My Dear Friends, and, yes, Enemies, Happy New Year.
As has been our tradition these many years, it’s time to register our predictions for the coming year. We look at how well we did last year tomorrow. As usual, we fared badly.
- Number your predictions, using numbers, like this.
- Limit your predictions to 5, a number less than 6 or more.
- No sports.
- Be specific and provide a way to verify your projections.
- Attach a probability word if you are less than certain.
- Verified predictions of our coming Doom will receive very little weight unless they are quite specific.
1. It is tempting beyond my level of endurance to predict this year, by summer, the coronadoom panic ends. This would be nearly entirely wishcasting, however, since every time some ruler begins his (never her) move toward sanity, the shrieking harpies and soy-boys start screaming “What about the children!”
The Ominous Omicron and testing mania have revivified the panic—but only to a certain extent. Eventually, war wariness must set in. Health Police will admit, if only to themselves and silently, that stopping all death is not possible.
Coronadoom “solutions” will be with us forever, though, applied to flu and even colds. New York is applying them to “racism” (non-anti-white behavior), and others will apply them to “global warming.”
All we can expect, then, is a gradual waning of the harsher aspects of tyranny, with some fixtures being permanent, such as requiring foreigners take their medicine before being allowed in country.
2. SCOTUS sits in a week’s time to decide whether the government can force citizens to take a government-mandated medicine else be forbidden to buy or sell; i.e. the OSHA dictate. Given John Roberts’s instinct to cuck first, ask questions later, I am worried. But miracles do happen and occasionally, just occasionally, he remembers he is a man. I am 50-50.
If this level of toxic femininity is allowed to stand, we are well and truly doomed. Not to a bloody, sudden, or even glorious death. But to a stultifying gray miserable soul-destroying inexorable restrictive increasing entropy. A true triumph of the matriarchy.
3. Obviously, Biden’s meds were better than many of us guessed last year. It appears they’ll be able to wheel him out from time to time and let him read from hidden teleoprompters for at least another six to twelve months. Maybe more.
Even lefties, even the woke, even I, want this to be. No living soul, except for genuine lunatics, rabid feminists and criminal comedians, want The Cackler to be our national figurehead. She is even dumber than a womens studies professor, but has just enough self esteem to go off message unpredictably.
My prediction, like all predictions, but here the conditions are more visible, is contingent: if Joe becomes a drooling mess or dies, The Cackler will not be allowed to rise, or not for long, and she will be ushered off stage. Somehow. They may ax her even if Joe trundles on. Coronadoom, maybe? It’s already acceptable to say the “doubly jabbed and boosted” are likely to get the bug.
4. The crowd-corrected, typo-free, expanded second edition of Everything You Believe Is Wrong will move from selling copies, to selling tens, even multiple tens of copies, as the woke realizes this is the Most Dangerous Book on 2022.
5. It is difficult to predict anything than a continued lurching slide into the longhouse, with the occasional small victory to give the wrong kind of hope. I am certain there will be events, but I don’t know what they will be nor their scale.
This brings up a funny thing about predictions: they’re only really interesting if few or nobody else thinks of them. Then we recall predictions are nothing but inferences from lists of assumed premises. The inferences themselves are merely manual labor, if you like, so it’s really those premises that are of interest. That’s why insider predictions are so accurate and, to some, surprising.
I haven’t any insider information, and can’t conjure any, not at this time, so I haven’t any interesting predictions to make.
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