There is Only One Conspiracy

I have a pet peeve. Okay, those who know me well will affirm that I harbor a treasure trove of pet peeves much like the miser hordes ducats. But today I am particularly annoyed by my pet peeve involving conspiracies.

My first interest in conspiracies began when a friend of mine (my lawyer) handed me a well worn book and advised me to read it; my eyes would be unburdened and the truth would be known. The book was entitled Best Evidence by David Lifton. (As a footnote here, we later had a bit of a falling out when her fiancé started stalking me, and I never returned the volume to her. If she wants it back now she knows how to sue me for it). The book was about the assassination of John F. Kennedy which at the time was a topic about which I knew very little. Naturally I was intrigued and I consumed the book voraciously.

The first thing that struck me was the unaccountable audacity of the work. David Lifton freely confesses early on that he became so consumed with his research into the crime of the century that he washed out of engineering graduate school. That I would not hold against him, but when he suggested that as a failed engineer he had some superior knowledge in the physics associated with the murder of the president, he began to loose credibility with me. His rambling style of organization and fantastic claims (e.g. body snatchers switched coffins at the airport and performed post mortem surgery on his Excellency’s corpse, making it look like he was shot from behind) cinched the deal for me. While I’m sure his intention was to create conspiracy buff proselytes, I completed the book firmly convinced that he was full of shit. Critical reading will do this for you.

In a way, reading Best Evidence changed my life. Once I recognized what an empty house of cards supported the Kennedy conspiracy, I became emboldened to question the authority of other conspiracy buffs.

I will pause here to express a corollary pet peeve. What in the name of Ford is a buff? Do they not realize this is short for buffoon? I would rather someone call me “Late for Dinner” than to have them call me a buff.

But I digress. My newly found awareness of the brazen mendacity of these self styled “buffs” prompted me to scrutinize all things mysterious with the zeal of an evangelical polemicist. “How about crop circles?” Easiest thing in the world to make with a tent stake, rope and a board. “What about Atlantis?” It’s a fairy tale; grow up and stop believing in fairies. “Have you seen the Shroud of Turin?” The bishop thought it was a fake when it first appeared in 1385; what makes you think it is real now? “Loch Ness Monster?” “Sasquatch?” “UFOs?” “Poltergeists?” “WMD in Iraq?” Without hard evidence that can withstand rigorous examination, it all has lost its mysterious luster in my eyes. They are all jewels of brass.

There is a new breed of conspiracy buffs skulking about the dark environs of the internet now that call themselves Truthers. This is a particularly insidious breed because their preferred cause is the tragedy that was September 11. I am like many others regarding this topic. I harbor my latent anger over this event next to my collection of pet peeves. Truthers assert that the thousands and tens of thousands of victims from that day suffered their loss as a result of a government conspiracy, and not a foreign terrorist conspiracy. They will make claims such as, “even a restaurant busboy can see from the video that the North Tower was collapsed by explosive charges placed in advance by government agents”. Most often such claims are indeed advanced by restaurant busboys or someone with similar authority on matters of engineering and building design. The community of professional engineers understandably distance themselves from such spurious rants.

I hold Oliver Stone accountable for propagating a generation of buffs. He elevated the paranoid ranting of a shameless self promoter (Jim Garrison) to an art form; although I would not suggest it is high art. I have visited Dealey Plaza in Dallas Texas from time to time, and each time there was a collection of buffs milling about the grassy knoll peddling their particular theory on the crime, but more importantly peddling their publication explaining their favorite flavor of conspiracy theory. It’s funny how a presidential murder has become a cottage industry, and I don’t mean funny in the good way. This is the one real conspiracy. Charlatans turning a profit from public gullibility, exploiting a national tragedy.

In the years following my conspiracy epiphany, I have developed creative ways to voice my distain for all things conspiratorial without incurring opprobrium of polite society. I do this through satire. I recall once that I was at a business party, well lubricated with an open bar, and someone brought up the subject of some conspiracy theory or other. “You realize” I said to the chap, “there is only one conspiracy”. He regarded me with befuddlement and asked, “What do you mean?” “Well,” I replied, “all these conspiracy theories you have heard about”; I leaned in close “they are not separate conspiracies. They are all related. There is only one big conspiracy”.

For a brief moment he was uncertain whether this was true or whether I was full of hyperbole, so I plunged ahead. “Sure, it all starts with the Knights Templar. They had to protect their secrets, but when Kennedy told what he knew to Marilyn Monroe, the Freemasons had to eliminate her. Then, they used their connections with Opus Dei to contact the Mafia to get rid of both Kennedy and his brother Bobby. Richard Nixon found out that the Masons were going to hit Kennedy using their contacts at the CIA, and he flew to Dallas that day to try to warn him. This made the CIA retaliate against Nixon by setting him up with the whole Watergate thing. But Nixon was smart; Howard Hughes tipped him off to what the CIA up to, and Nixon shared that secret with only one other person. That was Elvis Presley.” Then I added with a wink, “and you know what happened to him”.

By this time the polite smile had faded from my friend’s (victim’s) face. He shifted from one foot to the other, eyes darting furtively about the room seeking some familiar clique or clutch of revelers to which he could retreat from my onslaught. I decided then it would be much more entertaining to freshen my cocktail rather than to torment him any longer.

“But those that understood him smiled at one another, and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me.”
Casca from Julius Caesar Act I Scene II.