Now we hear that he sees angels, that he has been mentally ill . . . Who put him up to it? What the f??#%k is going on?
Yesterday, while doing yoga, I was trying and mostly failing, to listen to an almost incomprehensible audio, Alfred Webre interviewing Cobra. What drew me to it were Webre’s written words that the Mandela funeral was a “psyop.” However, in listening to the audio, as near as I could tell, Cobra actually said that Mandela’s funeral happened to be timed conveniently for the cabal to also get a bunch of heads of state together to plan further their New World Order. So, psyops? Really?
Well, now, maybe so, because this business about the interpretor sure looks strange, and like we were meant to see it as strange, but then to have our minds go blank, just as with 9/11, and the Kennedy assasination, and all sorts of false flag shooting events in between and since: nothing matches up, nothing adds up. Can’t wrap our minds around it. Too confusing. So just let it go. Let “them” do what they want. We’re helpless. Just give us our meds and our distractions and TV and sex and so on and we’ll just float in on the New World Order without even noticing or caring. . .
At least that’s how I interpret this kind of weirdness. And, luckily, I seem to be immune to their mind control methods. Even as a kid, my mind would just glaze over advertising of any kind. It just wouldn’t stick. Hated TV. Hated its very vibration. Couldn’t be on the same floor with a TV. Was very glad ours was in the basement, and I never went down there except to check up on our state-of-the-art bomb shelter (which, in my Chicken Little terror, I insisted Dad build), and to play ping pong.
Oops, I guess I’d better take it back. I was not immune to fear. Fear of the Bomb. The mind controllers really got me there.