By Anna Von Reitz
Fully vaxxed New Zealand suffers a 3000% spike in "excess deaths".
That means that 30 X more people are dying per year in New Zealand since the vax madness. One becomes thirty.
Thirty times the "normal" average death rate. And they euphemistically call it, "excess death".
No wonder Grandma hated euphemisms. They are just little lies and evasions, but they pile up like dog logs in great steaming piles.
Yes, certainly yes, you've got "excess" deaths in New Zealand, far and away more deaths than anything remotely normal. Not a word from Mainstream. Statistics majors hired to cover it up.
Pfizer reported clinical trials with 100% mortality from various known vax-induced causes within seven (7) years of the first jab.
So we can expect death on an unimaginable scale --- and soon. The Japanese have just concluded a study on 18 million vaxxed -- and dead -- Japanese. They found an absolute statistical relationship showing that the more "boosters" you take, the faster you die.
Ironically enough, this is what is called a "positive correlation".
There is some mean satisfaction when you recall that the Canadian Vaxalot, the journalist who went around raving about how the Unvaxxed should be herded into FEMA camps --- is dead at 33.
Every nerve in his body "died suddenly". Nobody knows why.
There's an even more grim satisfaction when the local blood bank comes begging, looking for "unvaccinated individuals" who would be willing to donate blood....
I shake my little Tin Hatted Head.
Sometimes, often, it hurts to be right.
Some other odd statistics are showing up. Aboriginal people in Australia resisted taking the vax, probably because they have been abused and used as lab rats for a hundred years already. So when they saw Covid 19 coming they walked away, or ran, whatever was appropriate. They are coming out all right.
So are the Amish. Hardly any autism among the Amish.
Someone nonchalantly mentioned that Donald Trump has Stage 4 prostate cancer metastasized to the bone.
Someone else said, "Which Donald Trump?"
Everyone turned toward me, expecting me to know. I rolled my eyes. I haven't seen Donald Trump for something like ten years. Don't ask me. I haven't seen Bill Gates III in dog years, either.
Someone else said, "Why isn't he using a Med Bed?"
A really tall guy in the back of the room said, "We're watching you."
I shrugged and gave him my standard, "Stare up my skirt until you see Jesus." reply.
Certain populations in England are suffering "excess death" on par with the New Zealanders.
"Holy Christ," Someone from the newsroom reported, "it's even killing our pets." He waved a wet semi-transparent piece of paper at me.
It reminded me of how early Xerox machines, the kind that printed in purple ink, came out of the machines damp.
Everything changes, I commiserate with Solomon, but everything stays the same.
Mister Big at the back of the room shifted uneasily on his size 14 feet. Some people don't like people. They get more upset over a sick Pomeranian.
It was exactly like being in a cattle pen at that moment when they all sense a storm and the first lightning strike lights up the horizon.
I leaned back in my chair, realizing that I was the oldest person in the room by 25 or 30 years. Maybe more. They all somehow think I am, more or less, their age---- but it's an illusion. I'm a Gemini. We never grow up, and that's just for starters.
That's nothing. I met a man this week who thinks he's a Rothschild. He was raised by them, so he thinks he's one of them. I didn't blink. I didn't come right out and say otherwise; that wouldn't have been politically correct. Or safe. Just the same, it was stunning. Imagine a race horse bedded down in a nest of foxes, firmly believing that he is one of them.
A young girl wearing retro-clothes, a black sweater and white leather mini-skirt and black patent leather boots and all sorts of Mod costume jewelry swayed past my chair and dropped a hot report in my lap, "Burning hot," she assured me with a lisp like Marilyn Monroe.
For just a second it was 1965 and I was young.
It was hot, too. She wasn't wrong. I started to laugh, feeling all the unseen muscles lining my abs tense up. Someone in the newsroom turned up the Rolling Stones song, "Gimme Shelter". Loud. The rest of us couldn't hit the volume control, so we got up to dance instead. Even I remembered those adamant instructions from an Ashram Master: "Sway the hips! Sway the hips! Like a figure eight! Like the sign for infinity!"
If you want to live long, you've got to do this anyway. Might as well do it in tune to the Stones when it's 3AM, nobody is drunk, but they are so tired they might as well be. By the time the song ended and someone broke into the newsroom to turn down the volume in the press pit, I was prepared to sit down and read the headline:
"Population Collapse Looming in England and Canada".
Cause problem. Solve problem? Get paid, either way....
Someone accused me of being cynical, but no, I'm Stoic. There's a difference. When the chips are down, I already know how to face it.
Flaps down. Ears up. Face the day.
"Oooh, a Sigma female!" Mr. Big jots it down to add to the now fifty million pages and a high rise stuffed with notations about little ole me.
"Woman," I corrected him. "I am a woman, not a female. Female is the word if you are talking about animals."
He never knew that.
Learn something every day and start noticing all the gubmint forms that give you a choice between "Male", "Female" and "Other". At least people no longer have to divulge their bedroom habits to get a job in this country. They just have to equate themselves with animals. Score ten for Donald Trump.
Going to post. Love you all.
Granna
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