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South Park: Konformist: Bush Blew up the Twin Towers


I, along with most 911 truth activists I know, accept that Boeing 757s and 767s were used on 911, and hit WTC 1 and 2.

It is noteworthy that those were the first Airliners built to be fly - by - wire / remote control.

In this way they would not rely on the poorly trained "hijackers" who could not even land a Cesna.


Please send as far and wide as possible.

Robert Sterling
Editor, The Konformist


Bush Blew up the Twin Towers
And other 9/11 conspiracies, thought up right here in Kansas City.
By Ben Paynter

In a recent episode of South Park, the elementary-school-aged 
troublemakers spend most of the half-hour figuring out whether the 
U.S. government planned the attacks of September 11, 2001. As they 
close in on the answer, a squad of poorly drawn, machine-gun-toting 
Secret Service agents kidnaps Kyle and Stan, along with a 9/11 
conspiracy theorist. All of them are whisked away to the Oval 
Office, where President Bush confesses to everything. 

"We've all worked very hard to keep our involvement in 9/11 a 
secret, but you just had to keep digging," Bush cackles. Then the 
president pulls out a handgun. He sticks the muzzle in the 
conspiracy theorist's mouth and blows his brains out. The cartoon 
blood splatters on a black shirt with the words "" 

Bush then explains that he planted explosives in the base of the 
World Trade Center towers. The missing planes were diverted to an 
airport in Pennsylvania. Two military jets filled with explosives 
flew into the twin towers. Then he blew up the Pentagon with a 
cruise missile. Bush boasts: "It was only the world's most intricate 
and flawlessly executed plan ever ... ever." 

By the end, the show has mocked everybody involved. But the 
following day, Web traffic to multiplied by five times, 
spiking the site's number of views to 58,000 a day. A fact omitted 
from the South Park episode — and from the Web site itself — is that is run by Janice Matthews, a single mother of six from 
Kansas City, Missouri. 

Matthews has become well-known nationally within what's called the 
truth movement: those who believe that Bush and his buddies were 
behind 9/11. The idea that the World Trade Center fell in order to 
fuel President Bush's war machine has become the trendy conspiracy 
theory, replacing such old standards as aliens in Area 51 and 
government agents on the grassy knoll. 

But those behind the 9/11 conspiracy theories aren't comics-store 
nerds lamenting the loss of The X-Files. In Kansas City, they 
include the owner of a popular theater, a dentist, and a group of 
conservatives that meets every week. 

Mostly, truthers, as they call themselves, meet online. The Internet 
has become their way to spread a message they say is suppressed by 
the mainstream media and ignored by those who provide research 
funding. Of course, Matthews knows many people ignore the truth 
movement because it includes a whole lot of kooks posting some 
bizarre theories. "We have a whole society to remake," she 
says. "You go, 'God, people, focus.'" Matthews fights back tears in 
the children's section of the Plaza Branch of the Kansas City Public 
Library. She's surrounded by hundreds of brightly bound bedtime 
stories. Nearby, sunshine filters through a row of large windows. 

She has short brown hair streaked with gray and piercing blue eyes 
that are intently focused, despite the tears. She has a silver stud 
in her nose and a Disney Pooh watch strapped to one wrist. She wears 
a baby-blue version of the shirt featured on South Park. 

On this early Monday morning, she has just returned from dropping 
off her kids at school. Sometimes, the weight of her mission just 
gets to her. She's surrounded by mothers who are still oblivious to 
the idea that the 9/11 attacks were carried out by the U.S. 

She explains that she began crying when she thought of the 9/11 
victims: the rescue workers, the orphans, the family members of 
those who died. 

"It is just the pain," she says, "that our society isn't even 
looking at what these people are living through and dying through, 
that we could be so callous to this depth of pain on so many 

The mothers circling the stacks ignore Matthews. She says she's 
positive that she's being watched. 

"I don't have some sense that they are out to persecute truth 
seekers," Matthews says of the phantom G-men she thinks she's seen 
around town. "I think they are just doing their jobs." 

Matthews wasn't always this way. She earned a psychology degree from 
the University of Kansas in the '80s and trained as a midwife. A 
conservative Christian, she voted for Bush in 2000. On 9/11, 
Matthews was raising her children in the small central Kansas town 
of Lindsborg. "I had a gradual reawakening," she says. 

In November 2001, she moved to Kansas City to work as a secretary. 
Then she read The 9/11 Commission Report. She says the congressional 
document found that a large number of stock shares in United 
Airlines had changed hands before the attack, which shows that 
certain segments of big business knew to expect the attacks. 

Two years later, Matthews helped found the national 9/11 Visibility 
Project, a group that encourages people to protest government cover-
ups. It's now active in 35 cities. She organized rallies on the 
Plaza but realized that most people wanted to avoid the stigma that 
came with protest marches. A year later, she founded, 
which serves as a networking forum, a research hub and an 
independent news source. 

In July 2005, she organized the D.C. Emergency Truth Convergence in 
Washington, D.C. The conference pulled together various watchdog 
groups, including Project Censored and the Oklahoma City Bombing 
Committee. She says their cell phones didn't work at the event, 
their remote-control car-door openers failed and their computers 
crashed. "Then we realized it was all electronic jamming," she says. 
Returning to Kansas City, Matthews found her front door unlocked. 
She believes her computer was hacked. 

She says she learned a month later that her house was bugged, after 
a friend called and left her a prank message, pretending to have 
been captured by G-men. "You got me! You got me!" the friend shouted 
into her answering machine. But after the friend hung up, the 
machine kept recording. Matthews says she heard two people 
laughing. "They said, 'Yeah, we got her. We got her,'" she says. 

In September, she joined a public-records request filed by peace 
organizations. The groups asked the government for documents 
detailing government surveillance of Kansas City-area anti-war 
activists ("Granny the Terrorist," September 21). 

After the South Park slam, Matthews received hundreds of e-mails 
calling her "retarded," the same word that the show's characters had 
used to describe the truth movement. The tone of her usual hate 
calls shifted. "The reaction is much stronger," she says. "It went 
from 'you are fucking lying' to 'you are going to burn in hell, and 
your children are going to burn in a fire, you fucking cunt.'" 

The calls excited Matthews. They were evidence that people were 
taking notice — even if the attention came with threats and the 
occasional c-word. "It reflects people's panic," Matthews 
says. "People feel much more reactionary about this recently, and 
the ones who can't let go of their belief structure are much more 

Matthews sees her role as providing a public forum for others to 
post theories about what happened on 9/11. "We don't want to control 
what people do," she says. 

But that leaves users free to push any theory. Some think planes 
never actually hit the towers but were superimposed on newscasts. 
Others believe that the planes carried explosives. Some claim that 
aliens abducted everyone from the twin towers. 

Including everyone's voice has been a liability for the fledgling 
movement. On the fifth anniversary of 9/11, a corps of truthers 
rallies at the Uptown Theater. They have been directed there by a 
post on The event culminates a weekend of activities 
headlined by showings of independent films, including one that uses 
physics to make an argument that it's impossible for jets to have 
brought down the twin towers. 

Outside, protesters shout and shake signs that read "9/11 was an 
inside job." They hand out copies of the low-budget films to 
commuters stuck at traffic lights. 

"Steel buildings don't just fall down," shouts Ed Kendrick, a 
heavyset dentist with a practice on Independence Avenue. Kendrick 
believes that the buildings actually collapsed because of what he 
calls a "controlled demolition" from bombs already set inside the 

Inside, the lobby resembles a traveling carnival. Tables are 
littered with pamphlets and petitions that go as far as advocating 
presidential impeachment. A giant American flag dominates the faux-
Mediterranean interior. The mingling conspiracy theorists, some 
dressed in tie-dyed clothing, refer to one another in religious 
terms — "brothers" or "believers" who spread "the word." In a corner 
of the room, a man talks about the 40 astrological signs that keep 
us from understanding our inner impulses. A cell-phone ring tone 
emits The X-Files' theme song. 

Uptown Theater owner Larry Sells stands away from the crowd to 
monitor the action. He provided the venue free of charge. Sells has 
been questioning government party lines since the John F. Kennedy 
assassination. In the '60s, he was student body president and head 
of the Young Democrats at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. He 
served as a Marine during the Vietnam War and has a black belt in 
karate. Sells imported custom furniture until he bought the Uptown 
in 1993. 

For the past few months, Sells has been playing the conspiracy-
theory documentary Loose Change in his lobby during concerts and 
events. He has handed out 1,500 copies of the movie and other 9/11-
related DVDs. 

To that end, Sells thinks that he has found a new way to spoon-feed 
his message. He recently gutted the vacant lobby space abutting the 
south end of his theater. Sometime next year, he hopes to open a 
reading salon and a themed restaurant called The Conspiracy. Plans 
include something of an adult arcade where visitors can try to hit a 
target with a vintage replica of Lee Harvey Oswald's rifle. Many of 
the library books will be stocked from Sells' personal 2,200-square-
foot library, which spans a four-car garage inside his large home in 
the Valentine neighborhood. 

Sells has investigated the similarities between the World Trade 
Center collapse and Germany's 1933 Reichstag fire. Each event 
empowered its country's leader to suspend civil liberties, build up 
a military and launch invasions. He often compares Bush with Adolf 
Hitler. "What we are talking about now is as bad as it ever was in 
Nazi Germany," he says. 

At the Uptown on the 9/11 anniversary, a guy reeking of booze 
stumbles into the reception. Dave Nicholson, a 29-year-old server at 
Fred P. Ott's, has been canvassing midtown with fliers advertising a 
drinking book club. Standing outside trying to talk to the 
protesters, Nicholson grows agitated when they keep handing 
him "propaganda" videos. "I don't seem to be able to get anyone to 
talk to me," he says loudly. 

Stuart Auld approaches Nicholson. Auld is a member of the 
Constitution & Freedom Society, a Johnson County group that opposes 
what it sees as a new world order. As a real-estate and insurance 
broker in Leawood, Auld considers himself a staunchly conservative 
Republican. But over the past five years, he has learned to loosen 
his party loyalties and standards. Nicholson might be drunk and 
antagonistic, but he receives an open invitation to join the 
rebellion nonetheless. Auld hands Nicholson a copy of 9/11 
Revisited. "I bought that for you," Auld says. On a rainy autumn 
Wednesday night, 35-year-old Jason Littlejohn waits in a community 
room in the Department of Motor Vehicles building in Mission. 
Littlejohn runs a weekly meeting for Midwest Concerned Citizens, a 
conservative Christian political action group. A former Navy 
officer, he also is host of a weekly talk show called Lives in the 
Balance on KCXL 1140 in Liberty. On-air, he talks about issues such 
as the pending energy crisis and the need to guard the Mexican 

He believes that the U.S. government had prior knowledge of the 
attack but simply allowed it to happen. "As far as direct 
complicity, I don't think the proof is there," he says. Still, he's 
interested in an independent investigation of 9/11. And he says he's 
concerned about the legislation meant to keep us safe that tramples 
civil liberties. 

"Our country is moving in a certain direction that is beneficial to 
a handful of people but detrimental to our country and other 
countries around the world," Littlejohn says. He has slicked-back 
hair and broad shoulders. As usual, he wears a pair of tinted 
aviator shades, though he is indoors and it's well after dark. "I'm 
trying to create more of a broad base from which I can project this 

Littlejohn spent the anniversary of 9/11 at the Uptown but, unlike 
the lefties, shares ideals with the far right. At this Midwest 
Concerned Citizens meeting, it's clear that the truth movement spans 
both sides of the aisle. 

"A lot of Christians believe that there are very powerful forces 
that are in control of government around the world," he says. "It 
was foretold in the Bible. If you actually look at what's been said, 
as opposed to what's occurring, you can draw some parallels that are 
rather convincing." 

Finally, Littlejohn opts to start the meeting. He expected about a 
dozen people tonight, but the rain has kept away all but four 
believers: 79-year-old retiree Esther Miller, 74-year-old part-time 
file clerk Shirley Mignon, and Roger and Judy Tucker. Roger is 67 
and retired. Judy is 50 and between jobs. 

The crew skips the usual pledge of allegiance and gathers in a 
semicircle of chairs. A few large tables are stacked with file 
folders and satchels filled with photocopied news clippings with 
blaring headlines ("Fatal Vision — The Deeper Evil Behind the 
Detainee Bill," "The New World Disorder: 'Shadow' Agency to Issue N. 
American Border Pass"). 

"What will happen is, a lot of these articles will come out in 
newspapers, but when you go back to look for them, they will be 
gone," Littlejohn says. He stores thousands of duplicated pages at 
his home in Lawrence. 

The five take turns reading long passages from the articles, 
shuffling their stacks between turns. Sometimes, two people read 
over each other. 

"I'm sure of this," Littlejohn tells the group. "I know what's 
coming. See, 9/11 was bad. But what's coming out is a whole lot 

He asks to borrow Mignon's bottled water. She nods, and he takes it. 
Everyone in the room looks excited. They've seen him do this before. 
Littlejohn places the bottle in front of him like a prop. "In the 
Bible, it says there will come a time when no one will be able to 
buy or sell something unless it has the mark of the beast," he says, 
paraphrasing Revelations 13:17. 

"The mark of the beast," Mignon echoes. 

Littlejohn turns the bottle until he can see its bar code. He says 
the symbol's longer lines represent the sign of the devil. "Six, 
six, six," he says. 

"If we don't do something," Littlejohn continues, "our way of life 
as we know it could come to an end." 

As usual, they've gotten off the subject of 9/11. Miller adds that 
three sixes occur in a congressional bill limiting the rights of 
prison detainees. Everyone agrees that this, too, might be a sign of 
the coming apocalypse. Kendrick thinks that the woman who enters his 
dental office on a cool Friday afternoon might be a closet truth-
movement sympathizer. She has arrived early for a regular tooth 
cleaning, and Kendrick has invited her back to his small office to 
share the word. 

The woman faces a screen glowing with a PowerPoint presentation. 
Kendrick used this for a Communiversity class he taught at UMKC a 
few weeks ago, "9/11, an Inside Job." The daylong seminar drew 40 
people. He reaches over his patient to click the mouse, and 
President Bush appears on the screen, repeating the word terrorism 
over and over during various speeches. Kendrick explains that he 
uses this footage to desensitize his audience to the hot-button 
words that the Bush administration uses to manipulate Americans. 

Kendrick, dressed in brown scrubs, a pair of magnifying goggles 
around his neck, flips through a series of slides depicting national 
tragedies that he believes were acts of "state-sponsored terrorism": 
Pearl Harbor, the Kennedy assassination, the Oklahoma City bombing. 

When an image of the collapsing World Trade Center appears on the 
screen, he points to the "squibs" — signs of controlled demolition — 
of air blasting out of the sides of the buildings. 

The 50-something woman stares, slack-jawed, at the computer. She's a 
nurse at a local hospital. She has tousled hair and wears thick 
glasses and a rainbow-colored shirt that clashes with her red 

"Yeah, I'm trying to think," she says. She looks around the room. 
It's filled with anti-Bush magnets and dental X-rays. Four spools of 
blank CDs await Kendrick's truth-movement videos and PowerPoint 
presentation, which he will pass out to patients. 

"So what's the purpose? Just for evil?" she asks. 

"What it's about is control," he says. 

A hygienist in a white coat arrives outside his door with a 
noticeable sigh. "Excuse me, I need my patient," she tells Kendrick. 

Kendrick hands the patient a copy of the two videos, "9/11 
Revisited" and "Terrorstorm," and a six-page handout listing 14 
parallels between fascism and the Bush administration. So far, he 
has handed out nearly 500 CDs. 

When everyone leaves the room, he becomes somber. "We don't have 
much time," he says. "I can't help but wonder whether there may be 
another horrific event." 

Kendrick knows that personally delivering his message to patients 
will get the word only so far. Unlike most people in the movement, 
he has been trying to find a way to reach people who aren't already 
inclined to agree. His plan: Hit the streets to find them. Standing 
at the entrance to the UMKC Student Center, Kendrick looks like a 
desert commando. He's clad in a beige sweat suit with a canvas vest, 
and he carries an oversized backpack. His beard is trimmed, and he 
has a sharp flattop. 

To talk to students in the cafeteria, he must get past the food-
court manager, a Hispanic guy in a blue polo shirt who stands guard 
at the cash register. Kendrick greets the manager and launches into 
his canned speech about how the World Trade Center collapsed by 

The manager cuts him off. "I believe it. I very much believe it," 
the manager says earnestly. The man steps aside to grant Kendrick 

Kendrick approaches a girl eating a fruit salad by herself. She 
wears diamond earrings and a glittery barrette in her hair. He asks 
her if he can talk politics. 

"I know nothing about politics," she says dismissively. 

Kendrick asks her a series of questions anyway. "How many buildings 
came down on 9/11?" 

"Two," she says. 

"It was three. I want to give you this." He slips her a CD of his 
PowerPoint presentation, like a consolation prize. 

"Did you know that a third building came down by controlled 

Finally, she cuts him off. "Thank you," she answers flatly. "It was 

The next table is occupied by a trio of chemistry students. Kendrick 
introduces himself and slaps down his CD. He waves his dentist's 
clipboard up and down to demonstrate how the towers fell. 

Kendrick repeats the words terrorism and 9/11 over and over, 
imitating the slides in his PowerPoint presentation. "That has 
become this administration's mantra," he says. 

Kendrick's last stop is a table with two members of the UMKC women's 
basketball team, one blond and the other brunette. The blonde tells 
him that she plans to be a history teacher. The brunette wants to be 
a broadcast journalist. 

"People in the towers were murdered," he tells them. 

"I've never heard this before. This is new to me," the brunette 
says. She takes a long sip of soda. 

He says that just days before the towers fell, they had been leased 
by Larry Silverstein, a businessman who took out a huge insurance 
policy on them. He says President Bush's brother Marvin was a 
principal at Securacom, the agency in charge of security at the 
World Trade Center, Dulles Airport and United Airlines. 

The blonde stops him. The president's brother —she asks, "That guy 
in Florida?" 

He adds that he believes Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld 
ordered Flight 93 shot down. 

The brunette, too, has a question: "Who is Donald Rumsfeld?" 

After his speech, the students gladly accept Kendrick's CD and 
business cards, which he asks them to give to their 
professors. "Tell them there's this crazy dentist," he says, "who 
wants to stir up campus riots." 

The young women tell him that they totally sympathize. They'd join 
the truth movement, they say, if it wasn't for their constant 
basketball practices. 

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