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Monday, 28 October 2019

Brain Surgery




When I inquired about my prospects of surviving open heart surgery, a credible informant assured me that surgeons would execute a cutting-edge, less invasive operation, resulting in a quicker recovery.

When I asked if these surgeons were "up to scratch" and competent to perform it, I was told that they were "out of this world". It turns out that this informant was right.

I have little recollection of the procedure, other than a vague memory of four sets of sinister eyes looming over me, examining me with intense scrutiny. One of them bore a resemblance to Barbara Lerner Specter. The only thing I distinctly remember is being in my car, my radio and engine going dead, and seeing a bright, blinding figure walk toward me. Shortly thereafter I blacked out. Then suddenly I found myself in the driver's seat in the same position. It is as if I had been dreaming.

Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe it was an hallucination. Just like The Great Replacement, which Leftist commentators tell me is a mirage, a figment of my conspiratorial imagination. Vancouver hasn't changed. It is not an Asian city. And Europe is still Europe. You see, we mustn’t believe our own eyes. Best to rely on the filtered information of trusted media gatekeepers, like the CBC, who proclaim that “Canada Lives Here”. I guess they haven’t seen the ratings lately.

So yes, maybe it didn't happen. But I think not. Before the operation, I felt like crap. Afterward, I suddenly felt like a million dollars.

I am as good as new now, but there is this small lump under my skin above my left temple. Sometimes it prickles. Sometimes it itches. When I pinch it, it feels a dime or a nickel. Hmm. No wonder an alarm goes off whenever I go through an airport security check.

The good news is I didn't have to pay one red cent for the operation. That goes to show you how beneficial Canada's socialized medical system is. And efficient too. I was in and out before I knew it.

And that's not all. I am not only getting timely care, but compassionate and conscientious care too.

Like old time country doctors, these surgeons make impromptu home visits to check on my progress. They drop by without notice at the oddest times, and when they leave it seems that they take me with them. Then faster that you can say Jack Robinson, here I am back in my easy chair again. But when I look at my watch, several hours have passed. I guess that proves that time flies when you are having fun.

As far as I can determine, I have experienced no side effects from my surgery, other than that nagging sensation I mentioned. The prickling and itching above my left temple.

However, I am left with a strange feeling. I can't quite put my finger on it. Simply put, it is a feeling that Big Brother is watching me. Then I wondered.

Does CSIS have me on their watch list? Is the Canadian Anti-Hate Network monitoring me? Is a Toronto Star reporter trying to get the goods on me? Am I being stalked by Glenn Close? No matter where I go, I get that same feeling.

Self help guru Wayne Dyer told me that I should take charge of my life, but more than ever, that goal eludes me. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I sense that I am being guided. Controlled in fact. Whenever I watch the news—or read it—I feel that something is missing. Like the news. The real news.

And the more I listen to progressive politicians and the identity group mouthpieces who drive them, the more my vocabulary shrinks. I’ve noticed that more and more, I can’t find the words to conceive of alternative narratives. Sometimes the only words that come to mind are "diversity", "inclusive", "patriarchal", "white privilege", "white supremacist", "transphobic", and "welcoming". And when I try to form sentences, the only thing that comes out of my mouth is “love conquers hate”, "diversity is our strength", "build bridges not fences", "we are more alike than unalike", "biology is a social construct", "Canada is home to the world", "Canada is a nation of immigrants", “we are all immigrants”, "we are living on stolen land", “the only real Canadians are First Nations people”, and “a woman must always be believed.” Stuff like that.

However, several forbidden questions managed to break these mental shackles and enter my brain.

Did I have heart surgery—or brain surgery? Was the first a cover for the latter? What if I am a victim of social engineering? What if the social engineers are manipulated by puppeteers—an alien tribe bent on opening the floodgates and diversifying us out of existence? And if that is so, how can we determine who these puppeteers are?

Then came the epiphany: Just find out who it is illegal to criticize.

Here’s a tip. When you find that out, don’t share the information, or you’re liable to find yourself behind bars and financially ruined. Right here in Canada, true north, strong and “free”.

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