Glenn Beck: The Overton Window

A ring of digital projectors near the ceiling awoke out of standby and the wraparound screens encircling the room came alight with an unbroken panorama of changing, flowing imagery. Charts and graphs, spreadsheets and Venn diagrams, time lines and flowcharts and nomograms, none displayed long enough to absorb, except as a blurry continuum of research and market intelligence behind the old man’s words.

“Over the last century you’ve saddled your hapless citizens with a hundred thousand billion dollars in unsecured debt, money they’ll be paying back for fifty generations if there are still any jobs to be had by then. Meanwhile you’re up to your necks in misguided, escalating wars on two unforgiving fronts with no sign of the end. That’s trillions more in unpayable IOUs.

“Banks are failing across the country. More banks have failed so far this year than in the whole of the last decade. Your debt-fueled economy is entering a spiraling free fall, yet your first reaction was to ignore the needs of the voting public and reward the perpetrators themselves. While foreclosures of your citizens’ homes are breaking all records and unemployment is exploding in every state you’ve been busy dodging audits and nationalizing the mountainous gambling losses of the Wall Street elite. For heaven’s sake, you nationalized General Motors just to get your union friends off the hook. As you know, those union pensions you just took over are severely underfunded, adding another seventeen billion dollars to your tab. Seventeen billion, I might add, that you don’t have.”

Arthur Gardner’s silvery voice had been gathering strength until it filled the room to the rafters, point upon point with the swelling command and cadence of a tent-revival preacher calling down the Rapture.

“Just to stay afloat the government is borrowing five billion dollars every day at ever-rising interest rates from our fair-weather friends in Asia. But that will all come to an end as they see the waters receding from the beach. Sooner or later the truth will be undeniable, that these massive debts can never be repaid, and there’ll be a panic, a worldwide run against the dollar, and through your actions you’ve ensured that the results will be fatal and irreversible.

“It’s not only happening here, it’s everywhere. Carroll Quigley laid open the plan in Tragedy and Hope: the only hope to avoid the tragedy of war was to bind together the economies of the world to foster global stability and peace. And that was done, but with unintended if predictable consequences. Instead of helping each other, these international bankers have all used their power for short-term gains, running up unimaginable debts on the backs of the public. We’re all shackled together at the wrists and ankles as the ship goes down, and, once it begins, this mutually assured destruction will come on us not over months, but overnight. A depression that makes the hell of the 1930s look like heaven on Earth will sweep across this country in a tidal wave of ruin, the scale of which has never been imagined. And when that happens, who do you think the masses will come for? Here’s a little hint: The people who will be held responsible are sitting around this table.”

The room fell silent. The humming of the projectors was the only discernible sound.

“Yes, they will come for you. All of you. You built this system; you told them everything would be fine. It is your lies they will remember when they realize that their money is as worthless as the promises you made them. It is your deceit they will recall when they realize that the future of their children has vanished. And, trust me when I tell you, it is your faces they will picture when they realize that forty-hour weeks at minimum wage have replaced their retirements.

“How do I know all of this? Simple: When things go wrong, there must always be someone to blame; a villain, if you will. As they say in your neck of the woods, ‘If you’re not at the table, then you’re on the menu.’ If you walk out of here today with the same arrogance you came in with, then you, my friends, will all soon be the special of the day.”

He paused to take them in again, a half circle of understandably pale, stricken faces lit only by the cold proofs of impending doom projected on the screens around them.

“But all is not lost,” the old man said. His features softened with the tiniest hint of a knowing smile.

“Tell us what we need to do.” It was the woman who’d spoken up earlier. Judging by the breathy reverence in her voice, she’d already entered the early stages of baptism into the cult of Arthur Gardner.

He stepped to a neat stack of identical folders at the near corner of the table and took the top copy in his hands. “Your answer is in here,” he said. “I am a strategist, and a man of some modest renown in that sense, though in this case I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m standing on the shoulders of giants-Woodrow Wilson, Julian Huxley, Walter Lippmann, Cloward and Piven, Bernays and Ivy, Saul Alinsky. The list is long. All I’ve done here”-he held up the folder-”is to crystallize the vision of those who’ve come before me, those who dreamed of a new and sustainable progressive nationalism but never saw their dreams fully realized.

“Because we must, we will finally complete what they envisioned: a new framework that will survive when the decaying remains of the failed United States have been washed away in the coming storm. Within this framework the nation will reemerge from the rubble, reborn to finally take its rightful, humble place within the world community. And you,” he said, looking around the table, “will all be there to lead it.”

A hand went up on the far side, a question from the senior member of the party, who’d so far only listened in silence.

“Mr. Gardner,” the man said. “What about the public?”

“What about them? The public has lost their courage to believe. They’ve given up their ability to think. They can no longer even form opinions, they absorb their opinions, sitting slack-jawed in front of their televisions. Their thoughts are manufactured by people like me. What about the public? Twenty years ago in this room I showed a small group of shortsighted businessmen how to sell the public the most abundant substance on the face of the earth at ten times the price of premium gasoline, the very same water that flows from their own kitchen faucets for one-tenth of a penny per gallon. That would seem unbelievable; it defies all logic and reason. Your grandparents would have called it larceny, fraud, or wanton thievery… and rightly so, I might add. But that experience proved one thing to me: there’s a double-edged sword by which the public can be sold anything, from a three-dollar bottle of tap water to a full-scale war.”

The screens winked out at once, and left behind were three tall words in black on white, dominating the room from floor to ceiling.

HOPE AND FEAR

“Do you see? If the people are simply swindled there’s always a chance they might one day awaken and rebel against the crime. But we don’t change their minds; we change the truth. Most people simply want to be left alone; they’ll go along with anything as long as we maintain their illusions of freedom and the American way. We leverage their hopes and feed their fears, and once they believe, they’re ours forever. After that they can be taken by the scruff of the neck and shown the indisputable scientific proof, with their own eyes they can read the label that says contents drawn from a municipal water supply, and they will only nod their sleepy heads and walk past the faucet to the vending machine. That’s when you know that anything is possible.

“You!” He pointed to Mr. Purcell at the far end of the table, who flinched as though he’d just been goosed by a cattle prod. “You entered this room thinking of me as a hired hand, believing you were a master of these proceedings, and since you pay my salary, by all rights you should have been correct. Why then did you allow me, your humble employee, to overpower you, to control you, to humiliate you in front of your peers and subordinates? Why?”