My mother was a wonderful person. She meant the world to me. She was comforting and nurturing, and told me she loved me every day of my life. Multiple times. But she had one flaw. She was beset by a collection of fears that knew no bounds. She worried incessantly, and was scared of virtually everything.
I tried not to inherit her irrational set of fears. I ignored the medical books she checked out of the library, which listed all the symptoms of the most dreaded diseases. I avoided becoming the kind of hypochondriac that my brother did, and regular readers of my work know that his hypochondria wound up literally killing him. I’ve never slept normally in my life, and that was probably because she never did. And she told me too many stories of friends and relatives who went to sleep and never woke up. That has a frightening impact on a child. It’s probably the main reason I still struggle to get even 4-5 hours of sleep a night. And that is always broken up. I’ve slept through the night perhaps a handful of times in my entire life.
As a small child, I lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis. I helped stock the shelves in our ridiculous “bomb shelter” in the basement, which didn’t even have a door. I heard the panic in the newscasters’ voices as I walked by the television set. I knew both of my parents were frightened, and my father never seemed afraid of anything. Not knowing exactly what could happen if a nuclear bomb was dropped on us, I could only guess that it would be pretty awful, and hope that our modest supply of food and water in the basement would allow us to survive.
As a Catholic, I was also mortified over the prospect of the end of the world. The priests talked about that a lot in those days. When you’re a little kid, you don’t want life to end yet. I’d barely started living. I looked up in the sky way too often, imagining one of the “signs” that the Church assured me we would see when the Second Coming was imminent. I’d notice something “funny” about the sun. I’d tremble at an odd looking sunset. I had numerous end of the world dreams, where I really would see strange signs in the sky. I still have them occasionally. Ironically, I now find myself in what truly seems like it is the End Times, and it’s almost something to be desired.
My heart would skip a beat as a child, when a mention was made on television about an asteroid that was coming perilously close to Earth. The announcer’s ominous tone suggested that this time, it might just be a possibility, although they also usually curiously wore a slight smile as they reported it. I would remember the date of the potential asteroid impact, and be particularly nervous that day. What would it feel like? Living on the east coast, would I suddenly be swept away by a giant tidal wave? And again, my dreams sometimes included visions of a giant wave approaching a shore I was standing on.
So I had plenty of fear inside me already. I don’t need a state controlled media to stoke it. And I stopped watching any television news after Tucker Carlson was fired. I hadn’t watched it for many years before tuning in to him every night. But I’m aware of the fear porn. It’s always there, in the air like one of their viruses. And far more real than “COVID-19.” The threat of World War III has subsided. Last year, especially, both the normies and many of the awake were on the edge of their seats every day, speculating that the bombs were going to start falling. I recall discussing this almost every week on Jeff Rense, my own “I Protest” show, and on “America Unplugged” with Billy Ray Valentine and Tony Arterburn.
It took me years to process it, but the asteroid never hits. The end of the world never comes. World War III, despite the best predictions of many in the alt media world, doesn’t look like it’s coming, either. But “COVID” did come. And no fire and brimstone preacher ever was as dire and dramatic as every single “journalist” and every political leader was, in selling the Greatest Psyop in the History of the World. Overnight, the entire world seemed transformed into the kind of terrified Catholic preschooler I’d been sixty years earlier. I’m sure I would have bought the “COVID” narrative hook, line, and sinker as a youngster. Almost certainly would have developed the disease. Would have been lucky to survive my own nervous impulses.
In the centuries past, human beings had a lot of things to legitimately fear. The slew of childhood maladies that took the lives of so many little boys and girls. Rare was a family that hadn’t been ravaged by the tragic deaths of one or more of their offspring. Forgotten diseases like consumption, which was a leading killer of adults before cancer supplanted it. And, of course, cancer became perhaps the primary symbol of fear in America during the twentieth century. It’s still pretty powerful, what with our vaunted medical system having made so little progress in combatting it, but it’s taken a backseat to “COVID,” the Virus That Will Not Go Away.
The same corrupt organs of our crumbling society are now prepping the huddled masses for Round 2 of this incredible psyop. Yet another dangerous “variant” is said to be on the way. Forget all that “science” about viruses coming in the fall, and burning out in the heat. This virus does whatever the hell it wants. If it feels like producing another of its nonstop “variants,” then it will do it. Doesn’t matter what time of year it is, or what the temperature is. It’s a Climate Change thing, you wouldn’t understand. These things are all tied together. The dancing nurses prove that. They once danced for “COVID,” now they’re dancing for Climate Change. If only they could find some to dance for 9/11 Truth. Or free speech.
In the 1910s, our grandparents and great-grandparents were taught to fear the dreaded “Hun.” And they already had the likes of diptheria to contend with, which killed a couple of my toddler aunts, and almost took the life of my father as a youngster. Then the Great Depression. Financially ruined people jumping out of windows. Bread and soup lines. And the heroic FDR to the rescue, telling the trembling riff raff that they had nothing to fear but “fear itself.” But as they struggled with massive unemployment, Americans suddenly were inundated with fear porn about a failed German painter with a curious little mustache. Hitler became analogous to cancer in the minds of the now perpetually frightened U.S. populace.
The Pearl Harbor false flag, pulled off without a hitch by Hall of Fame deep state conspirator FDR and company, added the dirty sneaky rotten Japs to the foreign hobgoblin list. The only thing the “Greatest Generation” could do was to join in the European blood bath. Those at home, the Rosie the Riveters and air wardens, planted their victory gardens and bought bonds. This was a good war. The best war. A war so grand how could anyone not love it? That’s what the Fear Porn artists told the people. And the people then, as now, always listen to the Fear Porn artists. Never question. Just fear. Fear bigly, as Donald Trump would say.
