Rage and Ruin in the Outback: The UN’s Globalist Inferno Engulfing Australia and Beyond

It’s Sunday, or maybe the devil’s own Tuesday, who gives a shit, I’m crouched like a junkie over a splintered table in Broome, the air so thick with dust, sweat, and dread it’s choking my lungs like a UN-issued gag. A warm stubbie of White Fish festers, untouched, sweating like it knows the end is near, while my eyes burn holes into a dog-eared copy of Agenda 21, that satanic UN gospel radiating control, a death sentence for Australia scribbled in globalist ink. This ain’t diplomacy, it’s a bloody Armageddon, a bonfire fueled by the United Nations, torching every proud nation, our sunburnt outback, America’s heartlands, Britain’s green hills, while snake-eyed suits laugh in their New York lair. 

The conspiracy freaks are howling from the void, their paranoia a tidal wave drowning me, my pen shaking like it’s possessed by the ghost of every Aussie battler, scribbling to unmask the globalist cabal turning our world to ash and microchips. The UN’s no dove of peace; it’s a wrecking ball swinging from a drone, piloted by faceless elites with one-world dreams. Here in Australia, they’re clawing at our soul, ripping away what makes us Aussie, our land, our guts, our right to tell Canberra to fuck off. 

Agenda 21, that 1992 manifesto, is their Necronomicon, a 300-page hex disguised as “sustainable development,” whispering war on the battler. Private property’s the first to burn, farmers herded off their dirt into “smart cities,” electric cages where digital IDs pulse like tracking chips in our veins. The outback’s locked in chains, branded “biodiversity” by greenie priests chanting UN hymns, while our miners and fishers choke on regulations tighter than a corporate noose. The Great Barrier Reef? A UN World Heritage hostage, barred to our boats so their mates, shadowy suits with offshore accounts, can plunder it like pirates. 

Don’t even get me started on the Pact for the Future , slammed through in ’24, a globalist delusion demanding our economy, our borders, our bloody souls on a silver platter. It ain’t just Australia in the flames. The UN’s firestorm scorches every nation with a spine. In America, they’re gutting the Second Amendment with “urban planning” voodoo, herding Yanks into megacities while ranchers watch their land vanish into “conservation” black holes. I’ve heard whispers, screams even, that the UN’s bankrolling migrant caravans to swamp the US, drowning its culture in a flood of chaos, same as they’re doing to us with immigration policies that reek of betrayal. 

In Britain, voices chant victory over newly stolen land, while the UN’s Global Biodiversity Framework shackles farmers to “net zero,” a guillotine for wallets as food prices rocket to the moon. Canada’s bleeding too, gun bans and carbon taxes, straight from the UN’s playbook, echoing The Limits to Growth, that Club of Rome screed preaching scarcity to chain us all. And Ecoscience, that Paul Ehrlich nightmare? It’s muttering about population culls, forced sterilizations, food rationing, a planet “saved” by rulers who want us on our knees. 

The conspiracy realists are frothing, spitting truth like venom, and I’m drinking their poison, convinced they’ve cracked the code. Silent Weapons for Quiet Wars, some leaked gospel of doom, paints the UN as a front for a cashless dystopia, every transaction tracked, every rebel crushed under digital boots. They’re torching strong nations to raise their one-world empire, a New World Order preached by Gary Allen’s None Dare Call It Conspiracy and G. Edward Griffin’s Creature from Jekyll Island. The UN’s claws are everywhere, Australia’s lockdowns, America’s border madness, Britain’s energy collapse, you name it. 

Rumors swirl their “humanitarian” fronts are laundering billions, maybe arming Hamas, Hezbollah, or whatever boogeyman you pick. It’s insane, but Agenda 21’s a call for “relocating populations” and “re-wilding” half the earth? That’s the UN’s own words, a siren song for control. I’m trembling now, the pub’s light flickering like a dying pulsar, Broome’s air humming with invisible drones spying for the blue helmets. Australia’s a proud beast, forged in sweat, mateship, and telling the world to piss off. 

But the UN’s inferno is closing in, same as it’s roasting the Yanks, the Poms, anyone who stands tall. Their “climate crisis” is a con, data cooked like a bbq gone wrong, justifying taxes to gut our coal towns and feed us lab-grown slop that tastes like surrender. The Global Compact for Migration? A scheme to flood us with mouths we can’t feed, erasing our identity like chalk in a storm. The WHO’s pandemic treaty, UN-backed, of course, wants to jab us into oblivion, no questions allowed. It’s all there, in their own cursed documents, a funeral pyre for freedom. 

The outback’s meant to be ours, wild, free, a middle finger to control. But the UN’s got us in their sights, just like America’s prairies, Britain’s fields, Canada’s forests. They’re burning it all, leaving ash and obedience in their wake. I’m just one mad bastard, scribbling in a Broome pub, the walls closing in like a smart city’s jaws. But I’ll be damned if I let this fire spread quietly. The UN’s not saving the world, they’re torching it, nation by nation, and Australia’s next unless we ignite the resistance. 

Pass the bottle, doc - if they want fire, our defiance is the spark that’ll burn their globalist dreams to cinders.

-Gopher Cough