Do you remember when you saw your first Effaced Face?
For me, it was around January of 2020 – at the Sweet Donkey Coffee shop, where I used to spend a few hours almost every day with my laptop, working in what was then the pleasant company of other people, coming and going. The background sounds – and sights – of normal life, as it will never be again.
I can pinpoint the moment when that pleasant normalcy ended, probably forever. I glanced up from what I was working on and saw my first weaponized hypochondriac. This woman, wearing a device over her face that I had never seen on anyone’s face – other than Michael Jackson’s – outside of a surgical suite. I saw the fear in her eyes as she scuttled away from the counter, clutching her coffee – quickly exiting the shop. It amused and saddened me at first. On the one hand, this woman was clearly out of her mind with fear, such that she would walk around with a dust mask over her face. On the other, her fear wasn’t strong enough to prevent her from risking death – in her mind – by entering a plague den, to get a cup of coffee.
Textbook DSM hypochondria.
There went a mentally ill person, I though to myself. I never could have imagined, at the time, how quickly this illness would spread. Nor how intractable it would prove.
Today, almost two years later, there are tens of millions of such mentally ill people walking around – and driving around, alone in their cars except for their faithful companion, the comforting rag they wear, everywhere. Over and over, again. The effusions of their noses and mouths collecting in the nasty fabric. People don’t wear the same pair of underwear as long – and wash them more often.
Facial underwear has become sacred to a whole new sect of believers. Who – apparently – will believe anything, so long as it comports with their normalized neurosis, their obsessive fear of catching cold. They believe in a “vaccine” that isn’t effective – and roll up their sleeves again, amen. Their belief in “vaccines” becomes more ardent the less effective the “vaccines” prove to be. No matter how dangerous the facts suggest they could be.
When they get sick after having rolled up their sleeves, they thank the “vaccines” – as in The Lords of Discipline.
Thank you sir! May I have another?
What will convince them to take off their Holy Garment? How do you get your kid away from The Moonies? Once they’re in, they are very hard to get out – chiefly because they do not want out. Membership in the cult gives them a sense of belonging and security, things many congenitally insecure people crave and once they find it, most won’t willingly give it up – no matter how deranged or perverted.
It takes the summoning of immense internal psychological resources, which most of the victims lack – hence their susceptibility to the cult – and absolutely requires the support network of a sane society outside the control of the cult.
What happens when the cult goes national – and its accoutrements perceived by millions as perfectly normal, like the yarmulke worn everywhere by orthodox Jews? When its rituals are routinized, like the genuflections performed by many Catholics before the cross? It is considered rude or worse to be less than respectful of these rites – and articles of Faith.
Even if its spread is stopped. Millions are members, probably for life.
Even if the millions of unbelievers manage to hold the line and preserve their right to not practice the faith – including most especially their right to refuse the Holy Anointing – the believers will continue to wear their Holy Rags, no matter how times they have rolled up their sleeves. For – like the Devil – sickness is everywhere and eternal vigilance is the price of deliverance.
Those born after this all began – or not long enough before it all began – will grow up in a world populated by strange-looking people practicing odd rituals. But it will seem normal to them, even if they do not practice this Faith themselves. Just as it is perceived as normal by those who grew up after America became a “Homeland” in the wake of another awakening of mass hysteria to obligingly spread their legs and allow a government worker to place his hands in places that, once upon a time, would have resulted in a punch in the face.
It’s all perfectly routine now, to them.
But some of us will hold on to the memory of a time when the only person who touched your privates was your spouse or at least, someone you wanted to touch your privates – and when you could sit and have a cup of coffee without seeing people who had escaped from a psychiatric hospital at the counter, furtively ordering a latte . . .
. . .
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