The Biggest Secret: The Book That Will Change the World, by David Icke
David Icke is a well-known name in conspiracy writing these days, with a dedicated following of people to whom he has confided the godawful truth about this planet. This fact gives one pause to think, and says a lot about the mentality of the current crop of TV-bred humans, for Icke's new book is a classic at that odd edge of literature inhabited by people like Bill Cooper, Commander X, Al Bielek, George Andrews, and a flock of others; folks who have a decided talent for making money, but have to ask others to tie their shoes for them. It is a huge, detailed, riotous excursion into bullgoose crackpot conspiracy the likes of which hasn't been seen since Bill Cooper's magnum crapus, Behold a Pale Horse. In other words, it is the biggest crock to be foisted on the public in many moons -- and as such, for those interested in what's going on in this weird conspiracy subculture, it is an absolute must read.
Like many other unworthies who couldn't string together a grammatical sentence for love nor money, yet somehow happened into the awful truth about the alien invasion, Icke has found the key to churning out the wildest conspiracy mongering this side of Richard Shaver. That is: Believe every goddamn weird thing anybody, anywhere ever said. It's a sure-fire formula for sales. Assume that Belleview is actually a secret repository of enlightened avatars. Believe Bill Cooper, believe Cathy O'Brien and Mark Phillips, believe Jason Bishop III, believe Phil Schnieder. Believe any and everybody who claims that they ever went into an underground base and had a laser shoot-out with bug-eyed aliens, participated in a ritual sacrifice with Hillary Clinton, or saw George Bush transform into a Reptoid in the oval office.
Icke's main thesis in the book is that the world is being run by reptilian extraterrestrial who suck human blood, and that people like Hillary Clinton, Henry Kissinger, and the Queen of England are shape-changing reptiles from that ancient cold-blooded family line. His proof? None, except for the occasional wild rantings of the crayon-wielding crowd who attend his lectures and confess that they too ran into somebody who turned into a reptile in WalMart one time.
Weirdly enough, in Icke's huge, crazy quilt 516-page book, there is quite a bit of material that might be of use to the researcher, if you use tweezers. Icke has, after all, cobbled together most all of the content of the last ten years of conspiracy writing, mostly copping it as his own thoughts. As I read through the book and ran across sections dealing with books I had read, I could almost see the open book in Icke's lap while he paraphrased. At one point he quotes me verbatim, without crediting me, but pass on, pass on. The real trouble with the book is that he has no discrimination about what is plausible and the tortured squawks of the straitjacket set.
The aptly-named Icke and his pinheaded followers are not going to like this review. They're going to say that I'm an agent of the Secret Government. They'll say that I'm deluded and won't find out until some alien is sucking my blood in an underground base. They'll say I'm a member of a secret Scottish Freemasonic bloodline bent on world domination. They might even say that I'm a secret Reptoid myself. But I suppose there is a bit of truth in that last. Books like Icke's do bring out my cold-blooded side.
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