Pandemic morphs into worldwar lll … Can anybody out there explain to me what the heck happened to the COVID-19 pandemic and to ‘social distancing’ and muzzles and hydroxychloroquine and closing hair salons and restaurants going bust and no beach walking and no going to church and other nonsensical human behavior – Mmmm???
I mean, truly. As a for-instance how did we get from people going bonkers the night President Donald J. Trump was declared president and one of the Clinton’s went into absolute meltdown-size tears and anguish; to Maxine Waters ‘impeach fawty-fie’; to ex-presidents tossing frozen faces Trump-ward; to the instigation of the Russian collusion attempt; and what’s turned out to be the fake ‘Mueller report’.
Then came the attempted Ukainian saga composed and read by one, ‘shifty-eyed pandemic Adam Schiff’, followed by the non-impeachment ‘impeachment’ fiasco which fell flat on its evil face; leading us to the Wuhan ‘world-is-falling-apart’ nonsensical pandemic, which has turned out to be as false as the Nancy Pelosi / Chuck Schumer dance in the dark of Ashanti scarves and kneeling bunion injuries.
So now we’ve got the entire globe aflame with the nonsense of ‘a movement’ that embraces hundreds of thousands of protesters doing what protesters do – yelling and screaming at the top of their lungs for ‘justice’ and ‘justice’ and well, ‘justice’!
Katie Hopkins was one who got caught up with hordes of my native Brits, for goodness’ sake, as they surged across pandemic London, hell-bent on making something happen…
I spent two days with the Black Lives Matters protesters in London, becoming one of them, moving with them as they surged across London hell-bent on making something happen; something, anything, unsure of what.
I watched on. The Churchill statue defaced, the Union flag vandalized atop the Cenotaph — a monument of respect for those who fell fighting for our freedoms, officers bloodied and bruised. One in hospital with a punctured lung and shattered bones, horses injured by fireworks, bricks and bikes thrown at the panicked beasts.
“27 officers injured during largely peaceful anti-racism protests in London,” reported the BBC, repeated by rote across the rest of the legacy media in the UK as if joining the word peaceful with the word protest would make it all OK.
Assuming my new identity as a protestor, I helped them climb walls for a better vantage point when they struggled, accepted their masks and water, watched them swarm out of the tube stations at Westminster and Vauxhall like hungry flies, buzzing with excitement for the action ahead.
They came in their thousands, young black men — cocky in their tight jeans — together with young black women, eyes made up and fiery atop their face masks, stance set to offense honed by years of being tough enough to get by.
They belong here, they fit in. This is their moment.
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