Tuesday, November 19, 2019

Your Frustration is THEIR TORMENT! #MercenaryPropagandists like @Travis_View @rothschildmd @WillSommer @JaredlHolt @jordanuhl WILL FAIL! #NewQ

from Neon Revolt:

I’ll be honest: I wasn’t sure how to begin this article.

I went back and forth for a few days; wrote a few thousand words up and and then tossed it because, somehow, I wasn’t getting to the heart of what I was trying to communicate.

I think it’s safe to say almost all #QPatriots have been experiencing a lot of frustration over the past week or so, in the wake of the Midterms and 11/11.

It’s beyond frustration, actually. It’s moved into the territory of despair, as we watch those who hate us – who wish nothing but death and destruction upon our heads – seemingly succeeding across multiple domains simultaneously. Elections are being stolen. California is burning. And where is Q in all of this?!

NYT: Rockefeller University Hospital knew their doctor was sexually abusing child patients for years

by Erin Elizabeth, Health Nut News:

In September, Rockefeller University Hospital, a prominent New York research institution, sent out letters to former patients of Dr. Reginald Archibald, an endocrinologist, asking about their contact with him. You see, for almost 30 years, parents would seek him and his clinic out when their children didn’t grow. However, it seems now that besides treating them he was also sexually abusing many of them. (Archibald worked as a doctor, researcher, and professor at the hospital from 1941 to 1946 and then from 1948 to 1980. He was briefly at Johns Hopkins in 1946.)

ILLUMINATI Symbolic Pics of the Month 12/17

from Vigilant Citizen:

In this edition of SPOTM: Sarah Silverman, Sam Smith, Gigi Hadid, Cara Delevingne and a very occult Gucci catalog. And, of course, endless one-eye signs made by endless celebrities.

The luxury brand Gucci released a gift catalog named Hand of the Mysteries. It mixes ancient occult symbolism with a modern agenda which manages to convey the occult elite’s state of mind in a very effective way.



The catalog states: “A man and woman, signifying the Great Hermaphrodite wears a sweatshirt with the vintage Gucci logo and a Double G necklace. Alchemists believed that when opposite forces (such as a man and woman) are harmonized, creation could be achieved.” This is exactly what I stated in my article about Bruce Jenner and the entire “gender blurring” thing happening now.

Write On this Gucci t-shirt, a girl is wearing a t-shirt on which the same girl is apparently dead from suffocation as an eye watches over her (while holding a smartphone).here…

Read More @ VigilantCitizen.com

 

 

Tech Times: Florida startup harvests young blood to sell to the wealthy for $8k a liter

by Erin Elizabeth, Health Nut News:

The Florida-based startup Ambrosia, founded in 2016 by Stanford Medical School graduate Jesse Karmazin, offer new, young plasma to help combat against the aging process for patients 30 years and older. They have six locations around the country (Phoenix, AZ, Los Angeles, CA, San Francisco, CA, Tampa, FL, Omaha, NE and Houston, TX) and the price starts at $8,000 for one liter. The plasma is from carefully screened donors between 16 and 25 years old.

Martin Bormann Ran Hitler for the Illuminati

from Humans Are Free:

Nazi Party Secretary Martin Bormann was at the heart of the Nazi apparatus. He signed Hitler’s paycheck. Louis Kilzer examined the wire traffic between the spy known as “Werther” and Moscow and determined that only Bormann had access to this information.

The Soviets were able to ask very detailed questions about Nazi defenses and intentions. The result was the decisive Nazis defeats at Stalingrad and Kursk. Louis Kilzer writes, “Bormann had been as useful to Russia as fifty Red Army divisions.”

The New Mind Control. “Subliminal Stimulation”, Controlling People without Their Knowledge

by Robert Epstein, Global Research:

This incisive article was first published by Global Research on March 3, 2016

Over the past century, more than a few great writers have expressed concern about humanity’s future. In The Iron Heel(1908), the American writer Jack London pictured a world in which a handful of wealthy corporate titans – the ‘oligarchs’ – kept the masses at bay with a brutal combination of rewards and punishments. Much of humanity lived in virtual slavery, while the fortunate ones were bought off with decent wages that allowed them to live comfortably – but without any real control over their lives.

In We (1924), the brilliant Russian writer Yevgeny Zamyatin, anticipating the excesses of the emerging Soviet Union, envisioned a world in which people were kept in check through pervasive monitoring. The walls of their homes were made of clear glass, so everything they did could be observed. They were allowed to lower their shades an hour a day to have sex, but both the rendezvous time and the lover had to be registered first with the state.

WATCH: Veteran Owns Police Chief & Mayor After Cops Killed Unarmed Man

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by Matt Agorist, The Free Thought Project:

After citizens took over a city hall meeting to hold police accountable for a recent killing and subsequent beating, a veteran epitomized the situation perfectly.

Euclid, OH — Tensions among police and citizens in Euclid, Ohio have come to a head recently after police killed an unarmed 23-year-old man for unknown reasons and officers were seen on video pulverizing another man over a suspended license. A video uploaded to Facebook captured an articulate rant by a military veteran about these recent events, directed at the police chief and mayor, which epitomized these tensions perfectly.

In March of this year, a Euclid police officer, responding to a call about a man sitting in his vehicle, shot and killed 23-year-old Luke Stewart. The police department and the Bureau of Criminal Investigation have yet to give any reason for the shooting, and an investigation would later reveal Stewart was unarmed. Naturally, the citizens of Euclid are upset and want answers.

The family and citizens demanding answers as to why these recent events unfolded like they did came to a head this week as dozens of people took over a Euclid City Council meeting.

As FOX 8 reports:

The protesters are also calling for a comprehensive investigation into the policies, practices and tactics of Euclid Police.

They point to a recent traffic stop captured on video that shows a Euclid patrolman using his closed fists to strike 25-year-old Richard Hubbard numerous times in the face and head.

Officer Michael Amiott contends that Hubbard was resisting arrest. Amiott, who resigned from the Mentor Police Department in 2014 after his superiors accused him of being dishonest about a traffic stop, has been placed on paid administrative leave.

On Monday night, protesters confronted Euclid city officials about what they perceive as a disparity in justice. A member of Black Lives Matter said, “Your officers are backing each other after they hit black people, not just hit, beat.”

During the meeting, Euclid Police Chief Scott Meyer announced the suspension of the officer who beat Hubbard, noting that he will be suspended for 15 days without pay — the maximum number of days he could give officer Michael Amiott due to department rules.

After the announcement, one of the people attending the meeting, Damien Parker, confronted the police chief and the mayor to address the serious problem of corruption and brutality within their department. His well-worded rant was nothing short of epic.

“Whether or not you understand it, there are people like myself who have their hands on your reins,” Parker said, noting he has every intention of holding the police and mayor’s office accountable.

“I came up here to talk to you (mayor) and to you (police chief), so that those hands can still be on those reins,” Parker asserts, noting how he’s been respectful, before giving them an ultimatum.

“Now, if you think, for one second, that I am going to sit here and keep that same demeanor while you’re kicking folks out, or telling them you’re not going to speak or bring in your damn turtles (riot police) in here to start pushing people out, you got another thing coming,” Parker, who is wearing urban camo and a tactical vest.

“I promise you, that as good as your guys are, as seasoned as some of your guys are,” Parker explained, “my guys are that much better.”

“Let’s not do that,” Parker says of a potentially violent confrontation.

“Fire him,” Parker says of the cop who beat up Hubbard. “He’s a shit bag, and it’s obvious.”

Parker then goes on to inform the mayor and the chief that this community will no longer stand idly by as unaccountable cops continue to wreak havoc on the community.

While some may interpret his rant as threatening, it is important to point out that Parker is only demanding that police stop beating and killing people.

Below is the video of the total encounter.

Read More @ TheFreeThoughtProject.com

PEOPLE ARE WAKING UP TO THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BATTLE

by SGT, SGT Report:
People from all walks of life are beginning to realize that the corporate news media, with CNN as the poster boy, is nothing more than a corrupt new world order TV show that parrots globalist talking points 24/7.

PEOPLE ARE WAKING UP TO THE NATURE OF THE BATTLE, AND IT IS SPIRITUAL.

What if I told you that a lifelong ATHEIST who works as a Senior Engineer for Intel Corporation has come to realize that the true nature of the warfare on planet earth is spiritual, and because of his realizations he’s no longer an atheist… would you believe it? Stay tuned.

Symbolic Pics of the Month 06/19

from Vigilant Citizen:

In this edition of SPOTM: Madonna, Miley Cyrus, Lil Nas X, Christina Aguilera and more proof that the occult elite is on a mission to expose the world to the One-Eye sign.

Christina Aguilera was featured in Galore magazine in an editorial titled: “Christina Goes Back to Her Roots”. Apparently, her “roots” is Beta Kitten programming (mind controlled sex slaves of the occult elite). To be fair, those are truly her “roots”. In 2010, I analyzed her video Not Myself Tonight which was all about Beta Kitten programming. In this pic, the bills she received in exchange for her “services” have unicorns on them. Slaves don’t get paid.

HARRISON BERGERON

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by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., via tnellen.com:

THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.

Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.

It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.

George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel’s cheeks, but she’d forgotten for the moment what they were about.

On the television screen were ballerinas.

A buzzer sounded in George’s head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm.

“That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did,” said Hazel.

“Huh” said George.

“That dance-it was nice,” said Hazel.

“Yup,” said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren’t really very good-no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn’t be handicapped. But he didn’t get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts.

George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.

Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself, she had to ask George what the latest sound had been.

“Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer,” said George.

“I’d think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds,” said Hazel a little envious. “All the things they think up.”

“Um,” said George.

“Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?” said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. “If I was Diana Moon Glampers,” said Hazel, “I’d have chimes on Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion.”

“I could think, if it was just chimes,” said George.

“Well-maybe make ’em real loud,” said Hazel. “I think I’d make a good Handicapper General.”

“Good as anybody else,” said George.

“Who knows better than I do what normal is?” said Hazel.

“Right,” said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.

“Boy!” said Hazel, “that was a doozy, wasn’t it?”

It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling, and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples.

“All of a sudden you look so tired,” said Hazel. “Why don’t you stretch out on the sofa, so’s you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch.” She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in a canvas bag, which was padlocked around George’s neck. “Go on and rest the bag for a little while,” she said. “I don’t care if you’re not equal to me for a while.”

 studentshow.com/gallery/Harrison-Bergeron-Book/10122315
studentshow.com/gallery/Harrison-Bergeron-Book/10122315

 

George weighed the bag with his hands. “I don’t mind it,” he said. “I don’t notice it any more. It’s just a part of me.”

“You been so tired lately-kind of wore out,” said Hazel. “If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few.”

“Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out,” said George. “I don’t call that a bargain.”

“If you could just take a few out when you came home from work,” said Hazel. “I mean-you don’t compete with anybody around here. You just sit around.”

“If I tried to get away with it,” said George, “then other people’d get away with it-and pretty soon we’d be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

“I’d hate it,” said Hazel.

“There you are,” said George. The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?”

If Hazel hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn’t have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.

“Reckon it’d fall all apart,” said Hazel.

“What would?” said George blankly.

“Society,” said Hazel uncertainly. “Wasn’t that what you just said?

“Who knows?” said George.

The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn’t clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, “Ladies and Gentlemen.”

He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.

“That’s all right-” Hazel said of the announcer, “he tried. That’s the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred pound men.

And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. “Excuse me-” she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.

“Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen,” she said in a grackle squawk, “has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is under-handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous.”

A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen-upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall.

The rest of Harrison’s appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever born heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H-G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.

Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.

And to offset his good looks, the H-G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle-tooth random.

“If you see this boy,” said the ballerina, “do not – I repeat, do not – try to reason with him.”

There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.

Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake.

George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have – for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. “My God-” said George, “that must be Harrison!”

The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head.

When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.

Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood – in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.

“I am the Emperor!” cried Harrison. “Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!” He stamped his foot and the studio shook.

“Even as I stand here” he bellowed, “crippled, hobbled, sickened – I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!”

Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed to support five thousand pounds.

Harrison’s scrap-iron handicaps crashed to the floor.

Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall.

He flung away his rubber-ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder.

“I shall now select my Empress!” he said, looking down on the cowering people. “Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!”

A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow.

Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all he removed her mask.

She was blindingly beautiful.

“Now-” said Harrison, taking her hand, “shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!” he commanded.

The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps, too. “Play your best,” he told them, “and I’ll make you barons and dukes and earls.”

The music began. It was normal at first-cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs.

The music began again and was much improved.

Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while-listened gravely, as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it.

They shifted their weights to their toes.

Harrison placed his big hands on the girls tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness that would soon be hers.

And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang!

Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion as well.

They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.

They leaped like deer on the moon.

The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it.

It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling. They kissed it.

And then, neutraling gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time.

It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor.

Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on.

It was then that the Bergerons’ television tube burned out.

Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George. But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer.

George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then he sat down again. “You been crying” he said to Hazel.

“Yup,” she said.

“What about?” he said.

“I forget,” she said. “Something real sad on television.”

“What was it?” he said.

“It’s all kind of mixed up in my mind,” said Hazel.

“Forget sad things,” said George.

“I always do,” said Hazel.

“That’s my girl,” said George. He winced. There was the sound of a rivetting gun in his head.

“Gee – I could tell that one was a doozy,” said Hazel.

“You can say that again,” said George.

“Gee-” said Hazel, “I could tell that one was a doozy.”

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr