The list, ping
So, now what? THe file has been destroyed. Anybody know why, or who gave the order?
If former FBI head Herbert Hoover was alive today and still head of the FBI, I bet he would have seen Obama’s Hawaii long form birth certificate long ago, no doubt about it.
was BHO's father
So they say the destroyed records that may have had information but there’s no way to tell for sure, and that you can appeal. Appeal what? That they didn’t look hard enough? Like trying to prove a negative.
Seens odd to say the least.
In correspondence with Kincaid, available at www.usasurvival.org, the FBI says the file was destroyed in 1997.
____________________________________________
Wow. Obama has more power and control than I thought. Not only can he scrub dangerous files. He can go back in time and make them disapperar 10 years before he runs for the office of Supreme Leader.
and so, young William Jefferson Blythe Clinton...here is your Fulbright Scholarship....keep in mind now that some day we may come and ask a favor from you in return....
I bet Ann Coulter, Glenn Beck, Andrew Breitbart, MSFoxNews, and other Obama Enablers will whine about Kincaid’s work....like they do about Birthers.
Obviously Obama’s family has some commie sympathies....
...ON WHOSE ORDERS?
*ping* for your links collection
Last... 'dad' (?)
Just like Hitler had his family’s records destroyed...hmmmm
ping
save
Isn’t that convenient...
PING!!
I fear the f.b.i. has become a joke in far too many ways.
Clinton used them and the i.r.s. as his personnal mafia.
"Pop"
"Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies...
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too."