PAUL IS DEAD.
No—that’s not a typo. What you just read is one of the oldest “conspiracies” still readily available or discussed among theorists today. The foundation of its argument begins like this. On the early hours of Wednesday, November the 19th, 1966, a vicious fight between Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr ended with McCartney storming out of the studio and driving off in his Austin Healey. Along the way he picked up a hitchhiker. Her name was Rita. Neither made it home.
During the sunset of The Sixties, Paul’s gruesome death was the sort of rumor which might only be spread among subscribers of back alley conspirator newsletters or by gleaning the latest gossip on the marijuana train. I don’t say any of this to discredit the fact. Indeed, I’ve wrestled with the Beatles subliminal messaging for years. I’ve actually been trying to figure out if I can add anything new to the discussion, and I believe I can. Just to be clear, the purpose of this paper is not to provide evidence of subliminal messaging as it pertains to Paul’s death. For some, what I have to say may add clarity, perhaps even a breath of fresh air. The frustrated will discover more questions than answers. And we mustn’t forget the haters. They’ll concentrate their laser-beam eyes upon my words too.
Admit it. You probably only agreed to read this paper because you’re wondering if I believe Paul McCartney is dead. I’m already three paragraphs in and you’re accusing me of “beating around the bush.” Get to it, Noel. How you feel about me as a “Truther” awaits in my response. What if I told you that John Lennon is still alive? If this confuses you, then I highly suggest you read my paper on John Lennon impersonator Noel Snow, played in real life by Lennon impersonator Mark Staycer, who is in all probability the one and only John Lennon, despite the fact that he was actually murdered by Manchurian Candidate Mark David Chapman, just not on a biological level. Mark Staycer. No—not confusing at all.
If you’re still following, then my Paul is dead theory goes something-something as follows.
During an undisclosed period of The Sixties, Paul McCartney died. Sort of. The Beatles then replaced him with Billy Shears, aka William Campbell. If you recall, Billy Shears had a heavy hand in penning the Sgt. Pepper album. Then again, Paul McCartney never really died—genetically speaking. And we’re talking merely on a biological level. That’s because William Campbell is Paul McCartney.
Also, the Walrus was Paul.
You’re probably wondering why you just scrolled past a picture of The Doors front-man Jim Morrison when in fact I’m supposed to be writing on Billy Shears, aka William Campbell. “Noel’s beating around the bush again. Never can answer a direct question.”
See, we’ve established by this point that Lennon was Mk-Ultra. That is, if you took the time to read my paper on Mark Staycer.
Jim Morrison was too.
This may require more reading.
The meticulously clean-cut and pudgy 20-year old you see in the picture above, sitting upon the bridge of the Bon Homme Richard in January 1964, did not read nor write music. It wasn’t simply that he never played a single instrument. He was never interested in learning. And yet, Jim “The Lizard King” Morrison was introduced to the world as a fully developed rock star. He arrived a musical shaman. His songs had stunning maturity for a twenty-two-year-old. How strange, since the son of a Navy Admiral showed no interest in making music, much less whistling a tune.
The Doors were formed in July of 1965, a little over one year after the photo was taken. In the intermediary months, inspiration came to him, apparently while hanging out on a Venice rooftop digesting high dosages of LSD. As legend would have it, almost every song The Doors would record over their ensuing career had already been written. And we’re talking a catalogue involving a few dozen songs. How can that be? We are not told. Morrison had simply already envisioned a rock concert in his head. If he did not play a musical instrument, then how did he write songs? We are to believe his very best songs, most of which spanned his musical career, came to him while tripping on acid from a Venice rooftop.
Here it should be dully noted that George Stephen Morrison is directly responsible for the Tonkin Gulf hoax. Mm-hmm. Morrison is the son of a navy admiral, and something about the Gulf of Tonkin hoax. Just let that sink in. Or read more about it here. Jim Morrison. Take all the time you need. Morrison was pimped out.
Rock and roll was an Mk-Ultra psyop.
Just about everyone is familiar with the Abbey Road cover. John the angel. Ringo the minister. Paul the barefooted dead soul. George the grave digger. No conversation in the Paul is dead psyop is complete without it. The far more stunning evidence however isn’t the masterful art piece engraved seemingly effortlessly on a 1969 LP, but George Harrison’s own admission in his first solo album, All Things Must Pass, released in 1970.
The song is titled, “It’s Johnny’s Birthday,” and it shouldn’t take long in any investigation to properly deduct he’s speaking about John Lennon.
More specifically, Lennon’s birthday.
Anton LaVey (I know) said birthdays are “the highest of all holidays in the Satanic religion.” And he’s absolutely correct about that. If the term Satanic seems too superficial or mainstream for you (and it is), then just replace it with the word Mystery. As in, the Babylonian Mystery religion. I will refer you to the following paper I wrote, which pulled just about everyone’s panties in a twist. Birthday. But the brunt of it is this. Birthday celebrations ultimately originated in the Mystery religions, because the esoteric point to the divine hieroglyph is the neophyte coming to the knowledge that he is also divine. And so, naturally, he must worship the elohim within. Plato. The Lion King. The ancient world of Egypt, Greece, Rome, Babylon, and Persia celebrated the birthdays of divine beings and kings. If birthdays became popular for the common man, it’s probably only because Plato’s role was to initiate everyone into the Mystery religions via the immortal soul doctrine. Hence, everyone was now immortal by their own intellect know-how and disciplinary willpower, if they wanted to be. Let the worship of the self commence.
LaVey was a spook. A dressed-up mannequin in the store front window display. A Langley operation. And also a nerd. So, you can only imagine my sigh when I quote his fuller discourse on the birthday celebration, which can be found in The Satanic Bible, and it goes as follows:
“The highest of all holidays in the Satanic religion is the date of one’s own birthday. This is in direct contradiction to the holy of holy days of other religions, which deify a particular god who has been created in an anthropomorphic form of their own image, thereby showing that the ego is not really buried. The Satanist feels: ‘Why not really be honest and if you are going to create a god in your image, why not create that god as yourself.” Every man is a god if he chooses to recognize himself as one. So, the Satanist celebrates his own birthday as the most important holiday of the year. After all, aren’t you happier about the fact that you were born than you are about the birth of someone you have never even met? Or for that matter, aside from religious holidays, why pay higher tribute to the birthday of a president or to a date in history than we do to the day we were brought into this greatest of all worlds? Despite the fact that some of us may not have been wanted, or at least were not particularly planned, we’re glad, even if no one else is, that we’re here! You should give yourself a pat on the back, buy yourself whatever you want, treat yourself like the king (or god) that you are, and generally celebrate your birthday with as much pomp and ceremony as possible.”
Harrison chose a song deifying John Lennon on his highest of holy days to execute his Thelmic craft. Oh, haven’t you heard? Aleister Crowley is another important puzzle piece to the Paul is dead narrative. Hang with me here, because we’re essentially dealing with a split psyche, and the Beast Master Crowley did appear on the cover of Sgt. Pepper. No Paul is dead conversation is complete without him.
First released in 1913, Magick (Book 4) is widely considered to be occultist Aleister Crowley’s magnum opus. In it Crowley insisted that his disciples “train himself to think backwards by external means.” He was furthermore instructed to write and talk backwards, but also to “listen to phonograph records, reversed.”
We have a word for that. Backtracking.
And though this may be argued by some, nobody backtracked like the Beatles.
The Beatles had already sung about the birthday celebration on their 1968 white album. Lennon later called it a piece of garbage. Practically everything McCartney wrote was garbage, according to Lennon. On the same album, John even went so far as to cast Paul in the role of a Lewis Carroll figure. The song was titled “Glass Onion,” and the walrus, as you already know, was Paul. In Through the Looking Glass, the walrus coerced the oysters into his belly. The walrus was an imposter. The comparison seems harsh. But The Beatles were all about manipulation from the very beginning. Mass media manipulation among those sad souls who’ve placed their trust in their product. Corporate manipulation of its own eager shoppers, standing outside in the cold and waiting for its doors to open. The Beatles were both media and corporate. They’re not even hiding that fact anymore. They manipulated their own fans, and everybody loves them for it.
In large part they were a major contributor to the birth of the teenager, which I covered here. Teenagers, an American Invention. And here’s a hint. It had to do with screaming. Also, wet seats. Yeah, it took a janitor to clean that mess up. Total emotional manipulation.
Before you tell me that The Beatles publicist Derek Taylor or their manager Brian Epstein couldn’t have possibly hired the girls needed to scream their lungs out, due undoubtedly to low budgeting, need I remind you that Frank Sinatra’s publicist George Evans did indeed hire girls in the front row, because screaming was not a thing. It worked for Sinatra. Presley too. Women everywhere fed off of that energy. The Ed Sullivan Show was broadcast into nearly every television in America. The Corporate media essentially created a ground swell with sub-psychodramas, whereas somebody would get married, and all the girls who wanted Paul or Ringo or John, fill in the blank, would have their bachelor snatched away from them, and the depression would set in. Even the Beatles breakup played into the psychodrama. It is so ironic that John Lennon officially broke up the Beatles while staying at the Polynesian Resort in Walt Disney World, literally staring at the Magic Kingdom. Walt Disney World was a CIA operation, another psychodrama. You can read about that here, Walt Disney. Also, here. Eat. Sleep Psychodrama. The manipulation of their own listeners emotions would later be played out by Lennon and McCartney’s war of words, particularly on their early solo albums. And it’s so obviously mimicking the sort of abusive relationship of an Mk-Ultra with his handler.
The psyop played out on the subconscious level is mass engineering on everyone.
We’re still on the topic of “It’s Johnny’s Birthday.” The lyrics go something as follows.
“….and we would like to wish him all the very best.”
Backtrack that on the turntable and it sounds precisely like this.
“He never wore his shoes, we all know he was dead.”
I ask you to pause here and attempt to grasp what Harrison is ultimately doing. By drawing out attention to the cover of Abbey Road, he’s not simply talking backwards. He’s walking backwards too. That’s precisely what an adept of Thelma is instructed to do. And I know what you might already be thinking. If so, then you’re wrong. The Beatles didn’t study rigorously to become practitioners of Thelma magick simply to reach out to backmasking pot heads and confess that their dear friend had died, as if they were being held hostage and couldn’t say anything to the media. There’s a reason why John and Paul’s two posthumous Beatles albums, a catalogue of a-side and b-side singles, were called Past Masters. In Freemasonry terms they had achieved their status as grand wizards. Musicians covet the Beatles. It’s not because they want to become a Beatle, historically speaking. They want to cast the sort of spell on the world which the Beatles seemed to effortlessly achieve.
An interesting component to the Paul is dead psyop is how dis-proportioned McCartney is from the other Beatles in their various photographs. On the cover of Let It Be, John, Ringo, and George look stage left while only Paul is gazing directly into the listeners subconscious. In 1966, The Beatles traded out their baby murdering Moloch cover of Yesterday and Today for another which also worships death, but in a far more deviously subtle way. They put McCartney in something resembling a coffin. Baby sacrificing as a means of immortalizing the infant soul can be traced back to Homeric literature. Homer. Then again, burying the mortal initiate cries out Templar shrouds, a practice still predominant in Freemasonry, as well as the coffins of Skull and Bones, a rite that takes us back to the mummies of Egypt, via the Mysteries of Isis. Mummies.
It’s literally in the title. Yesterday and Today.
You will tell me this is proof that Paul McCartney is dead. No, William Campbell is playing the part of Grand Master Jacques de Molay and showing us the way. The man in the shroud of Turin is the holy grail. Templar hoax.
The cover of Sgt. Pepper is for me the most telling. Once again disproportionate from his band members, only Paul is turned away from us. It’s almost as if we’re staring into his Looking Glass image, something which directs us not to Lewis Carroll’s literature so much as Monarch Butterfly. The Beatles are telling us of his split psyche. McCartney has successfully dislocated himself from the Alice peeping into the rabbit hole above with the Alice he has become below. He has journeyed through the mirror into the land of the looking glass. In Oz-ian terms, he has transformed from Dorothy to Ozma.
Billy Shears wrote Sgt. Pepper.
On June 4, 2007, Paul McCartney released an album titled “Memory Almost Full,” in which he sings of his gratitude for everything he’s been given. Once again, the Aleister Crowley disciple backtracks the intended spell. He sings:
“Who is this now….?
I was William Campbell.”
Again, I know what you’re probably thinking. But I do not see this as a confession by some Canadian who won a look-alike contest. Rather, William Campbell, who perhaps also played the part of Billy Shears, yet another persona, was ritualistically split from the psyche of Paul McCartney and then played out as an alchemical psychodrama, but on the subconscious level. The only difference with Mark Staycer’s split from John Lennon is that the psychodrama was intended on an exoteric level and for the worldwide stage.
The Beatles were wizards in every sense of the word.
The final tip off came after stumbling upon an article titled “Paul is dead” on The Wikipedia, the brunt of which emphasizes how Paul’s alleged death among fans has become “the subject of analysis in the fields of sociology, psychology and communications.” Roughly translated, if you’re putting any credibility to the “Paul is dead” conspiracy, hence the very reason you clicked onto their article, then you have psychological issues. There’s some irony for you. Spooks created Billy Shears as surely as they created the Beatles. They threw bread crumbs in the way of album art and lyrics from the very get-go, and it’s a loaded cow, because several decades later they’re still milking that tit. They then went on to write articles in Rolling Stone and The Wikipedia calling you psychologically imbalanced for picking up on the finer details of their psyop.
Oh, haven’t you heard? The Wikipedia is spook literature. It’s written by spooks and for spooks. It’s how they pass notes in class. Also, how they jump through fiery hoops in order to keep the lie alive for the Corporate consumer. It’s like watching an Illuminati movie script in the form of a chocolate candy bar set upon the dashboard of my car on a blistering hot day. I just love to sit there with the windows down, watching it melt. Spook literature loves to
manipulate remind us all how they’re dissecting our psychological issues this very moment, as we speak, because you’re a rat in a cage. That’s how they see you. You’re a rat. A slave to the cage. And they built the maze.
To put their manipulation in slightly different terms, they’re gas-lighting you.
Gas-lighting. The very phrase derives from the 1944 film of the same name, Gaslight. Its plot centers on a thief who tries to convince Ingrid Bergman that she’s crazy so as to lock her up in an institution, thereby stealing the jewels hidden in her house. After raising and dimming the gaslights throughout her house, he convinces her that she is imagining the whole thing. Get it…? The jokes on you. If you look across a flat horizon from the seashore and don’t imagine a curve just beyond it, then you disagree with the lab-coat professionals overseeing your maze and therefore have psychological issues. Just do as you’re told and look for the cheese which is completely unreachable.
Sometime in 1967, Paul McCartney, or was it Billy Shears, wrote the following lyrics.
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning ’round
Excuse my French, but who the hell writes lyrics like that? Certainly nobody who’s drunk the K-Aide. The Fool on the Hill was released in November of 1967. We’re in the thick of the Cold War. America is pressed to the space race against Soviet Russia, only two years away from the Apollo moon landing hoax, and Beatle Paul is dropping lyrics that openly insinuates you’re a fool for believing the Copernican Revolution. Also, you’re psychologically ill for noticing. You’ve just been gas-lighted. For this we can undoubtedly thank his handler.
“His handler…?” You sigh.
Before you accuse me of reading
Billy Shears Paul McCartney wrong, we need to consider that The Who openly spoke of the Copernican-revolution hoax only two months beforehand. I Can See for Miles was released in September of 1967, and it goes like this:
I know you’ve deceived me, now here’s a surprise
I know that you have ’cause there’s magic in my eyesI can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles
Again I ask, who the hell writes lyrics like that? Mk-Ultras, that’s who.
In the final months before John Lennon bowed out at the hands of Mark David Chapman, via split psyche, the former Beatle wrote the following lyrics:
People say I’m crazy
Doing what I’m doing
Well, they give me all kinds of warnings
To save me from ruin
When I say that I’m okay, well they look at me kinda strange
“Surely, you’re not happy now, you no longer play the game”People say I’m lazy
Dreaming my life away
Well they give me all kinds of advice
Designed to enlighten me
When I tell them that I’m doing fine watching shadows on the wall
“Don’t you miss the big time boy, you’re no longer on the ball?”I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go
Yeah, um, that’s interesting.
This is precisely what our Slave Masters do. They dangle the Truth right there in front of you. Like a block of cheese on a string. Because you’re a rat. In a cage. And they created the maze. Just the other day Skynet sent me an article which actually read along the lines of: If you see pictures of celebrities everywhere throwing their allegiance up to Horus, then you’ve got a psychological problem. Get it…? The jokes on you, Noel. You have the problem. It’s not their fault that they keep shoving it into your face. Mm-hmm, gas-lighting.
Speaking of which…
If you see McCartney throwing up his allegiance in—I don’t know—say, the below picture, which derives from a recent issue of GQ, then you’re probably psychologically ill for noticing.