Unmasking of the Oligarchy and Seepy [1] Joe's Sloes

I link into my slave genetics by permitting myself to get drunk alone on some quality stuff every time I complete a book. Having completed In These Goings Down 9 days ago, last week, on the third I think, a Tuesday, I went to the hipster faɡɡot IPA bottle shop. Five to six regional and local craft India Pale Ales will be on tap. In the three self-contained refrigeration units is a collection of craft beers, including a number of good breakfast stouts and some Imperial Stouts.

The sound system seems left over from some 1990s teen rock band and is linked to a vinyl LP player. An old Sabbath album is playing. The big bald thirty-something barkeep has an unlisted stout on tap. Water is served in palate cleaning tumblers.

The bar holds seven. This old bum notes people from 35 to 55 at the bar and feels almost at home as he quietly decides to get hammered. To the right, past the coolers, are five heavy picnic tables across from the bathroom and the stockroom. He orders and sits alone at the tables. When he masks up to go to the bar, he stands shorter then the tall men who sit there, but, according to nationwide convention, enforced by secret civic police, standing at the bar without a mask is plague-spreading activity. But sitting as tall or a head taller without a mask on poses no danger of exhaled pathogens. This convention, is, like American History, pure fantasy, a mythic idealogical matrix of submission and domination.

Two heads stand at the bar exhaling through paper that a billion viruses could roar through:

-The barkeep, a servant charged with enforcing social compliance, stands behind the bar masked, an anonymous functionary, wearing the muzzle of compliance.

-The supplicant, seeking to be admitted to the company of the served, stands, masked, like a woman slave under the House of Submission to Allah.

To their either side, sit three men, unmasked, two sitting taller than either of them stand, having gained admittance to polite society through this act of supplication and having maintained it by payment and by ritual supplication any time they dethrone to go urinate.

The supplicant considers sitting at the bar, then notes that under the tap list is, in marque lettering, “bar seating reserved for the vaϲϲinated.”

Reminded that he is a revolutionary, a traitor in the Quean's loyalist Cսntry, the supplicant tips well and retires to the nearest table. The bar keep understands and visits him to take orders, sitting to be courteous, but in his more abject state of compliance, must remain masked even when seated, as does the bar-back when he finished loading the cases and takes his break, laboring with heavy breaths under his mask.

I have spoken with bar owners who have informed me that there is a secret police agency that will shut them down in a heartbeat if staff or patrons are caught not observing the standing and sitting mask ritual. This reminds me of Catholic Mass where one is commanded to kneel or stand or permitted to sit at rest. The entire ritual makes zero sense in terms of disease transmission, which is the stated purpose. But like every other stated purpose in civilization, a deeper, broader, truer purpose actually rules our ritual intercourse, our approved interactions with one another.

The phone rings and Nero the Pict informs me that zones dominated by blue suits back in Pennsylvania and Maryland have these odd ritualistic supplication practices. In Mastalones deli in Baltimore City, for a cold cut he had to wrap a shirt around his face because he is used to being in rural Pennsylvania, land of red hats where bad people break good rules. He notices two men he knows and used to work with. “The mask thing is so weird and awkward, we don't even say hi to each other or bother having a conversation, which I suppose is what this is all about. That would have never happened before—we would have caught up after not seeing each other in a year or two.”

He then goes on to note that all of Baltimore City and Baltimore County was like that, strangely masked, zombie-like.

After that conversation, I called Mister Gray and he informed me that he had just left his hometown of Flushing Queens and Brooklyn New York, where he had grown up and lived until his forties.

“I Go into the Old Man bar in Queens to get a pint and this upscale bitch is behind the bar, not the regular nice girl with the red hair, but a real ϲunt. I have some gray hair now, figure I won't get carded. But she cards me. Then she asks me if I'm vaϲϲinated. If I asked somebody that when I was working in that hospital around the corner I would have been written up for a HIPPA violation. But now every ϲunt and hipster has power-of-attorney over you. She says, 'I need your card.'

“Well, I don't have a card, so I get out my smart phone and I show her the picture that I took of my vaϲϲination certification, which was not a card, it was in fact a document. I have to give my wildly expensive phone to this KUNT! She says okay, and then I tried to make light of it and said, 'So I'm an okay person now, I can sit down?'—I still have my fuckin' mask on. And she gets real shitty with me and sneers. So I go sit in the back as far away from this evil ϲunt—who of course is white, the real color of American slavery.

“It's getting to the point that since the pigs aren't enforcing shit, we might as well buy a six pack and sit in the car and drink it.”

“I decide to leave this place and go somewhere nicer, that beer garden where we met Carbon Mike that time. There is this fat hipster brew master—a nice guy. I shouldn't be so hard on him. He's what he's supposed to be. He asks for my vaϲϲination status and I show it and then he asks for my I.D., so I'm like, “What is up with the I.D.? I don't look that young.”

He says, “It's got nothin' to do with age. But the city has these spies that come around to the bar like NARCs and if we aren't strict on the vaϲϲine protocols they will shut us down.”

He was nice enough and looks at my I.D. and says, “Your from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I'm from Lancaster!”

“And I'm from here,” I say. “We switched places. I was born and raised here and just got out a couple years back—and let me tell ya' you can have this place!”

The guy nodded, “Yeah” like he knew, like he was stuck. You realize, if you did come back to New York, which I know you have no plans on, that you couldn't get served. You'd be like an old shanty kid who couldn't enter a building because he didn't have shoes on his feet.”

After those conversations I went to the bar to do my emails and half of the news bits and commercials were about the glories of vaϲϲinations, about child vaϲϲination for this disease that only has significant morbidity among certain extremely compromised and mostly elderly adults, and that this vaϲϲine comes accompanied with clinical literature from the manufacturers, who have spent millions buying politicians to mandate tax funded distribution, and that this literature plainly states that the vaϲϲine is not a vaϲϲine, that it does not prevent infection and does not prevent the infected from spreading the disease. Yet every person who is vaϲϲinated and who promotes vaϲϲination on TV and in private life and medical practice claims, counter to the pharmaceutical literature, that this vaϲϲination stops this disease in its tracks.

The semantic slavery of America is profound, whereby re-defining vaϲϲination in current medical literature, changing the definition, so that the term vaϲϲine [which is commonly understood to prevent infection] permits the use of that term, and that once the magic word is uttered, the idiot mind of humanity turns away from the clinical literature stating that this clearly does not do what a vaϲϲine is traditionally understood to do, which is to stop infection and transmission by the infected, and we believe with our bought hearts that the Great God we raised in place of the one our parents slew, has delivered us from evil!

Additionally, despite knowing numerous people who have had extremely bad outcomes from this procedure, their doctors are declining to note, treat or relate these outcomes to the treatment called vaxx or report them. I am of the opinion that these treatments are:

-1. money making schemes

-2. massive clinical trials of an experimental drug

That will hopefully result in the following:

-1. life extension therapy for the elite, the Fountain of Youth

-2. a habit of injection compliance and system of distribution so deep and so broad, that the bulk of the human population could be vaϲϲinated almost simultaneously with a sterilization agent, that would prevent reproduction among the masses and thereby render the most high functioning of the sterilized orders into junior vampires, doing anything to be admitted into the elite circles of the woke so that they too might bathe in The Fountain of Youth.

This became quite obvious, yesterday, when I saw Seepy Joe and his SS goons all unmasked at the Baltimore Marine Terminals talking about infrastructure reform, and that all of the lesser functionaries of the political hierarchy present, were also unmasked. I know someone who works in video making in that city and they have guaranteed me that everybody off camera, is masked up. The fact that our day to day life contact with strangers, customers and coworkers is masked, and that the only people we see unmasked are our intimate companions and family, means that we will more closely relate to the Face of Power, in the form of the politician, celebrity, athlete or actor.

It used to be, that our leading lights, the talking heads on TV, were simply better looking than us, in many cases better looking than anyone we know. But now, they have faces and we do not, we are literally anonymous ciphers at the foot of their titanic edifice, the very commands of The Lie Almighty beamed into our compliant minds via the amber glow of their surgically enhanced visage.

Notes

-1. The L was not left out after the S in Seepy Joe, for I reference his video declaration from early summer 2021, to a blond reporter, “I just had my ass wiped.”