Friday, 27 August 2021

the actually true Covid-19 theory they don’t want you to know about …


We live in a world of innuendo and internet theories: figurative, digital rabbit holes spiralling into unlikely burrows occupied by shadowy and nefarious government figures, clumsy scientists at the beck and call of big pharma, tech monsters with 5G in a syringe, and cabals of paedophiles with their fingers on the nuclear button.

            Of course, we all know these to be unfounded trash. They are the products of bored, easily influenced minds which lack basic critical faculties or skills and are only nourished by their fervent search for confirmation bias. They lurk in online forums, social media, comment sections, ready to pounce with their uniting call to arms, ‘do the research,’ completely unaware of the irony of them wielding this simple sentence. ‘Research’ is not scrolling your Facebook feed for an alarmist, agreeable headline. Research is a rigorous, expansive process of not just taking in any bit of information you see, but vetting the source of this information, asking yourself who the stakeholders are, whether there is any evidence of peer review. All this is to say that ‘research’ is not the video diary of social media semi-celebrity – themselves often guilty of cherry picking, decontextualising, or downright misreading (imaginatively, at times, sure) information – but, rather, the systematic process of verifying your source, engaging entirely with it in full, and actively challenging your own assumptions.

            The systematic devaluing of a wide-ranging education (one that isn’t obsessed with so-called ‘employable skills,’ but encourages critical and creative engagement with, I dunno, existence) and scientific process by conservative politicians and their media goon squad has effectively established a disproportionate population of lost, gullible morons. Throw in the fallacy of equal opinion – that your opinion is as true and deserving of respect as anyone’s, irrespective of expertise – and you have a bunch of people who are confidently incorrect.

            Well, I’m here to say, that you’re all wrong. Covid-19 was not a terrible accident that escaped from a complacent, secretive, overly image conscious China. Oh, no. It goes so much deeper than that. And you can trust me. I’m a Doctor of Literature.

             Let’s start at the beginning.

If you jumble the letters of Sars Covid Nineteen, you get the word ‘antirecession’ with the letters E and N leftover. Switch E and N around, though, and you get ‘Ne,’ the atomic sign for the chemical element of Neon.

We then need to ask ourselves what kind of people are ‘antirecession’? Conservative politicians, of course. And what happens when you expose someone to raw Neon … frostbite. Considering that conservative politicians are so keen to trim government expenditure and overreach, it would make perfect sense to assume that a conservative politician afflicted with frostbite would choose to amputate the damaged limb. They’re always cutting, see?

This leaves us with amputees. A lot of amputees are amputees because of gangrene.

Stay with me, now. It’s about to get a lot more hectic.

Gangrene, gang green, Green Gang – that’s right, the famous Chinese secret society and criminal organization![1]

Obviously, you may think this all leads back to some global Chinese conspiracy, but this is merely a feint; what they want you to believe. The clue is in the idea of a ‘secret society,’ which are formed initially as kinds of ‘coteries’ (note the rhyme!), in which people get together because of their shared interests and tastes.

If look closely at the word, ‘coteries,’ now, we find that its letters also spell ‘esoteric’ – an ‘adjective’ that means: ‘understood by or meant for only the select few who have special knowledge or interest’.[2] You know what is famously ‘esoteric’?

Exactly. The supernatural practices and fascinations of the occult.

And do you know what people interested in the occult are often called?

Pagans.

These heretics, by any measure, would seem a likely type to blame for a global pandemic. A ritual gone wrong. A prayer to the wrong demon. Some horrific scheme to bring an end to western Judeo-Christian thought.

But, my friends, it doesn’t stop there.

It goes on, though we near the endgame.

Pagans. There are many pagans in the world, but there is one prominent Pagan.

Denis Pagan the famed Australian Rules Football coach.

Football. Football is a type of sport.

So is basketball. Basketball is a global sport that is played on a court.

Courts of law are often featured in movies. Movies about contentious issues. Conflicts. Questions of integrity. Of basic rights.

Movies … courts … basketball ... rights.

A movie about playing basketball, though it must be contentious; a matter of perhaps bending the rules, but also giving a broad message of inclusion, of the right to play. That basketball is for anyone…

Oh, lord. It makes sense, doesn’t it?

Air Bud.

Air Bud is a golden retriever dog.

            What do dogs want more than anything?

For us to be home with them all the time.

It was the dogs.

Dogs wanting us to stay home caused this.

It makes sense.

Do the research.

 



[2] https://www.dictionary.com/browse/esoteric


Friday, 6 August 2021

thoughts on another day in lockdown

 


I am not within lockdown. I am Lockdown. 


I am, in fact, the dulcet tones of another announcement. 


Call me Daily Update.


I have become bed and trackies and a steady consumption of alcohol sloshing out of the glass and

onto my wrist and I no longer care about the stains. Give me my television binge. Give me another

bottle.


To not live in perpetual awareness of that horrific mathematical object: numbers. To be free of these

figures and records and once again relish a world absenst of their implacable upward ticking. 


A nightmare of a bespectacled Northface jacket in front of a crowd of microphones, intoning … always

intoning.


My Mental Health is whittling away at something.  I am sure what, but it looks like my brain stem.

My Mental Health keeps winking at me and calling me names like: Sport, Tiger, or Champ. I hate these

names.


Muse now on performing another half-hearted HIIT. Settle, instead, on eating more chocolate and

putting it off until tomorrow. 


Lather (if you can be fucked). Rinse (or don’t, we can shower in a day or so - let the crust off your skin

scent your mattress cover). Repeat.


Hallucinations of Scott Morrison in floaties and a Hawaiian shirt, listlessly drinking Pina Coladas out of

a coconut while some peon of the Murdoch press gently fans him down with a thick stack of paper

orders for Pfizer and whispers, ‘you are doing ok, master.’


I watch him and his mates as they stare with the face of morons at the end of their intellectual, creative

capacity - blank, bland, without answer - as their citizens’ livelihoods continue to slip through the cracks

they let fester and burst.


I watch Gerry Harvey swim in a pool of money like Scrooge McDuck, but with significantly less charm

and a much shittier theme song.


Will there ever be enough toilet paper to go around? Should we descend on our supermarkets in a

panic? Is it worth investing in a bidet?


And under too many rocks and bridges - rocks and bridges I ignored - were trollish conspiracy theories

left to formulate and bubble: brews in a cauldron too willingly drunk by those who claim to have critical

faculties, but who don’t understand the irony of them saying, ‘do the research,’ when they don’t even

ask the source of the ingredients that they consume; whose algorithms feed them crap they mistake for

nourishing, but has all the benefits of a battered, deep-fried Mars Bar.


Just inject the 5G directly into my veins. 


We step free of our house and are immediately turned around, gently led back to our couch, as another

plane lands from Sydney.


I am another series of hobbies and lawn care and paint jobs. An unending trip to Bunnings and a slowly

wilting sourdough starter left too long in the cold.


I am the rhythmic patter of rainfall made human. A series of motions progressively emptied of

significance, left momentarily to stain the ground, then evaporate.


I am made of soft clothes and blankets. A reflection on a screen.