By James Fitzgerald
I was never labelled as a conspiracy theorist because my position as a newspaper editor gave me license to call out the consensus reality — and my stock market advice always made people money, which gave my other musings credence. That said, I am no longer a conspiracy theorist because the people in the stores with plastic bags over their heads and the ones jogging in the countryside wearing formaldehyde and Teflon-infused surgical masks have superseded me in the crackpot stakes.
This plandemic saved my life. I had been commuting 60 miles a day; getting up at 4am and returning home at 10pm. When you’ve sat on a cramped and stuffy coach for three hours in heavy traffic for the second time that day, after a long spell in an office, you start to entertain notions of spontaneous Ascension or becoming a dry-stone waller. After the first lockdown, the office told everyone to stay home and my daughter was home too, so it was the best of both worlds — just as I was about to crack. The plandemic was easy street in comparison with navigating far-off cities on three hours’ sleep a night.
It also means no longer being penalized as an “original thinker”, as the fake media reality, and its values, crumble before our eyes. “Natural selection”, as proposed by Charles Darwin (a Freemason) was a psyop based on the basal brain’s focus on survival of the fittest. But that is not to say that universal laws of evolution are not at play here and now.
Having worked in the private sector alongside the brightest and most noble members of the establishment, myRead More