Louie, your goose is cooked-

Note to Reader: This blog post has been put “under review” as we have had growing pains in developing the technology we use to identify twins, replicas and zombies. The eyes behind the technology are getting better, so as you read this piece note that if you are troubled by its conclusions that we will be looking at it in more depth and with better eyes. For the time being, it is speculation.

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A while ago, while Mark was still on vacation, I took a look at photos of Sam Cooke and wondered which pundit he might have become. Of course he would be a zombie because he fit the basic criteria: Musical star, dead at 33 (Ca-Ching!), his death being sensational tabloid fodder but made no logical sense. He was also a business man and had secured an agreement with future Beatle handler Alan Klein to mint money for his efforts. Naturally, after Cooke’s death, Klein controlled the posthumous windfall. Where that money actually went is of no concern because these assets are wage slaves, I’ll wager, and they never expected royalties. They are, indeed, very well paid wage slaves, but these are basically pensioners, not investors.

Not even playing a hunch but just off the top of my head and expecting to have to go through a list of suspects, I started with Louis Farrakhan as the possible zombie. He was the right age and an opinion maker, to say the least. Not exactly one of the house Toms at FOX, but a paid pain in the ass for the Intel circus known as the Nation of Islam. He was also an accomplished musician. Well, since I’m no master of the split personality portrait, I threw it out to Mark, Straight and friends to run these two, Cooke and Farrakhan, to see if there was a chance.

Ding Ding Ding! Mark posted quickly that it was a match. This zombie, however, was further back in queue, so only now are we presenting.

This should not sound odd given the discussions here at POM, but I really didn’t know much about either character’s personal lives even as I tossed the two together for study. Official bios of these spook – ahem – assets, are pure BS and it was only when Mark asked me to do this writeup that I planned to delve deep into their respective Wakipedia pages to see where they are said to have come from, and from whom. That would be now, Saturday night.

Saturday morning I was in the throne room for my morning constitutional and inventorying all of the political hay that Farrakhan and his ilk had made with their racially divisive public diatribes, marrying them to other false fronts like Black Lives Matter, the strain of Muslimism that Kareem Abdul Jabbar is associated with, various false flags like the Muslim attack on Washington in the mid seventies, the Central Park Jogger hoax in the late 80’s which gave Tom – sorry – David Dinkins grief while running for NYC mayor. (Oh, and Bernie Goetz. What a lulu that one was.)

I reflected on all of the emotional yanks of the leash that attend these hoaxes, of course from the subjective view of this pasty-faced blue-eyed white guy, colorful – erm- exotic name aside, who is a member of the most targeted group for these psyops. Yes, racially tinged hoaxes are aimed at solvent white consumers, not poor “people of color” as it is so euphemistically rendered today. People like me, with disposable income, are the primary. We have means and a sense of entitlement and get royally pissed if the magic triangle between the TV, refrigerator and sofa is disturbed. Racial issues disturb the fugue state we are encouraged to remain in and, as they are sold the same way each time, white guilt is the emotional response most sought after. I know I’ve responded that way on occasion. Even an accused pathological cynic like myself could get tweaked now and then.

Thankfully, my cynicism turned out to be a symptom of confusion, not a personality disorder. I just had no method for objective analysis of my reactions and what triggered them. I felt there was possibly something wrong with the story and the story tellers, not necessarily with me and my tone-deaf heart. I felt I had a duty to doubt anything and everything the MSM promoted but I didn’t want to be labeled racist. I just didn’t know how to articulate my doubt.

Now I do. In this particular case study, the emotional firewall would be the unfathomable level of cynicism required for a black man to run this divide and conquer con on his fellow black folks. How could a man turn from heaven-sent gospeleer to an anti-Semitic ranter calling for the end of civilization as whitey knew it. Who could be such a monster?

Whitey would feel bad about this, so shouldn’t black people feel anger and put a stop to this fraud and mountebank? Boy, talk about white entitlement. Many white people can’t imagine black people cannibal – umm- exploit each other. What is that kind of presumption called…? Condescension, maybe? I don’t know. Putting all of blackness on a pedestal isn’t complimentary. It’s a species of profiling. It implies a certain level of unavoidable victimization without whitey’s charity. That would be very emasculating to black men, I would think. But then I shouldn’t be generalizing, see, as I am now and can’t seem to avoid. This is the great trap of race distinction. There’s no way to avoid insulting someone. That’s why the subject of race relations is sold in this manner. The MSM framers of the debate, if it should be a debate at all, demand a final answer where none is possible. Conflict is eternal within the framework of “race”- A feeling of emotional and intellectual inadequacy follows. Despondency… shopping therapy alert!

I often half joke that I only think when I speak. But I only have epiphanies when I void my bowels. I realized as I reached for the plunger this morning that the sunovabitch wasn’t an African-American at all! He was likely a British subject from the Caribbean!

And lo and behold (per Wiki): Farrakhan was born Louis Eugene Wolcott (also mistakenly spelled Walcott)[7] in The Bronx, New York, the younger of two sons of Sarah Mae Manning (January 16, 1900 – November 18, 1988) and Percival Clark*, immigrants from the Caribbean islands. His mother was born in Saint Kitts and Nevis. His father was a Jamaican native. The couple split before Louis was born [Bastard alert!] . Farrakhan says he never knew his biological father [Of course he did. His old man was some peer listed in an old edition of Burke’s].

His mother then moved in with Louis Wolcott from Barbados, who became his stepfather.[8] After Louis’ stepfather died in 1936, the Wolcott family moved to Boston, Massachusetts, where they settled in the West Indian neighborhood of Roxbury.[8]

(*Nothing high tone British about those monikers. Looks like the backstory writers couldn’t get some of the aliases straight)

So, to my eyes the guy appeared to be a fucking British spook (harrumph!) and almost certainly some whelp of a British royal as Jamaica is where the Ian Flemings and all of that rot have plotted and schemed for decades.

Then Mark let me know Cooke is twins. Only one twin played Farrakhan, though. This revelation still begged the question above about levels of cynicism, but it also helped me understand that the transition was a lot easier for the perpetrators than had it been only one guy involve.

This is what I wrote when i assumed it was just one guy playing both parts:

I’ve crossed paths with a few Jamaicans over the years and I can’t say comprehensively, but the folks from that country that I’ve known don’t bear the cross of the American slaves of old. The traces of anger and resentment just aren’t there. This Sam/Louis character is playing for a different team and has no investment in anything concerning African Americans. Does he enjoy turning the screw? I doubt he enjoys anything. Someone like this probably has no emotional life and probably has no libido. His craft is what defines him. And I don’t mean Masonic craft though he is also likely a Prince Hall Mason, just to dot the I’s and cross the T’s. Like a J Edgar Hoover, who is passed off as a cross dressing queer to label him a hypocrite and make it easier for him to take the blame for his handlers, these kind of guys have no sex drive, but they can get very hostile about it. To cope, they create fantasy worlds where they are saving humanity from their worst aspects. They front organizations with strict protocols and they surround themselves with yes men. This condition is not unfathomable if you know what to look for. And the unseen hands that create these characters definitely know what to look for.

I’ve since realized that this kind of psychobabble is another dead-end designed to leave me in a state of condescending satisfaction. I’ve solved the mystery: he/she is essentially sexless and not happy about it, so who is next on the list to shred to pieces with my brilliant insight into la condition humaine?

Missing the twin angle leaves so much of the process hidden.

For one thing it misses the likelihood of the hatchery, as I call it for now. Breeding illegitimate noble blood babies through IVF methods to enhance the twinning, and the overall numbers of offspring bound by blood, would assure loyalty and obedience. I’m also suspecting, lately, that there is a deliberate sterilization element in the fertilization process. Yes, mad scientist stuff to be sure, but the frigid/sterile/gay celebrities seem legion today. And that brushes up against the psychobabble above, where the sterile celebrity throws herself into her work, as there is nothing else she can define herself by. She’s eager to sell that soap. That’s all she has. No coercion required. Doubt was bred out of her in the lab.

Enough. Perhaps I’ve gone ’round the bend, but this night of the living twins never seems to end so something not found in nature is going on here.

Stay tuned for Mark’s photo analysis, coming right up…

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Everything above is Tyrone, and everything below is added by me, Mark. When first looking at Sam Cooke, I sensed something that has become so common as to be expected. He is twins. And it was not hard to spot.

Here is the one I call Twin Two, whose photos are far more common on the Internet, and whom I suspect was the primary public performer, perhaps the better singer.

This is Twin One, whom Tyrone discovered and I confirmed to have become Louis Farrakhan.

Here are Twin One and Twin Two side by side:

The difference in ears (green lines) is noticeable, an 11.3 to 11.6% difference even as Twin One is at perhaps a five degree angle. This is apparent in all five comparisons directly below. Twin Two has a longer nose, 78 pixels versus 66. The other features are similar, and simply do not align properly to be the same person. But I found them easiest to distinguish due to something unrelated to structure of the face – Twin Two often used Brylcreem, a hair styling gel from that era (50s and 60s), to achieve the slicked-back looked found in two of the five photos above. Twin One went with a natural African look in all photos I could find of him.

Rather than run a bunch of separate face splits, I will show you a five-in-one.

That is the third photo from the left of Twin One selection aligned next to all five of Twin Two. Angles aside, all five mis-align in the same manner, enough to satisfy me that Sam Cooke belongs on the Honor Roll of Twins. (With Sinatra in the forties, Elvis in the fifties, and Cooke and McCartney in the sixties, we now have evidence that the celebrity twin program has been going on for seventy years, maybe more.)

Now for the matter of Farrakhan – ignore everything of Twin Two, as he is no longer a public figure (if still alive).

Here are some pertinent shots of Farrakhan:

Because there are so few photos of Twin One available, I chose three that were of a similar posture and expression as those above. (I did nothing with the blurry one second from the left.) Here are the results:

It is hard, of course, to get perfect alignment of the mouths, as I was limited to those of Cooke smiling and so had to choose similar items of Farrakhan. But I do suggest you compare the Cooke Twin One photo farthest right with the Farrakhan in the middle. They struck me as similar, and we often find that people strike similar expressions and postures even years apart in photos. Oh heck, I will do it for you:

Anyway, thanks to Tyrone and his sharp eye, we now add Louis Farrakhan to the Honor Roll of Zombies.