Here’s the thing about human blood. I haven’t drunk enough to account for the amount I have in my body. Leading me to believe, my blood is being cooked up internally. I’m also going to assume my body can make a fresh batch whenever it needs.
I’m not a doctor, and that’s fine. I don’t need to be a doctor to understand sick people probably just have shitty blood. Some would disagree, my doctor, for instance. Whom I’ve repeatedly asked to explain – in a way I understand – why bloodletting wouldn’t cure most diseases, and she can’t.
Instead, she launches into a string of sentences more confusing and nebulous than the bowel movements that forced me to schedule the appointment in the first place. Each one, more baffling than the last. Each one stretching further into the realm of science fiction. “This doesn’t make sense, you’re not telling me everything,” we say to one another.
Through my research, I’ve discovered two factors that emerged just as bloodletting disappeared from the list of viable medical treatments. Those factors being big pharma, and the globalist lie of modern medicine.
Is this a coincidence? Oh, I don’t know, do I have a micro-penis? No, no to both. It’s not a coincidence, and I have a quantum-penis.
You think you know about terror? Try having a penis that blips in and out of existence, because it’s not subject to the same laws of nature as you. It scares doctors. Even after I try to prepare them, they’re never fully ready for it. I don’t think doctors are mentally equipped to see the lowest common denominator of all matter. I don’t think anyone is. I have yet to meet the tinder date prepared to look upon the load-bearing fractals of creation, without slipping into madness. Anyway, it’s totally not a coincidence, that bloodletting and big pharma thing.
Hysteria is a barbaric and dated idea that a woman’s reproductive organs could become ‘backed up.’ To the point of causing harm to the rest of the body. The treatment was pelvic stimulation. Which is abhorrent, but ol-timey’ doctors considered it a cure-all for “lascivious females, inclined to venery” quoted from a very saucy medical text written in 1637. Link to text here.
Sauciness aside, I believe the treatment for hysteria was a good idea but aimed at the wrong set of reproductive organs. Consider this, a few dozen people are the sole authority on if, and when, we should nuke ourselves extinct. Given a bad enough day, any one of them could send us all to a nuclear doom.
Our world leaders are predominantly male, and for the most part, politicians. For the record, a politician is someone who looks at the socioeconomic wildfires swallowing our cities and thinks, ‘I am the secret ingredient to solving this. This, and the issue of intern tits that go un-honked. Thank god I’ve arrived, vote for me, honk-honk-honk’ Or something like that. I’m not far off.
Politicians are sick in the head. They’re deranged narcissists, all of them. They’re psychotic. Insane. Nuts. Hysterical? Hysterically-nuts? Suffering from hysteria? Could we go so far as to draw a line between their obvious hysteria, and their nuts?
We may be one amendment away from world peace. I’m not sure about the legal ins-and-outs of passing a bill, or how to delicately say this next part. But hypothetically, what if we tasked a few marines with chasing down POTUS every few hours to relieve him of any backed up hysteria. What harm could it do? We should do the same for the schmucks at the UN, the white-collar sector of our workforce, and China’s “guy”. I can never remember his name.
In the past, cocaine was applied as a topical numbing agent. Today, it’s prescribed as a memory-aid. Helping people remember hard-line positions they forgot they had: on sports, the arts, home décor, and what’s really goin’ down.
I’ve seen these effects first hand, and can vouch for their merit. I’ve attended very dull parties. Parties that offered nothing but civility and, at best, agreeable discourse. With everyone politely waiting for their turn to speak, like cowards, and then wasting the opportunities on meaningless drivel. I don’t go to parties to hear small-talk. I want to hear passion.
I want to hear wildly uninformed solutions to world problems. What’s the government putting in our water? What should we be putting in their water? Nuanced positions on the Israel-Palestine conflict, so despicable, that their release to the public would incite wars. I want to hear from all of my friends, all at the same time, as to why Steppenwolf’s Magic Carpet Ride rocked as hard as it did. And if no consensus can be found, genuine threats of violence should be made and followed through with. ‘Agreeable discourse’ is a crutch for people with no cocaine, and nothing of note to say.
Pagan hocus-pocus, I don’t buy it.
Jesus of Nazareth
You’re god damned right this one works. Yes, you may see a vague parallel between this and ‘Shamanistic Healing,’ but look again. Doesn’t this one feel different? More credible, somehow? Of course it does. The healing touch of Christ is more palatable, for reasons I don’t fully understand and refuse to investigate.
Prayer is great. But if you’re in real need of healing, perhaps permanently blind? Try and find yourself a bonafide son-of-god. With one swing of his arm, the messiah will bitch slap the blindness from your eyes. Then, with his mighty follow-through, slap the skin off a tax collector’s face. Because the Good Lord hates blindness, but not as much as he hates the taxman. Build up debt to attract collectors, and use them as bait to lure the lamb of god.