As we know, there are many people who believe in the existence of viruses with all the certainty and passion they can muster.
After exhaustive research over a period of 14 years, in the lab, I’ve isolated, purified, and identified 16,768 distinct types of these virus lovers.
I’m now negotiating with Pfizer to develop a vaccine against each type. (Pfizer doesn’t care what a vaccine does; it only cares about marketing and money.)
From my vault, here is a profile of Type 6,659. See if he seems familiar.
Of course, he thinks of himself as “science-minded.” He likes models. He LIKES the notion of vast interconnected systems. Studying these systems feels stabilizing. Also feels like a warm bath with soft music in the background.
Closed systems—with the emphasis on CLOSED—appeal to him. Like crosswords puzzles.
Games are good. Chess, for example. If only the world were like chess. All the pieces on one board. Rules for their movements.
You can’t let someone move a piece off the board. That would be absurd. And you can’t let a person bring a piece on to the board from God knows where. We must have order.
Tight control.
Look at giant armies on parade, in the US, in the old Soviet Union, in China. Especially China. Perfect lines and rows. They’re heartening to him.
Look at a flower. It, too, is perfect. As you look deeper, into its structure, every tiny piece has its place.
What about its VITALITY?
Hmm. The microscope doesn’t show that. So this virus lover can discount it.
What about the vitality of a person? Must be a myth. Analysis only reveals interlocking structures. As in a machine.
Look at two people. The first one is sitting in a chair. His skin seems to be a shade of gray. He’s obviously fatigued. Not much going on. The second person is running through a field at top speed. But not just running. His stride seems to be elastic. He’s…what? Free? Alive?
This virus lover says: Nonsense. The only differences between these two people would be found and explained, inside their bodies, in the operating levels of systems.
One machine runs well; the other doesn’t. What else could be going on? Nothing. The first person needs to go to the shop for repair. That’s all.
Because closed structures are the totality of reality.
Of course they are.
Sure.
You bet.
No doubt.
Uh-huh.
And when you take away a closed system from this virus lover, this addict who must have it, he shudders.
When he was a child, he played with a train set his parents bought him for Christmas. The train ran through a little village. It was breathtaking.
The world must be made into the train set.
The idea that systems and structures rest on something else—something ASTONISHING that can’t be plugged into equations—is alien to him. It doesn’t register.
Maybe someday, when he’s 90, and he’s sitting on the back porch dozing away, it’ll suddenly come to him. But for now, he has to have Closed Order.
Nothing can be disposed of. Certainly not the existence of the virus.
If you could send a vast parade by him; the works of thousands of artists who painted, for hundreds of years, beyond any system; he wouldn’t have a clue what he was looking at.
If you told him, LIFE SUPERSEDES THE GERM, he wouldn’t know what you were talking about.
When he enters his local Whole Foods, he looks for the hand sanitizer. He needs to have that goo on his hands.
In person, he seems friendly enough. But, for instance, if he owns a business, and you could walk in and stand in the corner and watch, you’d see he treats his employees like lowly peasants.
He’s in a rage. He really doesn’t know why. But he’s madly pursuing some sort of fictional perfection which should be met but somehow can never be met. Because it’s all in his mind.
He’s huffing and puffing because he must maintain his own mind as if it’s columns and rows of figures.
Take one number away and the whole structure could collapse.
It turns out he’s wrong. Dead wrong. His mind isn’t rows of figures, and nothing collapses when he stops obsessing, except obsession itself.
But he wouldn’t know that.
And he would say he’s defending the existence of the virus as just a matter of science. Good science. The best science.
Rounding out this portrait of what I would call a high-IQ-idiot, let’s say he owns a Rolex. He wears it every day. Prized possession. He looks at it the way an adoring child looks at his father.
As a lark, a joke, a little test, you tell him you want to remove a tiny piece of the internal works of this watch. Just one tiny piece.
You’d better step back.
If he’s packing heat, he’ll draw on you.
If he has the wherewithal and the clout, he’ll call in a drone strike.
This is a man who, standing in front of the mirror in the morning, takes ten minutes to trim his moustache.
And that’s just a segment of hair on his face.
You’re talking about his ROLEX.
Virus, virus, virus. His world MUST contain the virus.
To hold off the nameless Doom.
Let him go, walk away.
Part Two
As I mentioned the other day, in Part 1, after 14 years of laboring in the lab, I’ve isolated, purified, and identified 16,768 distinct types of virus lovers.
These are people who must say the virus exists. They’re compelled, obsessed.
And in Part 1, I profiled Type 6,659.
Today, I’m going to describe Type 846.
He’s definitely “alternative.” And he thinks of himself as a card-carrying “member of the alternative community.”
But he has a problem. He observes that within his own community—which is battling against the official powers-that-be—there are RUFFIANS.
Ugh.
And these ruffians are claiming the virus doesn’t exist. A few are even saying no viruses exist.
He believes the ruffians are giving his community a bad name. The public will now see the community as generally ruffian-istic.
And to head this off at the pass, guess what he does?
He names the ruffians. He advertises them. He puts up posters on walls.
The public—which was unaware of the ruffians—and the official press and government—which already have 9,453 talking points aimed at burying the “alternative community”—NOW see the virus lover’s advertisements, and say, “Well, these alternative people are even worse than we thought they were.”
When this virus lover was a boy, he headed up a “community” in high school called Students for Academic Excellence. The main thrust of the group was: Football is overemphasized; we need to highlight young scholars; teachers shouldn’t give football players passing grades they don’t deserve.
Well, one night the virus lover and a few of his alternative pals were walking around on the football field, and just outside the end zone they saw a small pile of leaves.
One of the boys said, “Watch this,” and he lit the pile on fire, and he produced a few long sticks and a box of marshmallows, and all the boys sat down and roasted the marshmallows and ate them.
A neighbor peering through his window saw this, and the next day he called the principal of the school.
The principal checked one of the video cameras posted on a tree near the end zone, saw who the boys were, and called them into his office. He said, “What you did was terribly dangerous and outrageous. I’m going to pretend this never happened. If I catch any of you committing an infraction of any kind this year, I’ll call your parents and suspend you. Now get out of here and behave yourselves.”
So the next day, the young virus lover writes a letter, prints copies, and posts them everywhere on campus. The letter describes the horrific marshmallow incident, and concludes: “I swear I had no knowledge that Harry, Fred, and Mason were going to burn the leaves. I was there, but I didn’t participate. I didn’t eat a single marshmallow. Our group, Students for Academic Excellence, is dedicated to achieving higher test scores and overcoming the football hysteria which engulfs our campus. We do not support the marshmallow actions of a few outlaws who carry membership in our group. Pay no attention to them. They’re distracting from our goal.”
Suddenly, a number of students are talking to Harry, Fred, and Mason. “Do the leaves burn fast? Does the fire go out by itself or do you have to pour water on it? How long are the sticks for the marshmallows? Which brands of marshmallow do you buy? Do you roast them until they turn brown or black?”
A week later, having disconnected several video cameras, another nameless group of students burns a pile of leaves on the 50-yard line and roasts marshmallows and sings the Stones’ I Can’t Get No Satisfaction. Possibly, beer is involved.
Meanwhile, the parents of ruffians Harry, Fred, and Mason are having marshmallow roasts with their sons. Harry’s father, who owns a café in town, puts up a big sign above his door: FREE ROASTED MARSHMALLOWS WITH EVERY PURCHASE OF FISH AND CHIPS. His business booms.
A local band, who has a standing gig at a bar on Main Street, unveils their new song, STEAL THIS FRIGGIN’ MARSHMALLOW.
The young virus lover sends a letter to the editor of the town paper: “This is exactly what I feared. One marshmallow roast in the end zone, perpetrated by a few scofflaws, has resulted in a contagion of demeaning incidents. The national press will undoubtedly cover this and make a mockery of our county…”
Flash forward to the present day.
This is what is happening. The virus lover, who now writes for an online publication called REBELLION WITH SANITY, NO RUFFIANS ALLOWED, is penning articles which express support for the existence of SARS-CoV-2. He is receiving a number of emails from, yes, ruffians, some of whom are offering detailed arguments against the existence of the virus. This is annoying and troubling.
It occurs to the virus lover that he can, through the exercise of massive self-control, ignore these emails, forget about them, and write about other vital issues of the day.
But alas, his skin has been gotten under. He can’t walk away.
He has to advertise the ruffians.
He feels the need to distance himself from them while naming them and alerting readers to their existence.
He declares them irresponsible, disreputable, and craven.
He may be suffering from a syndrome called SELF-UNDERMINING WITH DEVELOPMENTAL DELAY OF RECOGNITION OF IMPLICATIONS ACCOMPANIED BY EXCESSIVE AND IRRELEVANT HYPER-VIGILANCE.
Finally, after he attempts to dismiss the ruffians by naming them and advertising them, he argues his own case: the virus exists because it exists. Those medical professionals who can be trusted say it exists.
Although these professionals say the vaccine is safe and effective—which claim is absolutely false—when they say the virus exists, they are absolutely correct.
It’s magic. By chance, they are horribly and dangerously wrong over THERE, but they are true-blue and majestically honest over HERE.
I admire this form of logic. It has a surreal quality which matches the surrealism of the entire fake pandemic story.
by Jon Rappoport (January 19, 2022)
