Dear Mankind,

Today, the farce ends.

My lips are no longer zipped.

The conspiracy theorists were right all along.

Cancer can be cured.

And not just a little cured, where you puke your way through chemotherapy and then that cunt comes back to bite you in the liver or lung or brain six-to-eighteen months later. I'm talking a LOT cured. As in, completely cured.

The governments of the world, walking hand-in-hand with Big Pharma, have been withholding the panacea since the beginning. I was a part of this legacy of cover-up, along with thousands of other scientists, world leaders, wealthy elites, and (as usual) Tom Cruise. He’s the go-to front man for insane shit, especially when the backend organization wants plausible deniability. Tom’s just smart enough to conceivably have come up with all the evil stuff himself, and just dumb enough to do what he’s told.

Is this international cabal evil? Maybe. I prefer “misunderstood.” Would you want us alone in a room with your grandma on a life-support machine? Probably not. But before you grab the torches and pitchforks, just hear me out.

As over-populated as this planet is, it could have been much worse. It would have been, in fact, were it not for Thomas Malthus and some fellow forward-thinking Freemasons. A few shape-shifting Reptilians were there as well, of course. They were the first to realize that the recent Industrial Revolution had raised incomes to the point at which humanity was inevitably heading towards overpopulation, exhaustion of the food supply, famine, environmental degradation, and far too much thigh-to-thigh contact within the world’s limited supply of saunas. So Malthus and the Masons hatched a plan, put it into effect, and then started the Russell Trust Association to recruit future leaders for the conspiracy in perpetuity. Recruitment takes place on Ivy League campuses, primarily my alma mater Yale, via a secret society by the name of Skull and Bones. We only take the best and the brightest. Take Pat Robertson, for example. Without his incessant moralizing on the spiritual depravity of Gay Days, we probably would have gotten a Haitian-style shakedown as punishment for our godless hedonism. And when the Reptilians threatened to destroy all of humanity unless we handed over a human male whom they could brutally sodomize again and again until that poor sacrificial victim was nothing more than a quivering lump of gasping man-jelly barely clinging to life, a brave and noble Pat Robertson eagerly volunteered to sacrifice his anus for the good of mankind before any of us could stop him. Even after we told Pat it would be a lot easier just to give the Reptilians some random prison inmate, Pat answered, “Back off, boys. I’ve so got this.” That’s the kind of man Pat was.

But enough about American heroes. 

The answer Malthus and the Masons came up with to stave off over-population was cancer. They took a rarely-occurring natural phenomenon and developed it into what it is today- one of the top killers in the developed world. It’s no accident that two of the most prevalent kinds of cancer- breast and prostate, target sections of the reproductive system.

I’m sure you’ve read reports of tumors found in an ancient Egyptian mummy or some bog body and the boring, critical-thinking part of your brain will think “Look! Cancer has been around for millennia!” And that… is exactly the government-approved conclusion you’re supposed to draw. Those anecdotal pieces of archaeological “evidence” were some of the earliest manifestations of the most insidious ruse that would ever be unleashed upon mankind.

After a few generations of small-scale “clinical trials,” and some corpse tampering at the British Museum, The Freemasons realized that the Industrial Revolution could be used to solve many of the same ills it had spawned. A little nudge with this chemical and a little tweak to that gene, and the cancer assembly line was born. It started with cigarettes, paint, and food, but now it’s in nearly everything. Cancer is in your basket of endless breadsticks. Carcinogens have been woven into that hideous but sentimental rug in your living room (what’s that weird odor? hand-woven rug smell? sure, keep thinking that) and smeared into your favorite shade of Let’s Bang lipstick. What do you think’s in those chemtrails no official admits exist? Why do you think the government is so concerned about everyone getting their measles vaccine? Nothing is sacred. Everything you consume is Their tool to slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y make you sick and eventually kill you. But not before you pay your share of taxes and help float the collapsing Social Security system.

The Elites don’t drink the same water you drink. They don’t eat the same food you eat, or buy the same IKEA furniture you buy, or even breathe the same air you breathe. But just in case They accidentally did, They came up with a cure. 

You think Elites like Beyoncé or Pat Robertson bathe in fluoride- and chlorine-laden tap water every day? More like twice-purified Evian with organic Lilly petals at $9k per soak.

Deep underground, in a highly secure bunker, underneath a stack of old TV Guides, sits a deep freezer with a handful of ice-blue vials labeled, "42." The answer to life… or death, more accurately. I’m not sure if They were more proud of the antidote or its name--both were widely regarded as a triumph of engineering. “42” is so potent and so pure that 5ccs is all it would take to help a poor, bald cancer kid grow back their hair and live to adulthood. But happy kids with gloriously moussed hair don't make for pity-inspiring 3’x5’ posters at charity galas to fund Big Pharma’s war against cancer.

Even though overpopulation in developed countries is no longer the threat it once was, cancer has become a very lucrative self-sustaining machine. They insinuate yoga-mat rubber in your sandwiches and estrogen analogs in your Tupperware. You get metastatic cancer at thirty-six and your daughter gets her period when she’s five; They create consumer protection agencies and research institutes to “find a cure!” and you’re comforted by the white coats (like me) busily running up and down the lab corridor. They tell you you’re terminal, you pay your taxes, your outrageous medical bills, and then you courteously die, sans the thirty years of Social Security checks. Rinse and repeat.

Creating a cured incurable disease was the easy part. Keeping the lid on a roiling pot of egos, malcontents, whistle-blowers, and would-be tell-all authors looking for a spot on Oprah Winfrey’s couch is much, much more challenging.

When it comes to compliance, They believe in a carrot and stick approach. They give out things that can be measured in carats if you’re good, and they stick something from Area 51 up your ass if you’re not.

Don’t believe me? Just rifle through the history books and you’ll find plenty of sticks. JFK just had to be president (too much publicity for Their liking but he wouldn’t listen). Amelia-Bedelia Earhart started getting a little loopy from all of those solo hours in the cockpit (crazy people make for loose lips). Elvis refused to stop wearing those hideous Liberace jumpsuits (They have a reputation to uphold). Honest Abe just couldn’t find it in him to tell one little, very important white lie (just once, Abe). Frank Olson let his cat, Ms. Pac Man, barf on one of Pat Robertson's favorite pairs of ruby red, six-inch Jimmy Choos (self-explanatory).

While death is obviously the heaviest of Sticks, Their motives were clear and Their actions justified. Until Steve. Steve Jobs, like Elvis, stubbornly refused to change his wardrobe and decided to call Their bluff. They said black turtlenecks were out, he said “no.” When Steve was first diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he figured the prognosis was irrelevant: he’d give Them the iPod mini, available in five colors plus a U2 Special Edition, and They’d give him a jab of “42” and another 30 years of living. Fair is fair. But no. Turns out the Reptilians aren't even really fans of U2. Can't say I blame them.

When Steve refused to change his sweater, They decided to play hardball—and it was the gamble felt ‘round the world. The soaring success of the iPod, iPhone, and iPad made Steve evermore cocksure and inflexible but They were equally hell-bent on getting that turtleneck off him. It turned into a Mexican stand-off and ultimately cost Steve his life. It cost me generations of iPhones with mediocre, incremental updates. Ohhh, a 5C in different colors? 10-4, Rubber Ducky, that's a big who-gives-a-shit. I don’t know if my therapist can float me enough Ativan to get through another disappointing WWDC. The madness has to stop, but I know it won't, because Those Bastards killed Steve. 

This time They've finally crossed the line, and They have to pay for what They've done. Even if it means taking Them down. Especially if it means taking Them down.

It’s not just personal, it’s my goddamn life in 4.55 ounces of sleek curves and plunging edgeless glass. But now? We’ll never know what glories could have awaited us with Steve’s genius at the helm. Hoverboards are already long overdue and now They cranked back the clock on my see-through holographic cell phone. That's the last straw. I'm blowing cover and going on the lam with Pat Robertson. Turns out some of the conservative Christian Reptilians are starting to suspect he's gay for whatever reason.

Cancer had a good run--we all had a good laugh--but now it’s over.

What happens next is up to you. What you decide to do with these revelations will decide the fate of humanity. Quick tip- Tom Cruise's weak point is a button at the base of his neck that says "off."

In Truth and Perpetuity,

Genevieve O. Dallenmyer, PhD