Ignoring Fire Alarms
by Joe Kelley
2-1-2022

A story can sometimes be used to send a useful message to those seeking useful things to do with their time and money.

A fire alarm, for example, sends out a narrative, and when this narrative turns out to be false not once, but many times without fail, then the story that began as an inspiration to act and spend money, to look for and then deal with a fire, becomes instead a narrative that falls further and further away from useful information, turning instead into noise that must be suppressed in order to make room for useful things involving sound investment expenditures of time and money.

The noise of false alarms fades into the distance to make room for those sounds and those smells that can build back better, moving humanity into a new world order, energized with the need for real change.

Meanwhile, the infants in The Infantile State are dropping like flies as they accelerate as fast as they can into the well-lit fire of Treasonous Fraud, or are they moths to a flame?

Lemmings led over the cliff by their Cult Leader with the poison Public cool-aid bowl?

It is one thing to ignore a criminal yelling “Fire” in a crowded theater after the same criminal has attempted that entertaining show of false leadership a million times before, but what on earth explains the fact that people willfully attack all evidence proving beyond reasonable doubt that Fearless Leader of The Infantile Nation-State is running out of children to eat, so your name is moving up the list?

Stockholm Syndrome Writ Large.

No?

The documentary by Noam Chomsky titled Manufacturing Consent was a Fairy Tale?

When the Left proved beyond reasonable doubt that Elections are fraudulent before the 2016 Election Psycho, no one connected that with the Hollywood movie starring Christian Bale: American Psycho?

Keep doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result this time, because Fearless Leader says so?

1984, a book by George Orwell has no connection to the forensic documentation of reality reported by Anthony Sutton with his three volumes exposing how so-called Wall Street, a Legal Fiction, funded the Nazi Party, the Bolshevik Party, and the American Communist Party into power to get World War II on the fast track in the fast lane, for beloved Boom after the oh so profitable Bust, to Build Back Better at Bargain Basement Prices made Cheap with Slave Labor?

Nothing?

There is no fire, and if you don’t shut your fucking mouth, one of my goons will do the dirty work for me, if only I can manage to work hard enough to pay the cost of living increase?

The sky may not be falling, and the big bad wolf may not have a sheep costume covering up his malevolent intent to feed upon actual sheep, or children, but one does have a harder time ignoring the actual death tolls, unnatural causes reported as if they were natural, by the same people, if you want to call them people, I prefer the term Treasonous Frauds, those same people telling you that you had better do as ordered or burn forever in hell, or since that is a tired old slogan, how about pushing the vote button one more time, expecting Fearless Leader to stop torturing and murdering posterity for a few petrodollars more?

A few trillion more?

More?

You want more irresponsibility and more unaccountability for paying more of an extortion fee for one more place further back in the line as the weaker slaves move more places up in line going into the gas chambers, or torture chambers for those valuable false confessions, those pleasing plea deals, and those early graves caused by new normal new natural causes?

Christian Bale, the American Psycho, isn’t at MY door, not yet, but I am beginning to look a lot more like him, when I look into the remains of my lost conscience, or in the mirror?

My Kingdom, my Kingdom, my King Dumb, for a Psychotic Brain!

Psychopaths are said to be born without moral conscience, if such a thing was ever really anything, a footnote in antiquated HIS STORY. Sociopaths have that antiquated weakness beat out of them.

For the Greater Good!

Sycophants, now that is another story, involving bribes. If only I could be on the receiving end of the crumbs trickling down from the feasting table where all the babies are harvested for that elusive Greater Good.

What exactly IS in those experimental mRNA mistreatments?

Posterity fed into the human meat-eating machine expecting mankind to survive one more day is a self-fulfilling prophecy, that all too familiar Rat Smell reeking, permeating, from the torture chambers growing in number, coming to a theater more near you, if not already down the street, or next door, since you were told to ignore the smoke alarm, and torture anyone who dares to turn it back on.

What is that distant voice, almost imperceptible, drowned out by that awful, but strangely alluring Rat Smell?

Judgment Day?

Hell no!

Not on my watch, here is my dime, all I have LEFT now is the penny for my thoughts that were once defending my soul. I sold out for a penny.  

A penny made of legal fiction, not a real copper one.

I want my peace of mind at all cost, to posterity?

George Carlin is a funny guy, if you can get past the hidden message, hidden so deep in his monologue, so deeply sugar-coated as to make The Big Club I pay for almost drowned out with Gallows Humor.

Racist self-hating cracker. 

On my dime, on my watch, The Big Club is no longer on the Build Back Better Backswing. The bodies have been piling up, but no one seems to notice, no one seems to care, except their loved ones. 

Oh, wait, love is antiquated too, that was on page 3 of the script. 

Care too, is gone, if the information allowed past my non-functioning bullshit detector does its job, ignoring the blaring siren.

Witch siren is that, from the not too distant past?

Oh, oh, you mean that antiquated history stuff of days bygone?

“We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts.”

Oh my.

My precious.

My precious Rat Smell.

Please sir, can I have some more? Here, here, what is the cost? All my innocence is gone, all I got now is my own growing supply of Rat Smell, and that last fake penny.

Ring True Crickets?

Caveat Emptor