QAnon, weird conspiracy theories, and the media liberals who love them

Everyone except the most cold-blooded rationalist has a pet conspiracy theory.

Whether you think the CIA used Oswald to off President Kennedy or the Rothschilds secretly control the weather, there's almost certainly something you believe that defies evidentiary proof, empirical confirmation, or even basic reason.  Life would be dull if all we believed were what has been confirmed by scholarly journals up until this date in the year 2018.

(Personally, my favorite conspiracy theory is the rumor that former president Barack Obama is a gay man and his wife Michelle is actually a transvestite.  I mean, have you seen her arm muscles?)

Some conspiracies are considered too outlandish by our distinguished arbiters of truth, otherwise known as the media.  At a recent rally for President Trump, by far our most conspiracy-susceptive chief executive, dozens of attendees were observed sporting "QAnon" paraphernalia.  From signs to t-shirts displaying phrasal variations on the consonant Q, these Trump backers all appeared to be involved in a secret clique, like the Freemasons or the Stonecutters.

What is QAnon, you might ask?  If you do, prepare to regret it. Researching conspiracy theories online – "red-pilling" as the kids say – can be an exploration into a strange world.  Since trawling the bowels of the internet is about as enjoyable as getting a Novocain-less root canal, I'll instead consult NBC.

According to reporter Ben Collins, QAnon is a belief centered around the anonymous source Q, "who is trying to tell the world about a secret battle being waged by Trump and special counsel Robert Mueller against a pedophile ring filled with celebrities and political elites."

Q posts updates of this secret war on the periwinkle-hued message board site 4chan, a site that houses, among other things, Sonic the Hedgehog fanfiction and cat memes.  These dispatches are then shared with larger internet forums.

How Mr. Q's private war journal went from low musings to a placard cottage industry and fan club, we'll probably never know.  (There's a rumor out there it's all a leftist prank on gullible Trump-supporters.)  It is a great testament to the communicative power of the internet and our own fascination with the sordid behavior of the elites.

Like any good conspiracy theory, the QAnon phenomenon has a pinch of possibility to it.  Pedophilia is more a power craving than a sexual predilection.  In Greco-Roman times, elites exploited vulnerable children, abusing them to maintain a permanent underclass.  Human nature doesn't change much over the course of millennia.  There's a reason Hollywood is replete with rumors of rampant pedophilia.  Washington, D.C. is also notorious for human-trafficking, specifically in minors.

We would only be so lucky if President Trump and Robert Mueller were working hand in glove to root out pederasts.  Alas, it seems that Mueller is focused on disposing of Trump by threatening his lackeys with jail to make them sing a guilty tune.  But as Theodore Dalrymple wrote, "[m]ost people believe in conspiracy theories because they want to do so rather than because the evidence compels belief."

Despite its likely faulty basis, the QAnon contention is drawing obloquy from the tut-tutters in the media.  "There's a virus in Trumpland," Philip Bump of The Washington Post writes after being on scene at a Trump rally in Wilkes-Barre, Pa.  After interviewing dozens of Q-truthers, many of whom spoke in ambiguous terms about what exactly the Q theory is, Bump deduces that Trump fans are full-blown paranoiacs, eager to believe in both a Deep-State plot to bring down the Trump presidency and a secret military-led campaign to end a vast human-trafficking network.  He reasons, "Trump himself introduced the idea that there was a murky substructure that controlled American politics; that there's now a strain of that thinking that runs through his support – in part to rationalize mainstream critiques – only makes sense."

It's a strange irony that mainstream reporters are aghast at the active imaginations of Trump-supporters while entertaining plenty of their own conspiracies.  The Post regularly conjectures without firm evidence that collusion between the Trump campaign and the Russian government occurred.

Professional journalists will never admit this, but they are just as enthralled with conspiracies as your average Infowars-watching American.  There's good reason for it.  America is a land of conspiracies.  The country was born out of contempt for a tyrannical king; our founding document has distrust of high power built within it.  Every major war we've fought has conspiracies wrapped around it: shipping munitions on the Lusitania, prompting the Pearl Harbor attack, the Gulf of Tonkin, Kuwaitis slant-drilling for oil, 9-11 and building 7.

Often times, the only difference between a respectable conspiracy theory and an outré one is its designation from the press.  Our media mandarins think they're above the QAnon mom brandishing a homemade sign at a Trump rally.  They don't realize that, in many respects, they're just like her.

Everyone except the most cold-blooded rationalist has a pet conspiracy theory.

Whether you think the CIA used Oswald to off President Kennedy or the Rothschilds secretly control the weather, there's almost certainly something you believe that defies evidentiary proof, empirical confirmation, or even basic reason.  Life would be dull if all we believed were what has been confirmed by scholarly journals up until this date in the year 2018.

(Personally, my favorite conspiracy theory is the rumor that former president Barack Obama is a gay man and his wife Michelle is actually a transvestite.  I mean, have you seen her arm muscles?)

Some conspiracies are considered too outlandish by our distinguished arbiters of truth, otherwise known as the media.  At a recent rally for President Trump, by far our most conspiracy-susceptive chief executive, dozens of attendees were observed sporting "QAnon" paraphernalia.  From signs to t-shirts displaying phrasal variations on the consonant Q, these Trump backers all appeared to be involved in a secret clique, like the Freemasons or the Stonecutters.

What is QAnon, you might ask?  If you do, prepare to regret it. Researching conspiracy theories online – "red-pilling" as the kids say – can be an exploration into a strange world.  Since trawling the bowels of the internet is about as enjoyable as getting a Novocain-less root canal, I'll instead consult NBC.

According to reporter Ben Collins, QAnon is a belief centered around the anonymous source Q, "who is trying to tell the world about a secret battle being waged by Trump and special counsel Robert Mueller against a pedophile ring filled with celebrities and political elites."

Q posts updates of this secret war on the periwinkle-hued message board site 4chan, a site that houses, among other things, Sonic the Hedgehog fanfiction and cat memes.  These dispatches are then shared with larger internet forums.

How Mr. Q's private war journal went from low musings to a placard cottage industry and fan club, we'll probably never know.  (There's a rumor out there it's all a leftist prank on gullible Trump-supporters.)  It is a great testament to the communicative power of the internet and our own fascination with the sordid behavior of the elites.

Like any good conspiracy theory, the QAnon phenomenon has a pinch of possibility to it.  Pedophilia is more a power craving than a sexual predilection.  In Greco-Roman times, elites exploited vulnerable children, abusing them to maintain a permanent underclass.  Human nature doesn't change much over the course of millennia.  There's a reason Hollywood is replete with rumors of rampant pedophilia.  Washington, D.C. is also notorious for human-trafficking, specifically in minors.

We would only be so lucky if President Trump and Robert Mueller were working hand in glove to root out pederasts.  Alas, it seems that Mueller is focused on disposing of Trump by threatening his lackeys with jail to make them sing a guilty tune.  But as Theodore Dalrymple wrote, "[m]ost people believe in conspiracy theories because they want to do so rather than because the evidence compels belief."

Despite its likely faulty basis, the QAnon contention is drawing obloquy from the tut-tutters in the media.  "There's a virus in Trumpland," Philip Bump of The Washington Post writes after being on scene at a Trump rally in Wilkes-Barre, Pa.  After interviewing dozens of Q-truthers, many of whom spoke in ambiguous terms about what exactly the Q theory is, Bump deduces that Trump fans are full-blown paranoiacs, eager to believe in both a Deep-State plot to bring down the Trump presidency and a secret military-led campaign to end a vast human-trafficking network.  He reasons, "Trump himself introduced the idea that there was a murky substructure that controlled American politics; that there's now a strain of that thinking that runs through his support – in part to rationalize mainstream critiques – only makes sense."

It's a strange irony that mainstream reporters are aghast at the active imaginations of Trump-supporters while entertaining plenty of their own conspiracies.  The Post regularly conjectures without firm evidence that collusion between the Trump campaign and the Russian government occurred.

Professional journalists will never admit this, but they are just as enthralled with conspiracies as your average Infowars-watching American.  There's good reason for it.  America is a land of conspiracies.  The country was born out of contempt for a tyrannical king; our founding document has distrust of high power built within it.  Every major war we've fought has conspiracies wrapped around it: shipping munitions on the Lusitania, prompting the Pearl Harbor attack, the Gulf of Tonkin, Kuwaitis slant-drilling for oil, 9-11 and building 7.

Often times, the only difference between a respectable conspiracy theory and an outré one is its designation from the press.  Our media mandarins think they're above the QAnon mom brandishing a homemade sign at a Trump rally.  They don't realize that, in many respects, they're just like her.