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Ah, the best-laid plans of mice and untermenschen. This Jew is no happy concentration camper, as the Trump assassination attempt wrecked my summer of sleep.

This one about conspiracy-mongering needs an update, as the Trump shooting “theories” are too good to pass up. Still, I’ll let it run as written in June, and I’ll do a part II next week.

Did I ever tell you about the hippie chick and the veal?

Tina was a real sweetie, quite blonde, quite pretty. In the early 1990s we traveled together to Nazi death camp sites because I know how to show a girl a good time.

She was a self-styled New Age guru. One of her favorite mottos was, “Yer beliefs determine yer reality!”

And I’d ask, “You mean figuratively, like, if you have a positive outlook, you’ll be better able to deal with adversity?”

And she’d respond, “No, literally. If you have cancer but believe you don’t, then you don’t. If you believe you’re a millionaire, you’re a millionaire. Yer beliefs change yer reality.”

“You can alter the physical world with ‘yer beliefs’?”

“Yep!”

And I’d say, “You know that’s batshit insane, right?”

And she’d flash the condescending smile of a wise woman benevolently tolerating a fool.

So one night we’re in Vienna, at a fine restaurant. And I see they have veal. And hot damn do I love veal. I ordered the scaloppine, and Tina barked at me, “That’s baby cow! Precious baby cow! How can you eat that?”

And I replied, “I believe it’s a cucumber salad. And since my beliefs determine my physical reality, it actually is a cucumber salad.”

I’ll never forget her shocked response: “No! No! You’re not supposed to use it for that!”

Tina’s “guru” bullshit was intended for hippie-dippy morons who seek to flee reality. And I got a hard-on of happiness turning that lunacy around on her, and against her.

If you’re well-versed in conspiracy-mongering—the Alex Jones/Jim Fetzer “false flag” stupidity—you know that the keystone phrase of “Everything’s a staged psy-op” is “Where’s the blood?”

These “sleuths” will view photos of a crime scene and declare, “Where’s the blood?” and you’re supposed to go, “Oh wow, right! It must be a fake because there’s no blood! Jim Fetzer is a SLOOTH!”

I wrote about this eight years ago in a piece called “False Flaggots” (read it here). A founding myth of the Jones/Fetzer cult is that the average human body contains as much blood as a large aboveground swimming pool, so when a body’s punctured, the blood will flow endlessly, for hours, for blocks.

When murderous incel Elliot Rodger took his own life at the close of his 2014 rampage, the “proof” it was a false flag was that the car in which he shot himself in the head didn’t fill up with blood that cascaded down the street like a tsunami. The idea that the blood from the head wound could be contained inside the car, absorbed by the upholstery and carpeting, was ridiculous to the supersleuths.

Now, you can show these idiots any number of historical photos, like pics from the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre, for example—a garage full of bullet-riddled men, some corpses with a small trickle of blood, some with zero trickle, but no “tsunami.” You can try to explain how blood congeals (no flaggot has ever once used the term “livor mortis,” and no, that’s not one of my wacky puns), how things like clothing and temperature can influence blood trails, but they won’t listen.

With the Boston Marathon bombing, the “proof” that it was a false flag was the pic of the guy with his leg blown off being wheeled away. “That leg should be spraying a geyser of blood like a firehose!” the flaggots declared.

Where’sthebloodwhere’sthebloodwhere’stheblood?

Following the Pulse nightclub shooting, flaggot extraordinaire Paul Craig Roberts “where’stheblooded” the shit outta the event based on one photo:

A couple of people were helping a guy with tattoos in place of a shirt, but there was no sign of blood. About 6 people were carrying a person stretched out prone (no stretcher) down a street. There was no blood and it looked like a crisis acting performance. Why prone? Is an injured person really able to keep his body stiff so that he can be carried along prone parallel to the ground?

First of all, Roberts, being a functional retard, doesn’t know the difference between prone and supine. And yeah, if you’re playacting at being Sherlock Holmes, it helps to know that difference (here’s the pic he’s describing). Second, the injured person was being carried by six people—two at the legs, two supporting the back, two supporting the head and shoulders. Yes, an injured human can be carried that way “parallel to the ground.” Third, most of the injured man’s body is obscured by those carrying him; we can’t see if there’s blood on the body.

Roberts would eventually declare Pulse a hoax because none of his readers could prove it happened by examining the photos. That’s the extent to which these lunatics believe that every criminal investigation comes down to amateur losers staring at AP photos.

Look, I could go on. Just Google “where’s the blood” and “false flag” to see what a huge trope this was, especially during the Obama years. No one could post anything about a mass shooting without a bunch of flaggots screeching,“Where’sthebloodwhere’sthebloodwhere’stheblood?”

But now we have a fascinating role reversal. Flaggots are boosting wartime casualty photos from Gaza (“look what the ZIONISTS are doing to the CHILDRUNNNNN!”). Boosting them unquestioningly. Gone is the sleutherism, the skepticism, the qwestchins. And even though much of what comes from the Palestinian side is of questionable veracity, many of those Gaza pics are 100 percent real. Adults and children with head injuries and missing limbs.

And no geysers of blood anywhere!

Before I got booted from Twitter, I was trolling flaggots who posted Gaza photos by commenting, “Where’sthebloodwhere’sthebloodwhere’stheblood?” And the flaggot response reminded me of hippie chick Tina: “No, no, ‘where’s the blood’s’ not supposed to be used for that! It’s a tool for fighting Obammer GUN GRABBERS! You don’t use it to help Zionists!”

With Gaza, we’ve seen limbs blown off just like in Boston and no geyser of blood. We’ve seen head wounds that don’t flood a city block. And we’ve seen fewer than six people carry supine bodies (Roberts, the worthless cretin who thinks six humans can’t carry a body, gets his books published by Penguin. Penguin! While I’m considered too toxic for even small-time publishers. That fucking stings. Yes, it’s self-indulgent for me to bring that up, but when exactly should it stop bothering me?).

So I’m curious if any flaggots are willing to admit that “where’s the blood” was always an idiotic trope.

Well, they don’t have to. Because the flaggot community has moved on. Sure, there are still a few odd “where’s the blooders” on Twitter—some tards never understand when a catchphrase is played out—but for the major flaggots, the days of “where’s the blooding” every mass shooting are over.

Why?

Three reasons, all overlapping.

First, Obammer’s come and gone, and he didn’t “take yur gunz.” Of course, you can say, “Yeah, but he’s secretly controlling Joe and Kamala, and they’ll take yur gunz and take the rap,” but c’mon, how many times can you predict a gun grab that never comes?

Second, flaggots have become political preterists (“we’re in the post–End Times”). No more predicting future gun-grabs; the “enemy” made its move already by stealing the 2020 election and framing MAGA for J6. The apocalypse has happened. Saying “They’ll take yer gunz” is passé. The Antichrist “took yer president.”

Everyone’s favorite Musk-coddled neo-Nazi Stew Peters summed it up in a recent tweet: “We’ve been programmed to sit and do NOTHING while astroturfed riots and other false flags happen all around us. Why? To keep you from noticing that our elections are 100% FAKE and stolen.”

Get it? Those little false-flag shootings Jones/Fetzer/Roberts used to spend hours deconstructing? Distractions, all! While those guys were “where’s the blooding” a Walmart massacre, yer elekshun was being stollen!

MAGA/flaggot obsession with 2020 “vote fraud” and J6 “frame-up” has made mass-shooting sleuthing passé.

Add to that the third thing—Jews! A segment of the far-right got tired of talking about nameless “theys” carrying out tiny ops in schools and movie theaters and malls. Time to name the they and paint larger portraits. The Jews are destroying civilization as we know it! Who has time to “where’s the blood” a measly restaurant shooting! That’s a symptom. Fight the cause: Baron Rothschild!

“Where’s the blood” was reactive. Today’s young conspiracy tards want to be proactive! Name the they, and take the fight to the they (by saying “wooden doors” a thousand times and putting “Christ is King” in your bio on Twitter; that’ll defeat ’em!).

None of this is unusual; it’s present in all ideological movements: a thirst for the “hard stuff.” “Diplomatic” oldies are eventually eclipsed by “stop beating around the bush—name ’em and slay ’em” youngsters.

The Obama-era Alex Jones nonspecific sleuthing (“Who’s to blame?” “Obammer!” “Yeah, but who’s behind Obammer?” “Uh…elites!”) that supposedly bankrupted Jones via the Sandy Hook civil suit (I’ll believe it when I see it; Jones will be fine. You still donate to Bannon, who embezzled from you. You’ll surely rescue Jones) is not “hard” enough for today’s young rightists.

“Don’t bore me by saying ‘they’; we’re way past that point. I need something more specific.”

Says Elon Musk.

The fact is, there was never an Overton Window. Never something that expands laterally, that “allows more stuff to come through,” that makes ever-more-extreme material “acceptable.”

That was always a nonsensical notion.

There’s an Overton Gateway. It has depth, not width. It’s not something ideologues look at, it’s something they go through, pursuing ever more hardcore extremism, and it need fit no more than one person at a time, though its capacity for one-by-one is endless.

And as idiotic as I used to find “where’s the blood,” I must admit, as I look at the state of Musk’s “slay the Jews” Twitter, I kind of miss it.

Like my hippie chick’s ramblings, it almost seems quaint, grading on a bell curve.