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 they’ve 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 “we have to prepare for the next one. Sit down. Wait your turn.”
And when does the G180 get its say?
They’re 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 hasn’t been a single assassination attempt on any of these fuckers?
Not a day goes by when this question doesn’t 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 “ask not what your country can do for you” to “pay your taxes and bend over further.”
Terror states funded by “citizens” induced into states of terror.
And smartphones that people can’t 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? You’ll need carbon credits.
Want to fly to see your grandson’s wedding? Oopsie, your social credit score isn’t high enough, AND you didn’t get the latest booster.
Want to buy that bunny rabbit for your daughter’s 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.
The timing of this transition is bittersweet.
On the one hand, I didn’t 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 doesn’t tune pianos or fix street lights write about piano wire and lamposts?
It’ll all have to wait.
Truth be told this hiatus couldn’t 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.
What’s 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 it’s 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, I’ll catch you all from the dark side of the meadow.
There’s room for all of you inside.
It’s 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