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Some Things Are Hard To
Prove Even With Proof
Don't Let Our Poisoned Gulf Be Another Such Enigma

By J. Speer-Williams
Some called him Cassius, refusing to call him, Muhammad; while others demonstrated their liberalism by refusing to use what Muhammad Ali said was his slave name Cassius Clay.
In any case, at breakfast, at the ATO fraternity house, the Gainesville Sun, of February 26th 1964, told us that the boxing world had a new champion.
It was hard to believe that the Louisville Mouth that Roared ­ Muhammad Ali - could have so easily defeated the indomitable, Sonny Liston; but there it was, right in our daily paper.
Some things are hard to believe even when there's proof of them.
That summer I graduated, after a make-up test in Tax Law, and moved to Chicago. There, I hoped to become such a success, I'd have real income tax problems ­ the kind of problems that are much preferable to little or no income without tax consequences.
I went to work selling advertising space for Michigan Out Of Doors ­ a publication that billed itself as a unification of the conservation clubs in Michigan. But alas, I developed no income tax problems; in fact, I made so little money, I never had enough for living. This was mainly due to the fact, I spent most of my week's pay check wooing some of the young ladies, who rushed to the night spots on Chicago's Rush Street every Friday night.
As usual, I had no more luck with the ladies than I had in creating tax problems for myself.
So what was a broke, loveless, young man, such as myself, to do on late Friday evenings? I'd make my routine phone booth call to a suite of rooms at South Chicago's mammoth 50th On The Lake Motel.
The call was to a suite, to which I had no number, but I didn't need one. I'd simply tell the motel operator to "Please connect me with the Champ's room."
And, I'd be connected to the Champ's room. Some things are hard to believe, even when there's proof of them. But remember, this was back in 1964, when our country was not so up-tight with all this so-called "national security" stuff.
And as was usual, Mr. Thomas would answer "Hello?" in his low, slightly bored voice.
"Mr. Thomas," I'd say, trying to be heard over the noise outside the booth and attempting to cover up my drunkenness, "This is Mr. Speer-Williams, the businessman calling, again."
The Champ is still too busy to talk," would always be Mr. Thomas' next words.
"That's OK. Don't bother him. But, tell him I still want to see him before, I head back to Florida."
"Sure, sure," Mr. Thomas would always say, anxious to get off the phone.
Then it happened on a cold winter's night. I fell asleep (passed out) in the back seat of my old Chevrolet Impala, in the outside parking lot of the hotel on North Sheridan Road, where I lived.
I was wearing old dirty corduroy-pants, Bass Weejuns (no socks), a white T-shirt, with a dark green car-coat. After coming to in the morning, I staggered up to my room. There, I packed a small bag and headed back to my car.
"I gotta get outta Chicago before it kills me," I thought. But wait, what about Bob, Bob Larson, the 45 year old Big Swede, who also hated Chicago, where he was born?"
I stopped at Bob's door. "Bob, I'm getting out Going to Washington, DC. You wanna come?"
"When?" was Bob's delayed question.
"Right now. Either pack a bag and leave now or I'm going without you."
Within about two hours, Bob and I were traveling south on the Outer Drive into South Chicago.
And then, it happened. "Bob look look! It's the 50th On The Lake Motel."
"Yeah?" said Bob.
"That's where he is. That's were the Champ is staying."
"So," ventured Bob.
"I've got to meet him."
"What?" screamed Bob. "Do you realized we're both white boys in South Chicago? You're crazy. How could you ever even find his room?"
"Cadillacs! I'll bet he has a bunch of new Cadillacs parked close to his room."
"Don't give me that stereotypical racial stuff you Southerners are always coming up with," said the irritated Big Swede, my friend Bob.
"Bob, what are you talking about? Owning a Cadillac is part of the American dream for Blacks and Whites," I said. It was the best defense I could muster on short notice. But, I had had lots of practice defending my Southern heritage, with so many Yankees attacking me because of my Southern accent.
After some circling around in the motel's rear parking lot, I did spot three new Cadillacs, all parked close together, in front of a stairwell that went up to two rooms at the top.
"You coming, Bob?"
"Leave me outta this," was Bob's disgusted answer.
At the top of the stairway were some painters on ladders, who apparently didn't speak English, or were so drugged-up they couldn't.
"Which room is the Champ in?" I kept yelling, each time louder than the last, as I stood about half way up the stairs. But all I could get out of the painters were some indistinct grunts of annoyance.
Then it happened. The top door on the right was violently flung open. "What's going on out here?" yelled a small, angry, black man.
"You be Mr. Thomas?" I shouted.
"Who you?" he asked.
"I'm the guy who's been calling you every Friday night."
"YOU SAID YOU WAS A BUSINESS MAN," yelled the incredulous Mr. Thomas.
"These are my traveling clothes and I never shave when I'm traveling " I said, stalling for time.
"Where did you say you was from?" interrupted Mr. Thomas. "Alabama?"
"No no I'm from Florida. But don't bother the Champ," I said backing down the stairs. "I know he's busy."
"Hold on!" commanded Mr. Thomas, as he disappeared back into his room.
Is he calling security? The police? The Black Muslems? I was wondering when Mr. Thomas reappeared.
"The Champ will see you for a minute," said Mr. Thomas.
Up the stairs I flew, so fast I startled Mr. Thomas. Then thankfully, I slowed to a walk and allowed Mr. Thomas to usher me in.
"He's in there," said Mr. Thomas pointing to the bathroom.
And there stood The Greatest, in the nude, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. He was a large, bronze, animated statue brushing his teeth in front of a mirror.
Call the Champ "Cassius Clay" or "Muhammad Ali," but always call him a gentleman. The Champ could not have been more polite or patient with me, if a little bored.
And after about five minutes or so of asking inane questions, I told the World's Champion, who was still brushing his teeth, "Well, I better go, I know you're busy."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Thomas. These have been moments I'll never forget," I said walking toward the door.
"Yeah, yeah," replied Mr. Thomas.
Then it happened. Halfway down the stairs, the Champ's door flew open; and, out stepped Mr. Thomas, yet again.
"Hold up," yelled Mr. Thomas. "The Champ wants to give you a picture."
What luck, I thought running up the steps. Now, I'll have proof for Bob that I really did meet the Champ.
"Here," said Mr. Thomas, giving me a pen and an 3" by 5" photo of the Champ in a classic boxing pose.
"What did you say your name was?" asked the Champ, who was still brushing his teeth.
I still have the photo. It's inscribed, "To Jack From Muhammad Ali."
Once inside my old Impala, I said, "Bob, Bob here's his picture. I actually met him."
Bob took the photo, examined it over and over, front and back. Then only said, "Sure."
Bob didn't believe me. Some things are hard to believe even when there's proof of them. Even I had a hard time believing it, and I had the best proof of all.
There are other things which are very difficult to believe. Such is the case with the massive release of the chemical dispersant, Corexit, into our Gulf waters, which will poison life near and far.
Disregarding the very real possibility of the Gulf well blowout being an act of corporate sabotage, for whatever insane reasons, the subsequent crimes committed by federal regulators and BP (British Petroleum) executives, immediately following the oil rig's explosion, are utterly provable, even if unbelievable.
Hundreds of thousands of gallons of the deadly neuro-toxic pesticide Corexit 9500 (and other variants) were immediately dumped at the subsea well head and in surface waters, above. This act of environmental sabotage was approved by federal government officials, who are very well paid to protect our environment and human life, rather than destroy them both.
In a New York Times article it states, " Corexit 9500 and 9527 ­ more than 1.1 million gallons of which has been sprayed in [to the] Gulf since the disaster began."
So quick to dump over a million gallons of Corexit, BP must have expected a blow-out. Otherwise, how did over a million gallons of Corexit just happen to be available for the Gulf of Mexico?
Can we even visualize a million gallons of anything? Think about how many months it would take anyone to manufacture a million gallons of chemical dispersants, especially something as lethal as Corexit 9500 or 9527.
Corexit kills all life from the bottom of life's chain to the top; it kills everything from microorganisms and algae to human beings.
Years ago, even Exxon put out a report outlining the lethal dangers of Corexit entitled, "Acute Aquatic Toxicity of Three Corexit Products: An Overview."
Moreover, Corexit creates monstrous undersea plumes, that are hundreds of square miles large that go unseen by the naked eyes of the world.
This is death to the fragile Gulf Coast ecosystems of plant, animal, and marine life, both in the ocean and in saltwater marshes, as Corexit plumes slip under and over protective booms.
Some studies indicate that Corexit  is four times more toxic than crude oil, as Corexit contains cyanide, arsenic, mercury, cadmium, chromium, and other toxic chemicals.
But when Corexit is combined with crude oil its toxicity shoots through the roof. Quoting Pulitzer-prize winning science writer Dehorah Blum, "BP's chosen dispersant, Corexit, rather alarmingly increases the toxicity of crude oil. For instance, Corexit alone has a LC 50 for silver fish of 25.2 parts-per-million. But the EPA's dispersant data shows that Corexit plus fuel oil has an LC50 of 2.61 ppm, almost ten times as toxic."
The dark Monetary Cartel that owns British Petroleum, with their treacherous  perversions, has truly and utterly poisoned our punch bowl, with a chemical dispersant (that's illegal to use in Great Britain), while claiming they are making the bowl more nutritious and tasty.
Governmental regulators and BP executives had to have known just how lethal Corexit becomes when mixed with crude oil. Yet US government officials claimed they did not have any predictive data in order to assess the loss of life Corexit might cause, in spite of all the disastrous results engendered by the neurotoxin after the 1989 Exxon-Valdez oil spill in Alaska.
If the BP executives were ignorant of what they were doing, they should have been stopped by officials of our federal government.
Even if our government officials were ignorant of how lethal Corexit really was, they should still be held accountable for all the death and destruction they have allowed, by not stopping BP's use of Corexit.
This is death that can never be cleaned up from beneath the sea or from shorelines, without creating greater disasters.
What kind of psychopaths would even think of manufacturing something like Corexit, much less put over a million gallons of it into our pristine coastal waters?
These sub-humans, who have ascended to such power, are obviously well behind the human race in the spiritual aspects of their evolutionary development.
Hopefully, the toxicity of the crude oil and Corexit mixture will dissipate, as these deadly plumes travel up our Atlantic seaboard toward the metro-plex of Norfolk, Richmond, Washington, DC, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and Montreal.
If, however, the heated vapors from this lethal mixture get into the Jet Stream, in the upper reaches of our troposphere, and then fall as rain or snow, the dire results on all life in the entire United States, east of the Rockies, is almost impossible to calculate. Such toxic precipitation could destroy every living plant it touches, not to mention the human lives it could take.
Raw crude oil, without the addition of Corexit, is dangerous enough, as it is loaded with the toxic petrochemicals of hydrogen sulfide and benzene.
Benzene, a confirmed human carcinogen, has no safe minimum exposure limits. Independent reports of petrochemical exposures along the Gulf Coast are at great variance with government pronouncements. But needless to say, if you can smell gasoline, or feel oily rain or snow, you've exceeded the safe limits of exposure to hydrogen sulfide and VOCs (Volatile Organic Compounds), such as benzene.
These poisonous injections of so much Corexit into our Gulf waters should put a final end to the bogus governmental environmental "concerns," like "peak oil" and anthropogenic (man-made) global warming, but it will not. Instead our own government will begin hitting us with carbon taxes for the expulsion of harmless CO2 gases ­ gases the plant kingdom needs to survive ­ using the Gulf oil disaster as reasons to further tax us.
Moreover, we'll be made to endure the costs associated with helping our Gulf Coast recover from this BP made disaster.
While Mr. Obama has made a big show of how he will be raising corporate liabilities to $10 billion, for things like BP has caused in the Gulf, he doesn't tell us that the ultimate losses in the Gulf states will be closer to 1,000 to 2,000 billion dollars, all costs that will be borne by innocent Americans, but caused by governmental malfeasors in league with criminal corporate executives.
You might be interested in knowing that Congress has refused to raise corporate liability to $10 billion. Instead, according to CNN, some senators are asking BP to put $20 billion into a fund to pay for the damages BP has caused to our nation and its people. Twenty billion dollars is a figure, BP will snap up in a "Wall Street second."
Once again, our national leaders prove how they work for the foreign and private International Monetary/Banking Cartel, and not for us - the American people.
In summation, Corporatism has unleashed upon America the greatest disaster in human history, with the blow-out of their Gulf oil well, then made that unparalleled catastrophe ten times worse with their Corexit, then are billing the rest of us for the damages they caused.
This is international fascism at work. And at work it will stay, until many more of us awaken to the proof at hand and believe it.
And, I really did meet the Champ, whether it is believed or not.
J. Speer-Williams

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