THE SCHIZOPHRENIC AGE

Reuben was outside the shopping centre again yesterday, handing out his leaflets. He looked unwashed. Pity. He could've been assistant manager of Office Furniture Direct. His wife kept me up all night last night too and not in the good way she used to. She doesn't discretely pop by anymore. She spends most of her nights standing on the roof of her car, pointing at the sky and screaming that the Moon is coming.

People believe all sorts on my street. We've lied to each other so often about infidelities, unreturned lawnmowers, whose kid hit whose first and so on that notions such as trust and truth have completely dissolved. In the absence of a unifying narrative, everyone has picked their own story. James down the end of the street thinks that I'm a member of the Illuminati because of the way I close my curtains - a sinister left to right that apparently corresponds with a certain occult ritual. Michael and Anne from number 38 are convinced that Madge, the dog from number 12, barks a secret code to spies that are housed in the garden shed of number 23. And no one even knows who lives in number 23. The residents of number 23 are so paranoid that they never emerge from their house. Some of us think that they may not even be in there. Who knows the truth? Who knows if there is even a truth anymore? Was there ever a truth? Everyone has their own ideas and no one has the same ideas. There are just so many ideas. A multitude of ideas. A mess of ideas. What is the collective noun for ideas? An 'insanity' of ideas?

The only thing myself and all my neighbours agree on is that we can't trust each other. This sometimes seems impractical. Take the time number 4 caught fire. We all stood watching as the Sweeneys banged their fists against their upstairs triple glazing, their faces contorted in muted screams as they were swallowed by flames. All we could say to each other was 'false flag'. In fact we chanted it: 'False Flag! False Flag! False Flag! False Flag!' In the morning, the authorities came and cleaned away the family's charred remains as we viewed suspiciously from our windows. We all agreed that the whole thing was a staged event involving special effects and we all thought that each other were behind it. No one mourned the loss of life. If you die on our street we think you are secretly still alive and if you are alive we think you died and were replaced by an impostor. Everyone on my street is an impostor. Even me, according to everyone else. But they would say that because it is they who are the true impostors. Not me. I think. I think I think. I'm fairly sure I think.

Despite our mutual distrust, everyone on my street shares pride in one thing. We won a prize for being the most atomised vicinity in our borough. The county councillors said that we were leading the way. A member of government even paid tribute to us at a business function. He said we were an alert and vigilant community and what was great about that was that we applied our alert vigilance to fantasy and not reality. 'Reality is all ours lads and we can do what we like with it,' he told the vested interests and they all raised a glass to toast the death of community and the advent of the schizophrenic age.

You know, I sometimes feel as if I don't know what anything is. What anything really is. I just know what things look like and what others call them. It's the same with people. They could be anyone. You could be anyone. I could be anyone. Just who are we anyway? And why are we all so frightened?

FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!

FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! Sandy Hook! Aurora! Boston! False Flags are everywhere! They do it to keep us scared so they can introduce martial law and inject us all with the MMR vaccine! None of it's real and even if it is real it's fake! Open your eyes and you'll see the false flags everywhere! It all adds up to something! Terrorists on TV? FALSE FLAG! High school shooting spree? FALSE FLAG! Neighbour's chimney caught fire? FALSE FLAG! Two dogs fighting in the park? FALSE FLAG! It's fake calamity designed to make us panicked and hysterical so we'll do as THEY say! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!

I went to see that James Bond film that was out recently. At the start of the film a bad fella fired a bazooka at 007. Being no complacent slouch I had my eye on my watch. By my timing, the bad fella fired the bazooka at exactly 9 minutes and 11 seconds into the film. 9 minutes and 11 seconds. 9-11! I immediately stood up and started shouting 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!' Then some Illuminati guy disguised as an usher asked me to leave the cinema. Everyone clapped as I was escorted to the door. They clapped! The Goddamn sheeple clapped!

My sister rang the other day. I asked how she was. She said she was grand but her bike got a puncture and she had to walk to the library. Puncture!!! There are eleven characters in the word 'Puncture!!!' (if you include the three exclamation marks) ALSO! - if you turn the first letter of the word, the 'P', backwards, you get a '9'. 9-11! 9-11! 9-11! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! I said as much to my sister. I roared the warning at her. Sheepishly, she hung up the phone. I think they've gotten to her. I think they've MMRed her already!

Even The Mother is in on it! I shouldn't be surprised that she's on their side. She was always a suspicious sort. The other day The Mother faked a tumble on the stairs. 'I've taken a tumble on the stairs' says The Mother, lying there acting all injured and false flagging her head off. 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!', roars me. You'd do the same in the face of such deception. I stood there yelling it! Tell the world, I thought. 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!' I screamed as The Mother crawled to her emergency button and the St. John Ambulance arrived giving me these really Illuminatish looks.

It's getting so bad I'm beginning to suspect I might be in on it myself. Just yesterday I was getting out of the shower and the floor was wet and I fell on my arse and smashed my coccyx to smithereens. 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!' I started roaring. No one heard me. I was roaring it for hours. I'm still roaring it now. This false flag hurts like fuckity. When are those St. John Ambulance Illuminati bastards going to show up and help me out here? Where are they? I'm cold. I'm hungry. I'm false flagged out of it. But at least I know what's going on. At least I'm not part of the Matrix. At least I have woken up! I might be sore, cold, wet, and hungry but I will not be their hysterical pawn. I may be banjaxed here screaming on the bathroom floor but FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! ...don't say you weren't warned!

...jaysus, I need the jax now too.

THE STORIES STORY

 

Once upon a time there were stories and these stories helped people make sense of things. These stories lived for a long time and got to be very very old. Some of the very first stories were from Arnhem Land and came in the form of songs. Those who sang these stories believed they were singing reality into existence. What is a rock before it is named a rock and given a story about how it came to be a rock? The answer: well, nothing at all really. Perception is everything.

Not all stories were to be taken as truth but all of them were there to help their audiences deal with reality. Stories were analogous and elastic. There were fables, cautionary tales, epic poems, and morality plays. Even when tragic, it was said these stories could purge the soul with pity and fear. These stories provided solace and guidance and held great power. This was noticed by certain people and the power of stories was harnessed and then everything changed.

New stories came to be. Rather than born of the communities to which they were applicable, these stories were constructed in laboratories by committees and sent out into the world. The new story teller was not the shaman or the seanachaí. The new story teller was the PR consultant and the behavioural psychologist. The new stories did not tell us how to live, instead they told us what to want and they told us who to hate. These stories did not sing, they scuttled. They scuttled all over the globe like cockroaches and the people of the world initially loved them but soon grew tired of them and then became disgusted by them. The people of the world went back to making up their own stories instead of listening to these new ones.

But there was a problem. The people of the world had been listening to the scuttling stories for a very very long time. The cockroaches had crawled in their ears and eaten away at the parts of their brains they used for making up stories and the cockroaches had laid eggs in there. The people of the world started making up their own stories of ‘truth’ but it was literal truth and it was absolute truth and it was not analogous or elastic or interpretable truth. And these new stories were full of confusion and loss and rage and they didn’t sing and they didn’t scuttle, they screamed. And these stories were screamed over and over and there were a great many of them and most of them were about how you could not trust the rest of them. And these stories went to war and none were on the same side and they donned armour and waved swords about the place, all over the place, and instead of singing reality into existence theses stories screamed reality into extinction. A rock was no longer a rock. A rock was a cover to an Illuminati passageway or a terrorist booby trap or an MI5 bugging device. A rock ceased to be a simple rock and became the source of great anxiety.

And then something awful happened. Something really awful happened. And no one knew why it happened or how it happened so they started to scream stories about why and how it happened and these stories clashed and clanged and clattered and the noise was unbearable and the noise went on and on and on and on until the human race lost its communal mind.

And that is the stories story and if you take my advice you’ll stop listening to stories for a while and if something happens, something really awful happens, cover your ears and listen to no stories and don’t even try to make up your own stories because you are fucking terrible at it because you have forgotten how. You are no story teller but a story will one day be told and you will be in it and we will all be in it and we better hope it has a happy ending.  

 

THE DE SELBY CODEX

(pictured above: was this man the reclusive de Selby?)

FACTS: The world is actually sausage shaped and night is not caused by planetary rotations but by black air that is released during volcanic activity. This black air can be bottled.

FACTS: Sleep is in not an endogenous succumbing to rest but actually a detrimental succession of rapid faints. Death is when the human heart eventually stops, wearied by these daily faint fits.

FACTS: Overuse of mirrors will lead one to exist in a parallel universe that has a wooden frame and where all writing is backwards.

These are just a few of the many facts that, up to recently, were known only to the order of the Illuminati, an order made up of influential business figures and government leaders who control the world via the nondisclosure of this secret knowledge. The Illuminati seek to keep human life regimented, short, and lived only to service their ends. The Illuminati have lead us to believe that we must adhere to the circadian rhythms of ‘day’ and ‘night’ so that we work and live by the parameters they have set down in their attempt to form a one world tyranny under the cruel auspices of a nanothermite consciousness.

The Illuminati garnered this secret knowledge from a document called The de Selby Codex, a document of several thousand foolscap pages left behind by the possessor of what was arguably humanity’s greatest ever mind (the de Selby of the title). Reclusive and largely uncelebrated to this day, the multi-disciplined self-taught scientist de Selby worked outside the established thinking of his time. Although his efforts were sneered at, de Selby’s towering intellect and ceaseless experimentation yielded profound results.

If we, the common people, possessed this secret knowledge we would become the masters of our own destiny. For example: if we had bottles of night and were able to indulge them at our choosing we would shorten the fainting spells of sleep and lessen the stress upon the heart, thus prolonging the average lifespan by untold decades. In addition, it is also understood that the nanothermite consciousness that is worshipped by the Illuminati can be imprisoned in reflective glass and made harmless. It is for that reason the Illuminati are keen to keep the existence of the parallel mirror reality a secret.

Alex Jones, Jim Corr, David Icke and children’s entertainer Emu, amongst others, have recently come into possession of a copy of The de Selby Codex after it was discovered in the drawer of an antique locker. The locker was purchased on the coast of south County Dublin (de Selby’s home)in an auction. You too can read the Codex in a downloadable PDF that is available to paying subscribers of Jones’ Prison Planet website or Emu’s NewWorldPeckingOrder.org website.

Sadly, the dense penmanship of the foolscap pages is, more or less, completely illegible but Jones, Emu, Corr and Icke are convinced that what is written there is what they want to read. As Icke says himself: ‘just because we can’t read it doesn’t mean it’s not written’. He has a point. Discounting the contents of the codex would be as foolhardy as discounting the existence of the Sea Cat. It is said that no person who has ever fallen afoul of the monstrous quadruped of Corkadoragh has lived to tell of it but that is no reason to say the Sea Cat isn’t there. Do so and you risk further loss of life.

Thankfully de Selby also invented the internet (out of methane and cat whiskers) and that knowledge has since fallen into the hands of the common man. Hence, we are now free to discuss our sausage shaped world, its black air, its mirror alternative, its Sea Cat, its nanothermite consciousness and the Illuminati without the hindrance of having to negotiate mainstream media lies. All that remains for me to say is WAKE UP SHEEPLE!