Recently, while boring a family gathering with an exposition as to how the liberals (not the political party) have hi-jacked the church to which I belong over the last fifty years or so, I was threatened by my daughter with banishment to eternal family darkness if I didn’t shut up - and rightly so. Mrs Flysa hates how I must always have the last word, but I ask anyway, how long is it since anyone heard any minister of religion mention the bleak prospect of spending eternity in a fiery furnace, if we commit those things which used to be known in the fifties as sins? Reference to sin is no longer permitted.
What I hate about all of the mind control which has occurred during my lifetime, is that even if one is accustomed to dealing objectively with facts and carrying out careful research before making any statement (as I repeatedly advise Mrs Flysa), to tell most that our brainwashing is the work of those with an agenda going back to the late 1800s, originating in the UK as the Fabians, is to be labelled a crank.
The sad part is, when those of us old enough to remember cark it, there will be no-one around to complain, and so mission accomplished for Big Brother.
In the 1940s and 50s, there was no such word as racism. It was open slather against the non-whites, even in children’s comic books. I used to receive a child’s comic published in the UK known as Chicks’ Own. Its main character was a yellow chick called Rupert, a black chick called Blackie, a black gollywog called Golly, and other characters including Neddie and Nellie “N Word”. And then of course there were the Smurfs.
In those halcyon days of youth, the word sexism also did not exist. It was open season on the females.
And anti-vaccination was nothing new, for example anti-injection of cowpox to immunise against smallpox.
And rightly or wrongly, you could use any medication or health remedy you chose.
Then again, there is not a great of difference between the sexes anymore, which is all part of the plan. One only needs to go into any shopping centre and observe the attire of the female gender. Ninety-nine percent wear black trousers, bum-hugging tights or jeans. Dresses are few and far between. I have little doubt, that in twenty years, any person caught designing a dress will be hauled up before the Federal Court on a sex discrimination complaint.
Twenty years ago, women played tennis, netball and hockey, and that was about it. Now it is rugby, basketball, soccer, AFL and boxing.
The extent of our brainwashing and control is too great to itemise, but one that really nails it is that a meeting is no longer overseen by a chairman or a chairwoman, but is chaired by a “chair” which is an inanimate object. It always has struck me as epitomising the stupidity of political correctness. I sometimes wonder whether the chair has carved legs.
But one should always have Plan B, just in case. When my time comes, and if by some misadventure I am for the high jump into the furnace, I intend to petition St. Peter/Peta for leave to appeal my sentence to the Celestial Court, alleging Divine discrimination.
Don’t fence me in you bastards
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