In Praise of the Tinfoil Saints (with Patron Saint Mel Gibson Ordained in a Church of Static, Screaming Sermons Through a Broken Police Scanner)

Count me among their fold.

Not the comfortable. Not the conformist. Not the reputationally compliant.

I run with the misfit chorus of those who looked behind the Wizard’s curtain and didn’t flinch. The ones who asked, “Where’s the fire escape?” while everyone else was still applauding the smoke machines.

I didn’t get here by accident. I got here the same way they did: by watching too many emperors strut around bare-assed while the crowd applauded the tailoring, an ignorant demographic that continues to do so.

We weren’t born suspicious. We were made that way—shaped by psyops, chiseled by cover-ups, and bludgeoned by media stenographers reciting “truths” cooked up at happy hour between CDC policy meetings and Pfizer donor dinners.

We saw the seams.

We noticed the drafts.

We called bullshit—early, loudly, and often.

And while legacy media laughed and “fact-checked” us with the subtlety of a rubber mallet, we endured. Not because we enjoyed being fringe, but because someone had to yell “Fire!” while the rest of the room praised the ambient temperature.

We’re the fuckers who remember.

We remember when gain-of-function was a conspiracy—until it was tax-funded.

We remember when the lab leak theory was “dangerous misinformation”—until Globalist enabling bitch The Atlantic was granted permission to whisper it, a year late and a Pulitzer short.

We remember when vaccine injury was a laughable myth—until the indemnity clauses kicked in and teenagers dropped mid-stride.

We remember when ventilators were hailed as salvation—until they started killing off 80% of those intubated.

We remember when Remdesivir was fast-tracked as a miracle—until kidneys failed and autopsies said otherwise.

We remember when the CIA “didn’t” spy on Americans, when Google “wasn’t” evil, when the Patriot Act was “temporary,” and when your smart thermostat wasn’t snitching on your carbon footprint.

When Fauci didn’t postulate, but promised a pandemic years before COVID ever cleared customs.

We remember.

Because we weren’t paid to forget.

—

So what separates us from the smooth-brained loyalists still mainlining state-sanctioned narrative?

Pattern recognition.

Cognitive stamina.

A memory longer than a news cycle.

The ability to connect dots without asking permission.

And the willingness to speak without apology, even when the mob demands silence and alleged friends whisper compliance.

We weren’t early. We were just unsponsored.

They told us we were wrong.

We weren’t.

We were just ahead.

—

Let’s take attendance. The declassified, redacted, re-uploaded, admitted-too-late roll call:

• MKULTRA: real.

• COINTELPRO: real.

• Operation Northwoods: real.

• Epstein’s intelligence ties: real.

• Remdesivir’s failure rate: buried in footnotes.

• Ventilators as death sentence: quietly removed from guidelines.

• CIA media manipulation post-JFK: factually confirmed.

• Government-bank collusion to freeze dissenters’ accounts: operational.

• Your Alexa is listening: always has been, Karen.

You laughed at the tinfoil?

We weren’t the ones who put a generation of kids in masks and isolation while fuck head politicians dined indoors, unmasked, and grinning for photo ops.

We weren’t the ones who repeated talking points from pharmaceutical press releases like they were carved on stone tablets.

We weren’t the ones who thought freezing trucker bank accounts was a one-time emergency response.

We’re the ones who saw the emperor wasn’t just naked—he was medically licensed, algorithmically blessed, and holding a bloody syringe.

—

And now?

Now we’re not just vindicated.

We’re inconvenient.

We’re not ghosts—we’re allergic reactions.

Truth-hunters.

Autopsy artists.

Circling the bloated corpses of collapsed narratives with wings made of spreadsheets and FOIA dumps.

We are the ones whose every ambition died an unnatural death—suffocated by committees, poisoned by protocol, laughed out of polite society by asshats who wouldn’t know a data set from a dog bowl.

We are the last free radicals in a world that banned irregular heartbeats for being “misinformation.”

We offend not to provoke, but because reality itself has become offensive.

We didn’t come to convert you.

We came to survive you.

To outlive your slogans, your science theater, your digital thought prisons.

—

You want a villain?

Fine.

I’ll be the insufferable ass reminding you that history doesn’t repeat—it reloads.

That trust is not owed to institutions that euthanized truth with Remdesivir and buried dissent under ventilator protocols.

That intelligence isn’t a felony—but in this society, it’s at least a misdemeanor.

Call me a nut job.

Call me unreasonable.

Call me what you like.

I call it survival.

And I call it necessary.

Because truth doesn’t wear a press badge or carry a peer review citation from the Ministry of Manufactured Consent.

Sometimes it shows up in tinfoil, dragging receipts and screaming from the digital gallows you built to defend your delusions.

And sometimes?

It looks like me.