The Fable Of The Baby Bird

 

On the Monday and Tuesday editions of the Prepper Post News this week, I reported on and positively reviewed Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.’s book “The Real Anthony Fauci.” Buy it and read it. I’ve already said much concerning the matter. 

The book is superbly written and organized by a passionate and informed author. It confirms everything we, the intelligent and faithful, knew. It teaches us new things, some of which are almost unimaginable. It is a damning indictment of the title subject – literally like a charging document under the Nuremberg Code. It is also as good a bill of wrongs against the entirety of the US imperial government – for satanic crimes of all kinds dating back a century – as I have just about ever seen. If temporal justice escapes the evil-doers, know that Saint Michael sharpens his sword. Buy it and read it!

Most people will not or cannot do that. In fact, most don’t care. About much of anything. They do not think. They feel. Fear is their primary emotion.

So much is happening.

The American People are being systematically eliminated.

We are replaced with dull, violent primitives and literal cannibals.

We are in year three (or ten) of a giant idiotic hoax, war, and war crime.

The foreign satanists who run the US are forcing the world to the brink of a massive multi-front war.

Those elites murdered JFK, pulled 9/11, and created and unleashed the CoronaHoax. These things – read the damned book! – are all related. 

The world economy, at least the part in the ailing West, is dead.

So much more.

But evil and stupidity have rendered the Amerikan Sheeple immune to rationality and reality. They have reminded me of another Boring Old Perrin Story.™ 

Many, many years ago… How many? I can’t remember. Let’s say it was back in 1979. As good a year as any. We’ll also say it was in Mississippi. It was a long time ago in a world that no longer exists.

My parents, perhaps wanting to be more like my maternal grandparents, were looking for some kind of RV. A few years later, they bought a pop-up camper. I think we used it twice and then were ever so happy to get rid of the thing,

Anyway, on what I think was a summer day, we ventured far out into the countryside. This is relatively easy to do in Mississippi. Where, exactly, I cannot recall. But it seems to my poor memory that there was a sizable RV dealership way out somewhere. It was on the outskirts of a larger town. Tupelo? Meridian? Somewhere. We went, and looked, and left with nothing – except this story.

It could have been me being a small boy at the time, but the place was or appeared rather large. It was loaded with campers, class C models, vans, etc. This being back in the sane, normal, old, and gone America, the small boy was given free rein to run around at will. I did. 

While running wild, I discovered that this place, like any decent RV dealer, kept a family of goats in the backlot. I interacted with the group, which was just as fun as it sounds. Some were friendly and liked me petting them. Others were angry and it was all I could do to hold them at bay. My petting and fighting were interrupted for the occasional camper consultation. I can only remember one. I was yellow and smelled bad.

The key part of this tale either happened during our initial entry or upon a quick jaunt to and from the car. Between the parking lot and the sales office, there was a concrete sidewalk. I was following a few steps down it behind my old man. There, I heard a sad, lonely, and faint wailing cry. I looked down at my feet.

Pathetically alone and doomed to die, a tiny, half-finger-sized baby bird lay screaming. It was naked, featherless, and pink. It being both helpless and hopeless, I was instantly moved to pity it. And, at the time, I didn’t even know what it was.

“What’s this?” I called my dad.

“A baby bird that fell out of the nest,” he explained.

I looked around and didn’t see a nest. The matter was inexplicable though it was very real. There was nowhere to return this little victim, who was likely beyond survival anyway.

The old man did the right and decent thing. He bent down and rolled the urchin up in his handkerchief. I didn’t see it, but I assume he used the dove field trick, probably with a press of his thumb, to hasten the poor little bird’s passing. His next move, understandable now, perplexed me then. He simply deposited the rolled body into a nearby trashcan and moved on.

“Why did you throw away the baby bird?” I asked. He didn’t explain, knowing I would eventually figure it all out. I did, in time. In fact, I’ve done similar good deeds myself in the ensuing decades. The day went on. Time followed it.

These days, here in post-modernity, I now recall the doomed baby bird. I see him frequently. All around me, in the faces of my fellow citizens, my neighbors, even a few friends, in their faces I see the baby bird with his eyes closed tight and mouth opened wide and loud. Confronted with a thousand evils, they lie helpless and hopeless, naked and screaming. Again, I am moved to pity. And I cautiously wonder if some kindly giant might happen along with a handy pocket square. He has, one might imagine, yet to appear.

Do not be the baby bird. Stand up. Fly. Fight. Whatever. Nobody is going to gently deposit you anywhere. Survival is up to you. It’s not 1979. This is sometimes inexplicable, but at all times real. Tell me I’m wrong.