[Un]Happy Mother's Day

A view from inside the vaccine death cult.

I usually do not post too much about my personal affairs, but this event grieved me more than I care to recollect. I also posted this late, so no-one else’s mother’s day was ruined.

On Friday night, 12 May, 2023, three days prior to Mother’s Day as it is celebrated in Australia, while I was at work a call went through to my voicemail. When I replayed it, my mother’s distraught voice echoed from the digital aether. The time had finally come. I had been waiting 2 years for this sombre, gruesome moment. Someone had died, someone very important to her, suddenly and unexpectedly. It was a grievous blow.

“Hi Josh… … … I just want to let you know that Jill Cavanagh died suddenly while we were snorkelling… … I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye.”

I hung up. Mixed emotions raged. I had been waiting two years for the call that one of my vaccinated brothers or sister or aunty or nephew— someone from within the reams of my immediate family had suddenly and unexpected carked it, as is happening to hundreds of thousands of other families around the globe. Fortunately, this time, it was not to be. “How long until that call comes?” I pondered to myself.

I grew up with Jill’s daughter, Leonie (my age and school grade, primary through high school), and her son Mark (two years younger, my younger siblings’ age and school grade - we played thousands of hours of backyard cricket together during our childhood). Her husband, Chris, was a metal, wood and engineering workshop teacher at a local high school, a gentle and thoughtful bloke, the kind of bloke I might have liked to have had for my dad in another, less dysfunctional universe. I would find out later that Leonie, the daughter, had only just recently had her first child. She would now grow up without her grandmother.

I called mum after work that Friday and had a brief conversation, as I had woken my her from her exhausted sleep. She was distraught. I understood why. When you make a bond with another mother for as long as my mother had with Jill Cavanagh, to suddenly lose that person is devastation. To be personally involved at the time of death seemed an even worse situation.

I called back on Mother’s Day. I knew this would be a hard day for my mum. I listened to the details of the sudden passing. The two had been snorkelling in the magnificent coral reefs of Lady Elliott Island, the very southern part of the Great Barrier Reef, north of Fraser Island, between Bundaberg and Gladstone on the Queensland coast. It was one of their favourite spots, a place they had been dozens of times before.

Jill suddenly lost her breath and strength while observing the wonders of Australia’s coral sea, a task she’d done for thousands of hours before; she was no novice snorkeller. My mum dragged her to some kind of water seat which was about 30m out, where divers and snorkellers could put their gear on. There she attracted the attention of one of the Island staff, who dispatched two other staff in some kind of water craft to fetch them. As the waves crashed about the seat, she held onto Jill until help arrived. Jill was still conscious and talking, but only barely. Dragged back to shore, she was taken to the first aid office and a doctor was summoned. It was grim. CPR and a defibrilator were used in an attempt to revive her. Blood and water were coming out of her mouth. Unsuccessful. She died there, suddenly and unexpectedly, likely from a pulmonary embolism, doing what she loved to do.

How does a fit and healthy grandmother die so suddenly and unexpectedly? “She was so full of life,” my mother remarked in that Mother’s Day conversation. “I just don’t understand.”

I bit my tongue. Do I take the risk and lose my mother forever to the Beast? Stuff it. I’m going for it.

“Welcome to the club, mum,” I answered. “I’ve lost seven of my work colleagues in the last two years.”

She went silent. “What happened to them?”

I have already seen six of my co-workers permanently disabled and one die of turbo cancer (2 months) after being blackmailed into this diabolical vaccination campaign. Three of them had an identical injury: paralysis of the right arm from the shoulder/neck to the fingertips. One fainted while riding his bicycle to work the day after his vaccination; he would never return. Another got myocarditis. I know of another co-worker who got blood clots (and his wife); both ceased taking COVID vaccinations after only 1 dose of Astra Zeneca each.

“Some were crippled after their COVID vaccines, one died—” I began, only to be interrupted by an audible scoff.

“Hur hur hur…” came her laughter of disbelief in my words. “No, Josh. No.”

“Your father died suddenly, all before these vaccines,” my mother protested vehemently. “Sudden death can happen to anyone.”

Yes, it’s true. My father died of sudden-death cardiac arrest one day before his birthday on 16 July, 1999, while sitting at a red traffic light on a job in his tow truck, several years after he had abandoned us and fled to literally the other side of the country (Perth, WA). But he was also a fat, angry, violent alcoholic who refused to take care of himself. One of my enduring memories of him is that he always hobbled and had the grossest varicose veins anyone has ever seen. None of that matters, though, hey? Jill Cavanagh was none of these.

“Mum, there’s 1,226 listed side effects of the vaccines. Pfizer admitted it in their own documents,” I opined in a last ditch effort to inject a healthy dose of facts. “Pulmonary embolism is one of them.”

A long silence, for approximately 30 seconds.

It was what she said next which truly horrified me, though.

“There’s too many people on the planet anyway. Depopulation would do some good.”

Speechless. My mother spends day and night absorbing the ABC (the Australian national broadcaster, not the American one) and occasionally SBS. From now on, if I want to know what she thinks I might as well just watch these programs because the thought patterns are identical, inseparable.

“I lost seven of my co-workers in the last two years, mum, all after their vaccinations. The problem is, no-one listens any more.” I hung up.

It was an eerie sensation to realise some people have absolutely no hope escaping from The Matrix. They are and will only ever be Blue Pill people, no matter who dies suddenly around them or what facts or evidence are presented to them. They already have the answers to everthing spoon fed to them by the media, or so they think, with the resounding chorus sounding, ‘It’s not the vaccines.’ My mother barely even batted an eyelid at the torment I’ve been through in the last two years, having lost seven of my work colleagues (and more besides) to vaccine-induced sudden illness and death.

It does not matter what you say to the propagandised. Their minds are so firmly entrenched in the propaganda apparatus, occupied by a hostile force— I felt like that moment in the movie Inception when all the denizens of the incepted mind turned their hostile eyes at the interloping mind-meddlers. The mere suggestion that Jill Cavanagh died suddenly of a COVID-19 vaccine-caused side effect resulted in immediate smoking eyes and steaming nostrils. “I am dealing with an alien occupying my mother’s mind,” I thought then, and say publicly now.

This is what we’re up against. A military-grade propaganda machine the like the world has never seen, a mind-raping monster that would give Goebbels a permanent wet dream if he ever had today’s tools at his disposal.

What can you even say when those you love ardently clap and endorse the activities of those who slaughter us? What can you say to the thunderous throng, lining the streets of Hitler’s victory parades, celebrating the meat-grinding machine of death? My mother claps and approves my genocidal government’s efforts to depopulate the world, even when it took the life of her best, longest friend. She says that dying is good for us, good for our planet. I tell you what, be the first to choke the life out of your own children, out of me. Tell Leonie to sacrifice her newborn on Milcom’s altar, why don’t you, “for the good of the planet.”

I tell you what I will do, though. I will speak out LOUDER than before. I will make my NON-COMPLIANCE more noisy than before. I will stand MORE OPENLY in stark and utter contrast to all this smirking, smooth civilisation holds dear. I will endeavour to employ MORE ACTS OF BRAZEN DEFIANCE, because I realise from the Aesh and Milgram experiments that the only way to provoke others to change their complicit participation in torture is to LIVE A LIFE OF A CHANGED MIND.

And you wonder why I rarely call you, mum. You’re a member of a satanic death cult.