In and Out

A Freemasonic World Energy Extraction is Happening Now in America.

Ah, football, the beautiful game, the perfect Bread and Circus show that began as a rough and tumble sport and became a Freemasonic system of profiteering, mind control and energy extraction, controlled by a cadre of materialistic fools.

Its cultural dominance is absolute – even women play it nowadays – and it reaches its nadir every four years in the shape of the ‘World Cup’ – an unholy grail of hexagonal patterns that is rigged to the benefit of the cash-extractors and betting companies, all of whom are fellating Mammon, the cheap fake god of the materialist.

The following clip illustrates the blatant symbology at ‘play’ and correctly points to the fact that when you give ‘professional football’ your energy and attention, you are actively participating in a cult ritual in praise of said fake gods, like ‘Yahweh’ and ‘Moloch’ or ‘Jabalon’ whose rotten origins lie in and with the demiurge.
*Jabalon – is the fake Freemasonic, combined of Ja (Yahweh), Baal and Osiris.

It is an absolute load of egregoric cuntwaffle – an egregore being a thought form, conjured up by those curious fellows who like to lie with the devil, or satan as you may know him.

It is manifestly an absolute shit parade, just like the opening ceremonies for the Olympic Games. With that in mind, it seems like a good time for me to draw attention to a series of essays in which I have delved into the subject of what is, above all else, a well-oiled machine of distraction and energy extraction. Round and round it goes, where it stops, no-one knows.

Here they are:

1. Kicker Conspiracy: Are the jabbed players crocked?

2. Kicker Conspiracy: Addendum

3. They Shoot Footballers, Don’t They?

4. Football is a Freemasonic Game

5. How Football is Crocked.

6.The BBC: Bread Beer Circus

In addition to it being an opportunity by which millions can be drawn into the occult ritual of the opening ceremony, there is also the fact that it is a chance to exploit and plunder the wealth of its followers. This the aim of every cult, whether it be that of government via criminal taxes, the churches of Mormon and the Jehovists, the tithing of ‘income’ in Judaism or the donations made to a guru of any description.

In this case, tickets for matches are priced at over $2,000 (three times the monthly salary of a Bosnian, apparently) and a pint of gnat’s piss Budweiser at one of the cathedrals/stadia will set you back $18 (£13.45). On top of which, there is the cost of transport and accommodation, both of which are deliberately inflated.

In this sense, it is a grubbily magnificent satanic energetic theft – of attention, of cash and of time. Yet still, in spite of the obviousness of this, there are those with more money than sense who don their corporate-nation’s colours, drape themselves in the company flag, seize whatever remnants of patriotism that are left and travel over the pond to be fleeced.

It is astonishing. A fool and his money are easily parted and you could reasonably argue that a man who prepared to pay over $2k to watch a rigged game of football deserves everything that is coming his way/

Yet, there was a time when it could be enjoyed as a simple sporting spectacle. My dad bought a colour television in 1978 in time for the World Cup in Argentina and, at least for a 13 year old boy, it certainly was a captivating tournament, even if England were not participating.

Even as late as 1990, I was still able to enjoy it. However, it should be noted that the summer of that year was one in which I was playing out the role of Lothario and, consequently, I did miss the England vs Cameroon quarter final in preference for a romantic rendezvous with a young lady in Scarborough. The fascination was fading and now, by 2026, it is moribund.

I know not how many readers will find this of interest and realise that my audience will always be a select one, limited to those who are able to somehow resonate with my writings. Why? On the simple basis that it would be foolish of me to desire or even entertain any form of popularity. After all, why would I seek the momentary attention of an audience that is easily befuddled and hopelessly immersed in the flotsam and jetsam of the material world? Surely, that would be a fool’s errand, especially in a time when fuckwits of all persuasions are using AI to ‘write’ their posts across social media.

Mammon is their god and hopeless befuddlement is the price of worship.

That’s not to say that I cannot enjoy daily encounters – I live in a region where the people are friendly and call each other “duck” and “love” and greetings with strangers continue to be as cheery and cordial as they have always been: “Ayup, duck!” And “How do” and “Alright mate” punctuate our chance meetings and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Therein lies the paradox: I’m in it, just as I am outside it. I am in it but not of it.

Life, in this regard, is one mass game of Okee Kokee (OK?) –

“In out, in out, you shake it all about, You do the Okee Kokee and you turn around,
That’s what it’s all about!”

 

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