The Bleatings Will Continue
In a couple weeks.
The time has come.
To bid adieu to the current meadow and search for greener pastures, preferably without the green of global technocracy or sustainable greed, and maybe if Hungary or Croatia or Serbia or Mexico stay true to their people there might still be a corner of this world to live somewhat free from the living hell theyβve just conjured up at the G20.
Did you see the unelected Technetronic pork head Klitz Schlub with all his western eunuchs in one room dressed like Balinese tea boys?
Vaccine passports for international travel, globally coordinated to arrive with the next pandemic?
The one Gates has been warning us about. The one Biden accidentally let slip when he went off his doggy direction cue cards and said βwe have to prepare for the next one. Sit down. Wait your turn.β
And when does the G180 get its say?
Theyβre telling us another fake pandemic is coming and all their tyrannies are agreed-upon, prepacked, and just waiting to enslave the masses and yet still there hasnβt been a single assassination attempt on any of these fuckers?
Not a day goes by when this question doesnβt boggle my little sheep's mind.
It must be the vanishing jizzum counts and disappearing testosterone.
We are not far off from a time when men will exist in history books only.
Long live men.
Death panels are coming. State-encouraged suicide is now a western policy instead of full employment or maybe something healthy and reassuring like forest bathing or gardening.
From victory gardens to suicide pods for perfectly healthy people in two generations.
From bodily autonomy and the Nuremberg codes to forced deadly vaccination in two generations.
From βask not what your country can do for youβ to βpay your taxes and bend over further.β
Terror states funded by βcitizensβ induced into states of terror.
Consented masochism.
And smartphones that people canβt be bothered to part with will deliver all of it, from the corporate state propaganda to the official government warning labels, to the geotracking, programmable digital currencies, social credit scores, carbon credits, and vaccine passports.
Want to drive more than 30 miles per month? Youβll need carbon credits.
Want to fly to see your grandsonβs wedding? Oopsie, your social credit score isnβt high enough, AND you didnβt get the latest booster.
Want to buy that bunny rabbit for your daughterβs birthday? Sorry, your remaining digital money can only be spent at Walmart or Target, and only at the insect buffet since you bought t-bone steaks last month.
Pure evil.
The timing of this transition is bittersweet.
On the one hand, I didnβt get a chance to finish a piece on pureblood redemption, a list of 101 steps to enslave humanity, or an essay on all the liberals we cannot see (where the hell did they all go?!), but on the other hand, juggling boxes of crap accumulated over the years with moving to-do-lists and writing thoughtful pieces are just not a good match.
There was also a draft on revenge but how many times can a man who doesnβt tune pianos or fix street lights write about piano wire and lamposts?
Itβll all have to wait.
Truth be told this hiatus couldnβt come at a better time for me. Things were feeling a bit stale around here with most of the good grass already chewed up and the urge to push out content for the sake of logging a recent digital performance has left me creatively constipated and in need of my own reset.
Whatβs good for the citizen is good for the flock.
All paid subscriptions are now paused until this intermission has concluded in a couple of weeks. It simply means time is frozen, and no clock is counting toward monthly or yearly paid flock memberships.
The sun is setting on year won, and itβs been a helluva ride.
Thanks for all your support!
Stick around for the reboot in year zoo where the bleatings will continue until sperm counts improve.
Until then, Iβll catch you all from the dark side of the meadow.
Thereβs room for all of you inside.
Itβs us and them now.
Round and round.
Me and you.
Us, and them
And after all we're only ordinary men.
Me, and you.
And who knows which is which and who is who
Up and down
And in the end it's only round and round
Haven't you heard it's a battle of words
The poster bearer cried
Listen son, said the man with the gun
There's room for you inside