Before reading, please see: Twitter to Coronavirus Conspiracy Theorists: Stop Telling People to Burn Down 5G Towers
It began innocently enough. I was shopping online for a new cell phone and as I started to click on a Samsung Galaxy S20 Ultra an email alert popped up on my computer.
“Don’t,” was all it said.
Then, “Take your hand off the mouse.”
Finally, “Call [REDACTED]. This is a secure number.”
And that’s how I found myself deep in conversation with Alex Jones, the genius behind Infowars and purveyor of Super Concentrated Beet Essence Extract.
“Is it safe?” he asked.
“Is what safe?” I replied.
His silence spoke volumes. I heard him without having to listen to anything at all.
He broke the silence: “I’m not wearing pants.”
I had questions. About the Kennedy assassination. The illuminati. Whether the Doubletree chocolate chip recipe circulating on the Internet is legit. I held my fire.
“Did you hear me”” he repeated. “No pants.”
Sage words from the InfoWarrior, a media giant.
“No. Pants.”
Wisdom has its own pace, so I waited.
It may have been an hour or it may have been days, but he broke the silence. “Q has a mission for you: 5G spectrum, COVID-19 – there’s a connection. You know what to do.”
“Uh…?”
“Look to the mainstream media.”
I dove head first into fake news. It was everywhere: 5G towers were burning across Europe.
My mission was crystal clear. Those towers needed to burn. And gas was only $1.06 a gallon. Q had ordained it, and Alex was the messenger. Synchronicity, baby.
So that night I found myself atop a newly constructed 5G tower. Soon it would burn. I would celebrate. The world would awaken to truth.
I poured cheap, cheap gasoline from a five-gallon can and watched it trickle down the structure beneath me. It soaked the earth below. I breathed in the fumes. I gloried in the knowledge that I would soon be celebrated by those oppressed warriors who take to their keyboards to open the sheeples’ eyes. They would sing my praises–me, the 5G avenger, the savior of all humanity. With a flash of flame COVID-19 would be gone. I was gonna be bigger than that American patriot who shot up the pedo-pizza joint in DC. I inhaled deeply.
I was a feeling a little woozy, to tell the truth.
My phone rang.
You know those signs on gas pumps that tell you to not talk on your cell phone while pumping gas? I didn’t take those seriously but maybe I should have.
The explosion that followed a split second later was less of the massive boom you’d expect after watching Die Hard 42 times, and more of a deep “woof” that sucked the air out of my lungs and pitched me to the ground, 150 feet below.
When I awakened in a hospital three days later, Alex’s face was six inches from mine, like he was inspecting some new type of insect.
“You look like you’ve been in a dunk tank of Nair,” he observed.
I had to give him that. My hair and eyebrows were gone.
“Sign this.” He shoved a piece of paper and a pen into my hands. “No time to read it.”
I had a bit of trouble signing, since my wrists were cuffed to the hospital bed, but I managed.
And that’s how I became a triple threat to the establishment: Convicted felon, multilevel sales associate, and SpokesPatriot for Super Concentrated Beet Essence Extract.
Isn’t America the greatest nation in the universe?