soylent green is people

 

Jordan Peterson (Psychologist and Commentator): "I believe that we will conclude that our response to the pandemic caused more death and misery than the pandemic itself. And we have no end in sight... Viruses mutate all the time... there are small mutations... there are medium sized mutations... and there are large sized mutations... When is that a variant? Well how about whenever it's convenient for the pharmaceutical companies?"

Ehud Qimrom (Head of Dept of Microbiology and Immunology, Tel Aviv University in a letter to the Israeli government criticising lockdowns, restrictions and forced vaccinations): "This is about a lust for power, budgets and control. You don't admit it because you've admitted almost no mistake in two years. You refused to admit that the infections come in waves and fade by themselves. Two years late you finally realise that a respiratory virus cannot be defeated and that any such attempt is doomed to fail."

Luc Montagnier (Winner of Nobel Prize for Medicine in 2007 for his work supposedly identifying the Hiv Aids virus): "The mass vaccination programme for Covid is unnecessary... The vaccine looks to me to have been designed in a laboratory.. There are elements of HIV in it... It looks to me as though they were trying to create a vaccine for Aids..."

Julian Reichelt (editor of Bild, Europe's largest newspaper apologising last August for its Covid coverage in an open letter to Germany's children months before his firing in October for supposedly having a relationship with a Bild staff member): ".. we persuaded our children that they were going to murder Grandma if they dared to be what they are, children or if they met their friends... None of this has been scientifically proven... It was easy to force that on the kids. They can't defend themselves and they don't vote... Those who wanted to contradict this propaganda were never invited to the experts table."

Ekstra Bladet (Denmark's largest circulation newspaper): Has this week apologised to its readers for printing government propaganda on facemasks, distancing and lockdowns for the past two years and thereby being directly complicit in the fostering of the Covid panic.

Also this week it's been revealed that Bergoglio the Apostate, currently occupant of the seat of Saint Peter (and I mean occupant) last year held at least two secret meetings with Albert Bourla the head of the Pfizer pharmaceutical company. In a direct repudiation of the Catholic Church's 2000 year old teaching on the sancity of life, and an even more direct trahesion of humanity's rejection of Nazism, Bergoglio has introduced vaccine mandates at Vatican City forcing residents and employees to ingest Pfizer's vaccine which was produced via testing on cells from babies murdered by abortion. (Pfizer now admits the vaccine was tested against cells from babies murdered by abortion having initially tried to keep the fact secret. It should be noted that former Quality Control Auditor at Pfizer Melissa Strickler says she does not believe the company's claims that there are no actual murdered baby's cells in the final product vaccine.)

long day's journey into shite

 

Wandered into the Cafe Insomnia on Naas main street and ordered a cup of tea and a heated ham n cheese panini.

"Will that be for here or to go?" says the girl.

"If you're still insisting on those idiotic vaccine passports, it will be to go," I told her.

"We are," she said.

As she turned away to prepare the food, she pointed to a notepad propped up on the counter on which customers are required to leave their contact details so that they can be tracked in the event someone in the cafe gets a runny nose.

A little vein on my forehead pulsed.

Do I dare.

Do I dare leave graffiti on such a sacrosanct notepad.

In large letters I wrote in the space for my contact details:

END THE COVID DICTATORSHIP

Wandering up the street with my coffee and panini I espied a sheet of paper tacked to the door of the Hanahoe and Hanahoe lawyers office.

The paper declared:

"Due to the Covid threat we are conducting all our business behind closed doors. You can contact us for a meeting at the following number..."

In large letters I wrote in the space below the lawyers' message:

GIVE IT A REST YOU PARANOID TWITS

You know bold readers, it's surprising how easy it gets to leave graffiti after the first time.

Already I'm itching for my next drive by on the life size posters of abortionist Fine Gael parliamentarian Martin Heydon at his offices in Newbridge.

There's nothing wrong with them there posters that wouldn't be improved by a little Hitler tache under the sron.

Peace now.

Truth always.

Goutman forever.

mystical contours of reality

Lingering in the forward pew asking God for things.

The church empties.

Timelessness passes.

I linger a bit more because I don't wish to give any interviews this evening.

Then I leave.

As I exit into the rain a shadowy figure leaps forward and seizes my lapels.

It is Cousin Hector, the phantom of the organ loft.

"That lot in there haven't got a clue about anything," he exclaims gesturing in every direction at once.

"Hector for crying out loud, you've got some skin there," I cried.

The bit about a fellow grabbing your lapel and getting some skin is a Woody Allen line which I've always wanted to deliver though not for real.

Hector released me but remained uncomfortably close and verbal.

"They're not heating the church during the day," he ranted conversationally. "I've told them the organ will be damaged but they won't listen. And as for the roof. They're going to let it fall in before they do anything about it."

His ranting took in the priests, the parish, the price of fish.

This is what I'd been trying to avoid by lingering holefully in pew numma one.

Boy can that man rant.

Nought to sixty in ten seconds.

As his peroration continued, I was thinking to myself: Don't insult him. Don't turn your back on him. Don't walk away from him. Steady James old boy. I'm not hiring for new enemies at the moment. And I've never insulted Hector in my life. That's one of my few lasting achievements. Don't blow it. Just stay calm.

I dimly became conscious that he was prodding me in the chest and that he'd lit upon a new theme.

"They should introduce paid parking," he rumbled. "Instant revenue. But oh no. And we should be liaising with other parishes. In a few years there won't be any priests. When it's too late, they'll have to admit I was right. And I'll tell you what. You can put all this in that blog of yours."

My face lit up with a somewhat paradoxical bemusement.

"Hector," I said frankly, "if you tell me I can write about you on the blog, I'm going to write that since Mrs Von Horst, the old battle axe  of the Remove, gave up control of the organ loft, power has driven my cousin Hector completely insane. And I'm going to add that when my Uncle Scutch was alive, at least Hector was somewhat kept in his box. But now with the Uncle dead and nice guys running the parish council and Mrs Von Horst in retreat, he's like Django Unchained."

This took the wind our of his sails for a full micro second.

Then he was off again ar nos na gaoithe as we do say in the Gaelic language.

The words came thick and fast.

I was no longer taking it in.

I was mostly still just focussed on my act of will not to insult him, not to turn my back on him and not to walk away from him.

Presently I noticed things had gotten quiet.

Hector was peering at me challengingly.

"What do you think?" he said.

I took the opportunity to make some mollifying sounds.

"Be gentle with the priests," I said. "They're getting it from all angles."

Hector threw his hands in the air and took the Lord's name (in vain I think) before bawling right in my face "You're the same as all the rest," turning his back on me and stomping away.