When you talk about British Petroleum you have to talk about the Bride of Dracula, the original noxious, bat cave, the Queen of England, also the head of the Black Nobility; or close enough. My favorite picture of this slithering reptile is when she goes around on Christmas Day or New Years and dispenses season’s greetings to the junkies and homeless on the street. After a heartfelt, “Merry Christmas!” and a brisk handshake, it’s on to the next affair of state, which usually involves a senior cabinet member porking his chauffeur.
When you talk about British Petroleum, you also have to talk about the true vampire elite, The Rothschilds. They employ the Chinese Boxes style of accounting and operations fronting. I remember that photo of Warren Buffet, the mere piker of an investment entrepreneur from America, standing with Schwarzenegger and Jacob Rothschild prior to his investiture as Governor of California.
Not a day goes by when I don’t hear about British Petroleum doing something they are not supposed to do, denying it, being caught at it and… not a damn thing being done. They continue to pour Corexit into The Gulf at night, to keep the oil from the surface, or whatever the intricacies are, in order to avoid having to pay for their evil actions, which will inevitably lead to the deaths of thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands; who knows?