Israeli Army told a reporter for the Jerusalem Post he’d been both “an Arab and a Jew in more than a dozen incarnations. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s ridiculous when you think about it. Can’t people see the larger picture?”

His statement caused a minor scandal. The Colonel was demoted and sent to a psychiatric facility.

Senator Ray Taylor from Mississippi called the Colonel an inspiration and said he’d been a slave and a slavemaster in the Colonial South, over the course of several lives.

The managing editor of the New York Times resigned his position, claiming his work as a secretary to Ben Franklin “precludes fronting for the lies I have to support day in and day out at the paper.”

The President said to the alien, “This is all your doing. I don’t know how you’re managing it, but you have to stop. We’ve got crazies coming out of the woodwork claiming they were famous people from history. You’re driving the population crazy!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the alien said. I’ll be happy to stop. Of course, you won’t be able to spy on your wife anymore. You haven’t caught her with that reporter yet, have you?”

The President folded.

“Look at it this way,” the alien said. “The global population has been certifiably crazy for centuries. Adding a little more fuel to the fire won’t cause much harm.”

That afternoon, in the White House press room, as television cameras rolled…

In the middle of the alien’s summary of recent events in Israel, a reporter for the Washington Post stood up and said:

“You’re Bob.”

Three more reporters stood up and said: “Bob! How are you!” “Bob! It’s been a long time!” “Bob, great to see you again!”

The alien smiled and executed a mock bow.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m Bob. I came here to tell you there’s no further reason to consult with me. The ceiling has been lifted. In fact, it’s gone. It was a bad idea to begin with. I’m speaking to everyone now. There is no more contract. No more deal. Get it? You’re free.”

Applause and cheers broke out in the press room.

The President was watching the briefing from the Oval Office.

“You son of a bitch!” he said.

He started to unleash a string of curses, when he noticed an AP reporter in the front row slowly rise out of her chair and float toward the top of the room.

When she reached the ceiling, she passed through it and vanished.

This marked the beginning of what historians now call The Great Unsettling, a period which lasted nearly a hundred years.

Others simply call it Bob Time.

In a recent NBC editorial, Richard Leffler, a reincarnation of an ancient newsman, Brian Williams, remarked:

“We can view ‘before The Great Unsettling’ and ‘after it’ as two separate worlds. The people in those periods would hardly recognize each other. We now look back on the former period with profound puzzlement. How could its citizens have been so sure of their provincial reality? How could they have characterized glimpses of the natural state of life we now enjoy as symptoms of mental illness? How could they have attempted what amounted to mass societal suicide?

“Today, we bob in the ocean of our own consciousness. Then, they drowned in their muddy creeks of amnesia.

“We still have remnants of the old days. In Lower Manhattan this morning, the Kurzweil Brain Box Group lashed out at the federal government. Spokesman Morris Horace D. Rockefeller told reporters, ‘The government in Washington is now so small, funding for vital research has pretty much dried up. We desperately need another nine hundred billion dollars to complete Phase Four of our program to link all human brains to Vox Populi, our super-computer located on the moon. Only through this universal connection can we transform ourselves into higher-echelon machines, from whose programmed cells God will finally, and for the first time, emerge.

“How quaint. How old-fashioned. Human as machines? At one time, this notion paraded around as science. People took it seriously. But then, they also had Presidents. Need I say more?”

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at http://b4in.us/1mlxy6N

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