"The fairy tales have been put to bed."

Indeed. I arise today with my hair standing on end, the neighbor's dog howling mournfully, the sense that the Pax Americana has ended overwhelming me. The military might that has kept the light of the city on the hill shining has been gutted, any troops competent to grasp the danger of the jab has been ejected, and the rest of our boys have been trained to accept diversity and inclusion, and the use of the proper pronouns and intersexual politics in the barracks.

Easter seems the perfect time for the Molochian forces to strike, for Gog and Magog to descend on the hapless society that has been lashed down and lubed up for the rape of the bourgeois we're to suffer.

KSA selling it's oil in Yuan is the knife in the sweet spot of US foreign policy, the penultimate perfected product of the Project for a New American Century and the machinations of Machiavellian malice that has motivated the corruption of the global economy and the prepared to feast on the red blood flowing in the veins of our sons and daughters of military age.

Our blood is tainted, blackened ichor oozing in the dead veins of a zombie empire. Canada has become the capitol of suicide, the gun grabbers gloat at the defenselessness they have delivered as the forces mass on our financial borders. While we navel gaze and contemplate Stirner's egoism, the field is taken by our robot overlords who prepare soylent green from our defilation for the delectation of their owners.

It's time to clean the battle rifles, sharpen the edges on the bayonets, double check the folds on the parachutes, and inventory the MRE's.

Stay frosty.