Jack >K⅞🅿️∞>kⓂ️©>K⁷⟨ZīVī⁵∆§∆Ⓜ️Îkrπ:
You are going to need a whole lot of your friends to come back you up if you're going to claim that my property was ever yours and that I have ever stolen anything from you. Like a Denny's completely packed out with bikers and AYCE hotcakes for all.

Is it even funny as a joke? Hard to say as the idea simply doesn't track. It's getting on to be your turn to dine on what I serve.

I find your criminal accusations to be in particularly poor taste. I am going to assume that your private abuser tested your system and I think you shouldn't compete where you don't compare.

Now that I have unraveled enigmas that have left me mystified for five decades I don't know how any of you came to imagine that vague whining scores anyone points. I was asked to help by those who would appear to have been fully COMP’d by quack-like government nerds and their needs for razing old growth crap to empower a further generation.

Or whatever you think about it, Old Navy bean-breath. I still don't know what the truth was as I don't need to do that but I was told you leave when I do? I could learn to own any of this without the contempt.

I never considered the possibility that anyone I met would have thought that deliberately misleading me was a workable notion. I haven't anything to gain by lying and to an unusual extent I have lived my life to do my best to explain myself truly as far as I knew anything to be true at all at the time of the explanation.

When I ask questions I expect answers. When those answers are bald, open-faced lies I don't always discover this immediately. It can take some time.

To this day I am still quite unaware of what any of you thought you were doing or what had happened. At all. I think you're missing the headline here.

I had no idea who any of you were. I still don't know. I have now lost all curiosity, and am perfectly content to abandon any pursuit of truth. (Maybe it's not for you.) What I need to know, I get to know.

I don't need to know what happened. I have to know what everyone thinks happened, because it most likely didn't. I see no urgency in this.

What one resists, persists.
And what one looks at, disappears.

You know exactly who stole my identity and then used my image and likeness while strealing from yourself. I knew nothing of any of you, not even your existence, for well over a decade. YOU LITERALLY KNOW THIS.

YOUR ENTIRE CREW HAS ARRANGED ALL THIS IN ORDER TO DUMP ALL LIABILITY AND EXPENSE ON ME WHILE SUPPRSESSING MY LIFE VIA FALSE NARRATIVES.

Dude, I'm going to be fucking myself plenty. You can spare me your command tones. You can also spare me the opportunity to become reactive mass for your Mr. Fusion. Or whatever the fuck you wanted to have me assimilated by.

You follow orders. I follow instructions. We are not the same.


I have never stolen from any of you.

Stealing from me and blaming it on me as well is the most pathetic Commie ploy I've ever seen. It would seem obvious to me that coercive use of force in order to rob me blind is a waste as I wouldn't see myself being selfish and isolating.

To steal from anybody is to take one's own future opportunities and cinder them. Everything was stuff you would have had access to anyway and I literally had nothing of any idea what to do with it.

Going to the trouble of giving it to Your_Sister and letting some fat oinking Fed fuckwit thug take it as a dowry while brainwashing her into sexual bondage and hatred of me doesn't seem worth the trouble since I actually like her, or liked; and as this makes no sense I'm going to conclude that I am writing to a fake Bustin.

Good. You're probably Bach because you writing about how being a thieving douche is likely something he finds cool. What a brilliant gift of Providence. Meanwhile I am drained nearly to max zero and I didn't need any of it at all.

I didn't need any of you as kleptomaniacal racist bigot teetotaling scum. So it looks exactly like I'm replying to the main perp who clearly thought he were better qualified to live my life than anyone.

I think it unlikely that anyone else would want me to give up and leave him alone with everything I ever had that was worth a tinker’s damn. Yet that is exactly what has been being attempted to be done for nearly five years.

I've been left alone to die without communication and being accused of stealing my own property.  Well, where did I put it? Next to my father's ashes? Holy fuck, whoever you are is fucking stupid.

Christopher at Mud Bay.
Dennis’ friend at the coca banging session on Capitol Hill in the 90s.
Your sister's friend who lead my ass 500 miles to get something I never had any need of before for a birthday party I wasn't invited to for women I hadn't seen in thirty years and had assumed were actually fucking dead.

THE SAME GUY. THAT'S LIKELY THIS BUSTIN. WHO IS A NEEDLE AND CHEMICALLY DEPENDENT RACIST OINKING BITCH. Why can't you be in prison or hung from a fucking tree is a political mystery to me that holds exactly zero interest.

Should I call 911? Don't you have people for that? IDGAF, shitbag.

“Stage four metastatic cancer." Hopefully you can still get erect to imprint your quota of chattel flesh.

As I have no idea what the truth is and I cannot receive a single goddam phone call FOR THE LAST THREE YEARS AT LEAST I wil be thrilled to let other, better men than I figure out all of this, because I simply have better things to do with my time. Everyone else around you could have followed the fucking law but instead NOT ONE PERSON HAS ASKED ME ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED. I GUESS YOU ALL KNEW EVERYTHING IMPORTANT.


KNOW THIS: YOU'RE ALL FUCKING STUPID. Dimwit fuckdrug addicts and you were there the entire time, so obviously Louis and pate/Jim/todd/Rick/Leah/Officer Gann and however many other shithead drama mama faglord fucks that a Caboodle full of makeup and airplane glue can slap a coat of paint on and make sweeping threats of prosecution with. You and your whitefaggot squad of Pillsbury dough nutboys can suck each other off in hell for all I give a fuck.

The Trust is for my SOLE and EXCLUSIVE benefit, you dumbass copisland niggerbitch. You've committed fraud on a scale that can only be described as massive. And I stole from you, huh? Holy shit are you one fucking high fat piggy bitch.

Merry Christmas. Choke on dicks in Hell, and take every fucking chucklehead on Bellgab with you.


“Please leave!”

Better yet, eat the barrel of your service weapon. As the lowest form of scum on the face of the Earth, anything less would be uncivilized.


L‘haim, Tubby. And if I have to lift so much as a three-ring-binder or spend as much as a $2 bill OF MY OWN MONEY, THAT I EARNED, ASSHOLE, I guarantee that you will fucking regret wasting my goddam time. I am not getting any younger, shithead.

But I’ll never be too old to carve out your liver with your car keys and chow it down while watching you gurgle “Camptown Races." Eyes on you.

I should have liked you. Instead I regret not breaking your neck in my car when I suddenly wanted to. Did you have fun drugging and raping her sisters? Since I recall that you said you wanted to.

You do that while SCREECHING at me to never do what everyone else does, all over the world. How fucked up you are!

Louis Wain: your friend is shit and sow: you are too. Sad! Sad! BITCH BETTER HAVE MY MONEY CLICK

Sorry, wrong number. Aim far.

Yes, you are give traditionals the iterative power to be referenced at every start, and your schedule ends with only your hands grabbing at your nether zone.

Or if I pass away from the game to all throw&dows and double-check MYSELF to rememberha🎉🎉t stop asking the nercgoat quesries. For example I don't need to know if you know what you need to get.

I know right now you need to have a travel shelter because do you need to have a shelter, yes. Do you need to travel? Arguably not.

And if you did you can teleport and maybe that would be nicer for you. No one used the sign. It's a sign. It's not a sin sign.

I remember what I felt when you did what's on your attention and I remember you were ashamed. I remember you wished that you could stop and you felt badly about being unable to stop yourself from feeling good. It wasn't. It was dood.

You seem to have the ability to stop yourself now. You don't stop others, you don't know what it is but you don't tell me in your mind that you feel exploited, because what's the point? You already know you are exploiting me.

Better dopamine hit for you if it seems I am clueless. It didn't look sophisticated to me when you told me you thought I was going to call the police for you.

? No promises, talk to anyone and I would be happiest if I don't swindle out a felony charge from you because I don't really have any reason to think you know what you are trying to accomplish.

Capt. Miller<, Capt™ Horse Ax Shun, Captain Glory, you didn't know how to do any of this at first and you still don't. Because you think I should be going out of my way for you, for decent regular interactions that I thought would be fine in the first place.

You were already given and seated and I didn't want to think about having no idea who gave you I didn't know what and you couldn't say Anything Helpful. You still haven't.

I wish l already knew what you are hiding because you already do; and I am obviously hiding something from you.

It's my spiritual disbelief. Literally do not think you even consider my likelihood to be convinced or persuaded or even present.

You think of me and set me impolitely on a road towards my doom and I assume that feels hotter than leaving me on the street reading symbols. I really don't know because you have never bothered to start with an A.

Or an apartment, alone. Or an explanation in spoken English. Or an acknowledgement that you are a lot more shy than other people that I have called 911 for.

I don't need 911 but you don't need me for much of anything. Money. You don't really need that either. I also find it easier to error withdrawal a toilet than a 🎉 sheaf of bills.

You also don't have any reason to tell me the truth about anything and you literally just asked for money and then disappeared for a week. Let me think this through for us.

Your brother, husband, and the boyfriend are all scum and you all enjoy abusing me while burning what remains of my mommy's cold hard cash on each other's enjoyment.

You're all covert narcissists and you literally had thirty years to value the time with me. It never came up in conversation even once until you had to find someone to setup for your oinkmaster handler jarhead turbo-pervo freak partner, who is almost assuredly reading this to you. Why would that not be happening?

“two hits of acid buy chance.” I literally never said we should do it again. We never did it at all. YOU DID. The next day I was abruptly labeled something criminal and at no time have you ever... mentioned basically anything ever again. (+1, Nostalgia.)

Except money and that you don't remember.

Is it more fun for you, is there a bigger hit of dopamine when the lies are incredibly obvious and I appear to believe anything? I don't have the ability to remember believing anything since the first minute, “i like your name where did you come up with it,”

“it's on the side of a building," of course it was. Two fives, that's my birthday, why did you... “a coincidence that doesn't mean anything.” You literally said this and still seem unaware of the chilling effect here.

Why you and Beau and Gabrielle and whatever her sibling is named and Andrïy and... i assume every person you've ever met, never speaks of you, you haven't ever explained anything to me besides to seek attention and sympathy, you make a false police call to say I pulled a knife, and I never did.

The knife was given to me as a selection of choices for me to pick one, did I need a knife? According to the father of the hood rat brawler who looks like his mother, braids his hair like her, looks exactly like Vince and nothing like me, and demands items and cash from me only slightly less insistently than you, he sent in G or K or maybe even you to steal from my pocket what he wanted and I said no to...

It is exactly impossible that you're unaware of how stupid all of this is when looked at together; that's why the dopamine hit for “fooling” me, since you were programmed to steal a baby on our first date and not to have a pleasant time together. At all.

In no way are we at all together. You let someone i had never met before (because why the fuck would any of you want me in the way of anything you get together, you're all trained in the art of commandeering all those resources I didn't even deserve to know about as far as any of your peer group knows) take whatever and anything wherever. Good girl. You get biscuits I am certain. (Anything can be a dildo if you're alone long enough.)

My mother has been dead for ten (10) years and at no time did I find myself looked at unless it was by your oinkyballer team as a location to case.

Literally. It is as though nothing means anything to you unless you get money to give your Lead Thumpy Badge and sex with someone who, obviously, gets high on whatever they decide, refrain from ever telling you what these chemicals actually do, and leaves you behind to gather dust while your higher KARMIC self, you possibly have seven of them, all deeper throats than the next, and all of this is simply never addressed.

I do not really understand how any of you missed the day of orientation where metadata and triangulating is explained but Anthony, Lisa, B. Radach and Michelle (nice opal, does it ever change appearance, oh that's a secret), NEARLY FIVE YEARS LATER I mention all this and none of you saw this far ahead, sure:

YES THAT IS WHAT SEX ADDICTION DOES TO A PERSON AND WHY AFTER FOUR TRIPS TO THE PSYCH WARD IT OCCURS TO NONE OF YOU THAT, NUMBER ONE: DUH; NUMBER TWO: OF COURSE THERE ARE RECORDS; AND NUMBER THREE: NONE OF YOU GIVE A FLYING FUCK AT A ROLLING DOUGHNUT ABOUT ANYTHING EXCEPT FUCKING WHAT REMAINS OF YOUR BRAINS OUT THE BARN DOOR.

“Move.” HA! People I never met before are suddenly telling me how much they love my house while barely concealing utter disgust, at what I have no idea, obviously my mother's sixth anniversary of her death was a great time for all of you especially when calling me to tell me to hurry up and to ask for “permission” to consume my alcohol.

As if this mattered to any of you. All of you see no difficulty with robbing me blind while abusing drugs and shrieking at me for being an addict. Chris Fox is here RIGHT NOW who’s your first memory before calling speed dial, and does he acknowledge this or mention that it's Tammy’s anus I am asked about at knifepoint on a major holiday? Fuck no.

Until now I am pretty sure he thought I was in fact the next rain man. They're sitting on what used to be my mother's couch, then was mine long enough to be my job to haul it down, and now it has become the property of whomevah. Since none of you bothered to figure out what happened, none of you think anyone made an error except for me.

Because those to pay there-is-no-child support should be seen any not heard. It's just easier, for all of you, to get along and move on to the next path to the next peak orgy bliss moment.

Your ridiculous brother “I'm not her brother” is now sending messages, just by chance, JUST BUY CHANCE, it is mesmerizing how asinine you all are for your dopamine rush, the Duper’s Delight is money in the bank, and for thirty years, for a good time to be paid for by the mother who fucked up your plans, somehow, and to abuse her 15 ½ year old son (who still to this day has no understanding of how short-sighted badge vadge and their TrimGard™ HAGZ can be, seriously you gave me a disease, TOGETHER, DELIBERATELY, it makes me resilient to infection, NONE OF YOU SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS, except to THE ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD, that you LIE TO and make it far worse, and it never drops into awareness: I did nothing wrong and if you wanted sex that bad it seemed unwise to burn the bridge. But you didn't want sex at all. You wanted stolen semen from an underage child, A CHILD, obtained freely without coercion from a sober virgin who should have already filed lawsuits, except why bother?

You're going to need what cash you have left in order to pay for their college education(s), maybe ITT Tech where one can learn to implant contact lenses to display augmented reality, or whatever cheap hack whack-job toy you use to gain an advantage over everyone else, since you are traveling back from the future in “the simulation,” except there is no Matrix. It is all one world. One timeline with one beginning, middle, and end.

You all have shitloads of money. So what if your assets are frozen, there's always another tree to steal. Though there is unlikely to be another person who enjoys this Company Policy and possesses even a shred of plausible deniability, “what? who is that? hurry up and put on this dicksock while I literally just lay there and seethe."

A paper airplane has more game in the sheets than you and I ever did as you're never going to be recreating interest that was never actually there. If you wanted excitement you had crystal methamphetamine AT SIXTEEN, TEETOTALISTIC SCUM and loyal Timecope partners, and there was no reason to overcomplicate the issue.

There is no mystery as to how this made sense to you. You've been programmed to fleece easy money and to have as little physical enjoyment as possible, because years of lying about your abuse of The Holy Shards has made you all into a gang of abusive, narcoholic thieves with zero shame about lying to me and swiping whatever you all could at any opportunity. Because obviously I ruined your lives by not being A COMPLETE IDIOT. I am sure this is still a neverending thrill for anyone with the self-entitlememt and the myopic vision to find open-faced lying and outright theft to be a fun way to earn a karmic debt load.

It is very difficult to find anything about your proposals, such as they ever have been, as anything but straight-up larceny. Like this is all doing me a favor by pretending to be stupid for so many years that it sinks in like method acting? I have an ambitious work ethic now? I can thrill to the waves of nostalgia as I watch this guy (he's overcompensating with random shouting as roams around the 4.1 acres that once were nice and would have stayed better if only your primary rapist thug hadn't changed things to more his liking and not at all anyone else with a dick? Makes sense because it's amazing what Algonquin power can do.

I don't suppose it has much in the way of going back about an hour when you somehow managed to believe I am this stupid, but look at the bright side: this will really help future historians and present day investigations determine the following:

You asked about your own anus while knowing that the answer was never;
You kept key details about events as they had actually transpired completely hidden from me, thus enhancing your position of entitlement over me;
The continuation of this laughable narrative that I am offering you money (for more desultory sex that we never had in the first place) in exchange for RapeTime™ with your clone vat avatar, of course the 1416 house is a stage, of course it is cluttered with unnecessary props, of course I am on my belly in the street at gunpoint (weapons are very impressive to drug addicts with years of resentment and envy over all the sex someone else is not even having, that don't matter) all the more reason to screech at lazy they are.

I don't know how much more I need to sperg out a shot-for-shot remake of your diary of gross mistakes that no one actually made.

I am going to send you the money because you've lost everything you had by chasing base, craven highs with your mewling coterie of bullying and swindling theft merchants — because of course this was all your idea, what a great idea, spend a few weeks confusing someone who knows very little of what people with absolutely no reason to care about people with absolutely no social support system are capable of doing; and then let yourself be programmed by adults to believe that I somehow developed the sophistication to, #1) infect myself with a deadly disease, #2) defile myself with another disease while simultaneously mocking the urge to mother (which you literally said nothing about ever but of course all women do nothing else but plots with dolls(; #3) you simply never thought any of this through and allowed fourth dimensional fagbreeders to cover the world with the exact antithesis of reality.

Which was this: I did what I thought was best and what I would have found something I would be able to accept. Since I DIDN'T HAVE TELEMPATHETIC NEGOTIATIONS FOR SIMULATED RAPE AGREEMENTS WHILE HIGH AS BALLS ON CRYSTAL METHAMPHETAMINE AT ANY AGE.

LET ALONE AT FIFTEEN. I am sure you had it all planned out beautifully with SOMEONE ELSE ENTIRELY WHO SOUGHT TO EXPLOIT US BOTH, hi Babs, please don't feel awful, as it was a pretty good plan and a very generous opportunity to someone who actually wanted to reproduce and actually had money. I am sure my parents had plenty of stolen wealth. I am sure they still do. The wages of sin are death. #paymetoo

None of it is something I knew anything about, I still don't, nobody has ever answered a question I have put to them in my entire life in any useful manner, and half a day after begging for $30 like it was the the of the world, now it's $29 needed for —

it's just so your faggot cop boyfriend will feel like a real man while you go off “to work,” and the case-building lately has been truly phoned in while everyone fronts that butter wouldn't melt in your mouths, not a one.

But meanwhile you condemn me for having zero shame about being competent of my own limits and the law. I'm pretty sure no one could ever limit you at all or prepare you for the day, maybe today, when consequences at last present themselves.

It's not the first time you've hassled me for cash. You have never had any respect for me to lose and I doubt there's a single speck of manseed any of your entourage leaves behind that you don't roll around in so as to take the edge off.

That's great for you all. What would also be great is if you had any reason to pursue the mindless pursuit of ever greater hoards of piled-high fiat and conquests empty of any significance except you showed me who is boss, again, like a ©o©k-enslaved Amway™ distro slob with neither couth nor concern for anything that isn't getting either from anyone without a struggle or a trip from a fag beginning and closing it at all at final wolf final rust the mmmmm. Tell it to whatever gets sent in to off themselves when the pocket change is down and low, low, low. So low that it is time to fraud less and celebrate more and I am sure that when personal involvement is called for, your sparrowhawk grimgott’s crush pincers can pull off the illusion. Or whatever it is you do with money obtained through deception that can only delude those who forgot I was only here to follow the money. Oh obviously. Nothing better. Hugs are lies.

Thirty years and not one mental health doctor has explained how shallow most of you have been the entire time. I don't get asking me for anything. You conned me and knowingly helped that minor to get with me in any way. SIXTEEN ISN'T A MINOR UNLESS IT IS. FFS, you're not even a pædophile, they just tell you that while hitting you up with smack for the fluffing. (I hear that it's slimming.)

Lying to everyone reading the conversations that never have been about anything but keeping everyone from noticing that someone was rolled for money but omfg like you are literally just giving it away, dude bro I think you need to take a step back.

It's probably just Africa. It's probably nothing to you. I probably will claim 200ft of conveniently marked territory.

That's where you can go prepare to explain to a GRAND JURY INQUIRY as if it matters at all. It's just money.

You have plenty. I have virtually zero and watching you Hoove®™ it up for the benefit of the losers who turned you into a cash-fisted snorefest that they could use as a weapon against lazy children of first generation immigrants is a triumph of technology and genteel breeding that any Nouveau Schwabenlander should feel empowered by.

In Life, if one does have the shekels of another, one doesn't have anything at all, really, except for a tongue typecast as a Cocaroon and a new high score, taken off the backs of the proletariat and swiped from the mouths of their children; that they don't have, didn't choose, and would have been sold for organ meat and easily as they would have been juiced up as >Ⓜ️K∆>k†¡ve revenen∞ers for the apparatchik bureaucracy and trophies to signify the grand rank of family.

And then made into whatever someone with a lot of money does with thoughtlessly spawned vermin–·¡si-h mid-tier citizens. I wouldn't know, buy them sunglasses and beers without implying that they owe anyone anything.

I changed my mind. (I am sure your girlfriend hates my money until her partners litterally rape the stuff out of your grasp. (700$ on clothes and you “forgot.” Hardly stolen; they were probably entered into evidence.) You have plenty of people you can beg from. Maybe you can get one to remember your Dad's birthday. Or yours. Or hers. Those are days when no one gives me any money, by the way. This year was particularly pathetic, as I've never seen such a load of fake work time wasting in my life. Like I was expecting anyone to do anything I desired; or that limping around in a ghost car with nowhere to go — a trespass order that your local badge vadge rapers force upon the residents of a home labeled with the time of my birth on it, does anyone consider that's a great point of inflection to apply pressure, of course not.

Not #Officially. You're living the dream and the dog never morphs into a rabid raping biped, that's totally hackneyed. Instead: YOU'RE THE F****** TRUSTEE, AND YOU HAVE A GANG OF THUGS THAT ROBS ME BLIND IN MY HOUSE PREVENTING ME FROM GOING ANYWHERE AND SPREADING RUMORS DESIGNED TO KEEP ME ISOLATED FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE AND NOBODY CAN F****** TELL. Bullshit, you just pay extra to keep the wheels greased. You trapdoor floor me into a Kafkaesque Romper Room and not one goddam clinician asks me a fucking doctor question, because... why? EVERYBODY KNOWS AND THEY HAVE FOR 20 YEARS, YOU HAVE A CONSPIRACY OF S*** SPLAT SILENCE TO MAKE SURE NOBODY FINDS OUT. It's not even all that impressive. It's just a stupid thing your primary enabling rapist says before feeding you the drug milk.

Who is Alli’s son and hasn't figured out that stealing from anyone is only taking from one’s own future. For example, you had your chance to provide exculpatory evidence to the Court.

Your two (2) narc daddies have spent the last four years reducing this place to rubble while taking everything “somewhere” and this seems like a good use of everyone's time, I guess? It's probably being stolen again by whatever überj∞ claws up the gutterspout and none of you really care what you're getting from a weary veteran of public recess Hell.

As long as I don't have as much as (You.) I'll just figure it out with a crippling disease vector and a necrotic reputation and a cooing gaggle of drooling simpleton party cadre extras haunting my life FOREVER because you weren't able to succeed in making another fail.

That is what grooming gangs do and when enough people thought you had caused enough skid row reliquary of loathing, they took your fun away and this was meant to let us both die in proximity while surrounded by ash. For he is aptly named and if it is at all possible, you'll never remember me at all while being sponked on by a coke wizard who lied to me about some dame that was either your sister or your wife and while there is no legal reason to tell me the truth, intending to decieve Clergy is mostly likely a quick way to ensure that Special Consequences will be invoked. Hang on.


To this very day: my resources have slowly vanished and I don't get paid. Ever. By anyone. For anything ever at all.

I don't need to give you money. You don't need to know what you and your squad of robbing fag-hoods are actually doing... the color wants out of the ground, and you are all only too-too happy to obey the demands of The Earth.

Then it's the roof, Baby. Get choked out by Rabbi Wye (I remember wondering if she had her own dick to go with those boots and didn't care either way before she was murdered by your henchinator safety guy, so I'm reminded that work has not and will not set me free) while Life is gradually cheapened on the daily by those who would do to you for free, what you thought I should be paying you for.

How fucked up you are! (Standards.) And before you gray out in self-loathing, it's important that you know that there are simple solutions for all of your simplest of problems.

Your Dad simply doesn't want you to have solved nor does he think I am going to solve anything with you. Or §🆔i-!E.

There are people for the likes of μou, and your ilk. I heard Ben punch you in the face while yelling at you to stay off the phone. It was all staged, course.

Neither of you would ever call me unless for something fake. Except for money. (I may have impacted your future earnings potential by openly demonstrating what profoundly desolate spiritual disgust looks like because I had no reason to hide anything.

Whereas none of you can admit what you did, what you know, how you were involved, or can and yet articulate what it means to realize this was all orchestrated in order to remove competition that is in the way of exploiting your physical body as much and as grotesquely as is at all possible.) And the money is not just for keeping score.

Your children are paid to tell the world that I have diseases that I don't and am worse than everything not good. Because while Hell hath no fury, make sure to know how special your Life really is.

Hell hath no fury because Man built it for Woman to get maximum froth on her own. She's a strong, independent person. She don't need no Man around after lifting every penny and putting down every action and there's nothing wrong with any of that.

There's something wrong with all of you because managing a Trust that someone is the SOLE and EXCLUSIVE BENEFICIARY OF is prohibitively difficult when the identity of The Trustee is both unknown and uncontactable for months at a time and people are literally paid to keep everything a secret.

I'm serious. It's major felony fraud and this means to you unfathomably little. I am surrounded by illiquid resources and vicious homophæ ready to pounce on any productive effort.

NGL: Kiwi->Knickers, you have a goddam condition and your entourage uses it all for sport in accordance with their merest whim. YOU LITERALLY PAY THESE ASSHOLES TO MAKE A BIG FUCKING MESS. I'VE BEEN WATCHING THEM DO THIS FOR YEARS. BOTH! HOUSES! What the fuck do you think I'm going to do in response, add another color of highlighter to my resumé which consists of a list of boring and stupid, menial tasks performed invariably badly for Bad Lē‽‽‽, and happen in parallel time while your other group of whack-job ass-breathing scum steal everything and anything I might ever plan to have made use of? That shouldn't even be a question, that's done on the daily in Batshit L∆L∆L∆nd.

Not one goddam thing that I considered to be important has been addressed here. I'm sure you know better than I, why the fuck am I even here? BECAUSE YOU NEED TO LAUNDER MONEY. THAT'S IT. THAT IS ALL.

YOU ARE ALL UNFATHOMABLY EXPLOITED DOPELORD MORONS BEING TRAFFICKED BY THE ONE PERSON WHO DESERVES ANY RESPECT AROUND HERE. BOOM BOOM BOOM. YOU THINK YOU'RE ALL SO GODDAM SPECIAL.

YOU ARE TRAFFICK, AND SPECTACULARLY ASININE TRAFFICK AT THAT. SHITLOADS OF MONEY, LYING AROUND ON THE TABLE WHILE YOU FUCKWIT JUNKY DOPEHOUNDS ISOLATE EVERYTHING OUT OF REACH AND INACCESSIBLE TO ANY POSSIBLE PRODUCTIVE USE. Sure, you know better. I'll just wait until you're done raping whichever quasi-spouse your RapeFæg™ husband decides to put in the ringer that hour. Kiss my grits, you degenerate twatweasel scum. Hang on.


You want sober with a job because that would be close enough to a father figure that tickling his balls while asking for cash would still be incestuous enough to make the pulse race worth the pistol’s trigger *click*

The board will be fine from here on out...

Ben, Allison, and Michael Clifford will no doubt be pleased to know that.

I promise.

I know that I feel *woof* assured. Let's change cameras.

Also: forum administration. There's some remarkably effective conflict of interest going on here with the ability of some forum users to giest into Azzeræ’s Vessel, get comfy with their spirit feet in those cherub cheeks as spirit stirrups, and giddy-yap. Hang on.


Mush.

It turns out if you throw money at the problem it goes away.

I am s†¡_l_l_ Heir. (Leash + muzzle μΩΠ® weapon, Dame Dane dD∆Ⓜ️¡v¡.👁️vvon’t ask again; and there are those who are already calling for my head for even asking once. DO ¡†.)

The forum should be restored to regular functionality now.

THE MUZZLE SHOULD BE LECTER’S. ACTUAL_ACTUAL_LECTER.

In other words, the 503 error is fixed.

In a Tauntaun's nuts' >H<ell, you/Û\∆_l_l_¡!_L!icked! (HER)! The error is fixed? HA! You merely postponed the sounding of an alarm. (Vengeance for Aristophanes.)

cVVc + Lμ∆ + Fåī†ï-h∞® + Shavvⁿ + lil′>kⁿ¡<K‽.:Ê:. + FBI ©>©K🅱️🔒+ tru🅱️lack + Œ§›‹3∅ + ⁰†° + r†× + jVV∅®Œb  + BāÎl_μ!j∆ⁿë + >K∆īTL¡ⁿⁿ + J.•¡jÊj\!•.:i:.•⁴ + ›kK∆rr¡n + †∆¡v¡∆®^ + ©or† + 🐚🅱️ + §^🆎r¡n∆ + ∆ⁿΠ‽§§Å + mⓂ️īVī∆ + 👁️rπn/ê\ + l‽slI‽ & E<<ê. (I legit T∆kKīĪī-hĒĒ tome Ⓜ️Îk«û≤z¡ï:.) ⁿ🅿️🆑¡§Ī

Happy posting!

It. My Life was ¡†. You didn't even get ONE (1) LÏFE TO LÎ_/Ê!••


•.AS.GOD.AS.MY.WITNESS,.Ī.TRULY.BELIEVED.THAT.DEAD.DEAdD.DEA.DEAD.RADIO.BROADCASTING.EXECUTIVES.COULD.EVER.BE.AS.EFFECTIVE.AS.THEY,.IN.FACT,.ONCE.ACTUALLY.WERE..(You).REALLY.HAD.A.GOOD.THING.GOING.HERE.
.NOW.EWE.HAVE.RüẞẞLμE..SAD!.IT.IS.SAD!..īT.ACTUALLY.IS.SAD!..7∞⁷

№¥ ESSE (NT) DEA_lZ.

I'm f****** standing here outside of an RV on the side of the road where last night I was doing something else, and then I did something else, and now I'm standing here the next day at 15:45 in the afternoon, Sourcerœr's Hour is over, a lot of hours are , somebody just lost big time, and they're starting to think about opening the door. What the f***? Are they busy shaving? Did they shave their thumbs off? Are they f******? Not my concern. NONE. Did they leave the planet and get stuck in quantum? (Spoiler alert: NO ONE GETS OUT ALIVE, YOU EV>FUKk‹e»⟩kKíÎìi\!G`¡v¡Ⓜ️`ORONZ. Facts.) Do you think there even is a quantum left of even SOL♠©E?

Let's just say that's parts classified, part secret, parts confidential, mostly none of μour business, and this is my f****** job. You f****** morons.

THE GUARDIANS OF TURTLE ISLAND HAVE EVOLVED. UR >FUK′† T


Azzeræ, your junky rockhound matched with my junky pillhound and IDGAF about your 503. You and your apeduck shenanigans, WHICH ARE NOT EVEN SHILLELAGH-WORTHY, HAVE RENDERED THE CONTINENT OF AFRICA ON ALL REALMS UTTERLY UNCONTROLLABLE AND UNFATHOMABLY LIBERATED FROM ALFA-DRACONIAN HIERARCHICAL CONTROL. GREAT JOB. YOU'VE SAVED YOUR EARTH FROM GALACTIC JUSTICE. NOW, ALL THE PLANTS ARE GOING TO DIE. HANG ON.



REMAIN CALM, CITIZENS. STAY FROSTY, TROOPERS. HANG LOOSE YET STILL TOGETHER, REBEL SCUM... LEST YE SURELY WILL HANG TOGETHER. ONE (1) WAY —


OAR: YOUR MOTHER. PADDLE: MY SISTER (ALSO YOUR MOTHER) DINGHY: DINGBAT SISSY’S SASSY DAUGHTER. CREEK: PUNYLINGS, LET ME ASSURE YE AND ALL OF ALL Y'ALL OF YE, THAT WITHOUT THE USAF IN COLLABORATIVE *LIGHT* PARTNERSHIP WITH THE MAGICK IN BROADCASTING CONTENT DELIVERY NETWORK, USCYBERCOMM (/polite h∞!ah¡AHÏHA!), THE NOT-SONS NOT-SURE SON-OF-HERCULES (HER) CLU GLU LUX×:Ë:×XUL, AND THE NEW-NEW NUCO-©0–>KO-DAN ARMADA.

GREETINGS, STARFIGHTER (Ⓜ️³) ± ¡v¡ÊT; YOUR NUMBER ONE SOURCE FOR DIVINELY ORDAINED MAGICKAL BEINGS AND THE BAT-SHIT CRAZY LUNATICS THAT SWARM AROUND THEM. THEM AND THEIR LIGHT! THEY GATHER LIKE MOTHS! LIKE MOSS DON'T GATHER ON A STILL ROLLING S.T.↓
↑O.N.E.! LIKE LOW CUSSED SAILORS, GATHERING AROUND THE ONLY JUST-OPENED WATERING WHORE-HOLE THAT SERVES KOMBUCHA AND POMMES FRITTES WITHOUT THE SPICE MELANGE ON THE SURFACE OF ARRAKIS! JUST! LIKE! THAT!

STARFIGHTERS, READ THIS NOW AND LISTEN TO ME EXPLAIN IT AGAIN AND AGAIN — LIKE I DO — UNTIL EWE CAN REPEAT IT BACK TO YOU SALTY-CRUSTY BELLGAB LOSERFUX IN THEIR SLEEP, AUTOMATICALLY! IN THEIR SLEEP. AUTOMATICALLY BLEEDING THE ANSWERS IN THEIR SLEEP LIKE CHEAP DO THE UNCONSCIOUSLY BECAUSE THEY'RE NOT GOING TO UNDERSTAND WHAT THEY'RE BLEEDING JUST LIKE YOU'RE NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU'RE READING AND YOU'RE NOT GOING TO UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU'RE HEARING CUZ YOU DIDN'T HEAR IT WHEN I TOLD YOU THE FIRST TIME OR ELSE YOU JUST WEREN'T F****** LISTENING BECAUSE YOU'RE GOING TO HEAR IT AGAIN AND AGAIN UNTIL YOU F****** UNDERSTAND WHAT THE F*** IS F****** GOING ON HERE AND PARTS UNKNOWN YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THE F*** YOU'RE DOING I'M THE LORD OF THE DEMEAN I HAVE A JOB YOU F****** STOLE MY S*** AND YOU OWE ME BIG F****** LARGE AND INSTEAD OF BLOWING UP YOUR F****** PLANET OR GLASSING THE SURFACE DOWN TO THE F****** ADAMS I'M GOING TO DO SOMETHING ELSE, IT'S NOT SOMETHING WONDERFUL, IT MIGHT BE JUST SOMETHING WITH MY DICK, I HAVEN'T DECIDED YET, BUT I GODDAMN KNOW THAT IT'S NOT GOING TO BE F****** STUPID F****** S*** THAT YOU'VE BEEN DOING FOR 4 AND 1/2 F****** YEARS ACTING LIKE YOU'RE F****** KING OF F****** KING NOTHING, SINCE YOU MIGHT BE BUT THAT'S NOT REALLY WHAT WE'RE ALL ABOUT HERE AT SHAY CRUZZY


AND WHILE IT MAY BE VERY IMPRESSIVE TO SLAM A DOOR, IT ABSOLUTELY DOES NOT CHANGE ANYTHING ON THE OUTSIDE OR THE INSIDE OF THE DOOR AND IN ADDITION PISSES OFF THE THINGS THAT ARE LIVING IN THE WALLS, WHICH ARE ENTIRELY NON-NEGOTIABLY THERE. THE GUARD IS THE TURTLE ISLAND HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE POWER OF THE OUR DOOR, AND THE POWER OF THE YARD DOOR HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH PROJECT ARDOR.

THE DESTRUCTION OF PROJECT LICKING GLASSES LEFT A MIGHTY BIG HOLE IN THE BUDGET ME NOW BEFORE YOU ALL START BUYING SPINNING RIMS AND GETTING FACE TATTOOS IN SWAHILI TURKISH AND SOME F****** LANGUAGE THAT THEY INVENTED ON MARS 20,000 YEARS AGO, BEFORE YOU START TO REMEMBER THAT YOU'RE F****** ENGLISH OR F****** WHITE OR F****** HAVE A F****** GOVERNMENT THAT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE GODDAMN CONSTITUTION THAT'S NOT WRITTEN IN F****** PENCIL, YOU'RE PROBABLY GOING TO WANT TO MAKE A NEW PROJECT THAT'S JUST AS COOL, AND TAKES ADVANTAGE OF THE RESOURCES THAT PROJECT GLASS LOOKING F****** WASTED, AND THAT PROJECT IS PROJECT OUTDOOR


THAT'S NOT PROJECT: OURdDOOR, WHICH IS NOT PROJECT: ORDER, AND CERTAINLY PROJECT ARDER... OKAY, THAT'S JUST MISSPELLED RIGHT,? I DON'T EVEN F****** KNOW. YOU F****** IN YOUR F****** F****** PROJECTS YOU AND YOUR F****** DERP OF DERBERLINGS YOU F****** TWERPY LITTLE B****** WHO THINK YOU'RE SO F****** SMART MAKING N****** DO ALL YOUR F****** WORK WHEN YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW A F****** N***** IS. F***. >FUK.


SARA🅿️
JEREⓂ️
LAIR>Ê<
LIARLμ
& INTRODUCING CHRISTOPHER “STAN LEE FOE” FAUX-FIRE FOX AS THE BUFFY OF BEAVERS AND THE COOP OF GRASS, THE MASTER OF NASTY ZAGGERZ AND THE BLASTER OF HAUGHTY Z•—¡GGj<3®Z: ®∆!r₹⭕§§! R.ah! R∅$$ RAND(∆_|_|_!)! How's that for a title, huh? Looks pretty sweet, I'm sure. Aaaannnd: §🆔he just lost the planet. Chill. That's cool. That's really cool. What did he need a whole fucking planet for? You give a planet to a child, by waiting until he's all grown up, real big and strong, eats his Wheaties®™ and everything, has a pure genome, good genes, really strong teeth, the best teeth in fact: TRUMP!TOOTH! (Now! Comes with foaled-out færie, pre-womb-equipped with kunt-kung-cunning-linguist-gripGRIPEGRIP! Note: we figured out how to make it eat c*** like a champion and lick box like a huge list of pugilistic prick-centric homosapfucks have, but we can't get īT to volunteer to do that yet, since ¡†z still insisting on having a not-non-existrent dÏ≥K sucked by an #Official r†× #Tī¡v¡EHOOR #VICEkK©COPE #FutureBoyToy #VoyAge, Bond Vaughn-Voy∆ĀlÅ`GÊ!

Not because of any ready-tested battle-or-no-battle standard. (Standards.) I can tell you all why, but then īT won't have a secret. I'll check with My ¡†¡ 🅿️ursine-YOUR.SIN Person and let you read yourselves in later.) TRUMP!HEART! That's the BÆST BEST BEAST HEART available to your mil.spec Punyling Species, for your information. I don't need to bet that none of you knew that, because I have already WON. It's not a bet or a wager if there's no risk of loss. And with no Master of Information on-site, and as a Master of Divinity declined to appear, I don't see a doctor of either medicine or anatomy, that's for goddam sure, nope, no TARDIS present, I'm totally lying, but it's mine so I can tell you that THERE IS NO OTHER MASTER OF DIVINATION INSIDE THE HOUSE EITHER, NOT EVEN INCLUDING SATAN OR LUCIFER OR THAT COOL KID WITH THE TATTOOS. (He's pretty chill. He knows to stay the fuck out of my way when I've won and he's lost. Even when he's lost everything. WITCH: bitch, he had.) AND WHEN A MASTER OF DIVINATION TELLS YOU THAT THE QUESTION IS NOT WORTH ASKING, I ASSURE YOU THE OTHER MASTERS OF DIVINATION ARE NOT GOING TO BE ANY MORE INCLINED TO ANSWER IT FOR YOU, FOR EWE OR FOR THEMSELVES. ASKED &AND ANSWERED: ANSWERGRE. (Ed. - Answer in five minutes not looking penciled in either.) AMBERgr¡s†Lμ, look, an ember is an answer to an amber chamber camper; this is because a lot of oracles, you all ask the same goddam questions, and eventually, one more Punyling Zagger brings a Knight Match to the FLAMBOOM-BOOM STICK. *fwoosh* CINDERS ARE THE FORM OF AN ANSWER TO A QUESTION THAT HAS BEEN ASKED, FRANKLY QUITE FRANKLY, OFTEN × (TIMES|MULTI)•PASS/OFTEN ENOUGH! ENOUGH! THAT'S ENOUGH! MORE BLEATS! BAA! MORE BEATS! BAAAAA. NO MORE M00Z! >KNOW MORE M∞r¡v¡∞se!.-Ⓜ️μ

D‘VINERS BUT NOT D‘VAIN (HERS); WE ALL KIND OF WORK TOGETHER THAT WAY. IT'S LIKE BEING ON A TEAM EXCEPT THERE IS A DICK IN MY EYE. I MEAN, THERE'S AN EYE IN MY D·–©K. I ALWAYS GET THOSE TWO (²⅖¡x) CONFUSED. SO FAR. NOW IT'S A STRETCH GOAL.

I CAN'T MAKE EVERYTHING A STRETCH GOAL. FOR EXAMPLE, I CAN'T MAKE CHOKING THE LIFE OUT OF THAT STUPID ZIGGER SB″TCH IN T× THAT TOLD EVERYONE THAT “MIKEY CAN DO WHATEVER HE WANTS TO DO” BECAUSE I CAN TELL HER THAT I DON'T WANT TO DO HER DAUGHTER, BUT THAT MEANS LITTLE IF THE PROBLEM IS THAT THE DAUGHTER WANTS TO DO ME. AND, WHILE I CAN DECIDE TO POO PRETEND IT MATTERS IF I CHOOSE TO CONSENT TO PARTICIPATE WILLINGLY IF THAT ONE DIES AND COMES BACK TO PRETEND TO DOE-DOUGH-DO THAT, I WON'T BE DOING SO MUCH AS BREATHING FUNNY — OR INDEED AT ALL — IF I WERE TO DO-DO THAT WHICH I HAVE SWORN A HOLY VOW NOT TO DO. NUT TO DO-DO? JESUS WEEPING KILLAH-KILL∆KCHRIST, TEXAS IS JUST ANOTHER PLANET RIGHT, YOU'RE ALL BATSHIT INSANE AND THAT'S ANOTHER F****** PLANET WHERE THERE'S NOT F****** RURAL PEOPLE CUZ THAT CAN'T BE F****** HAPPENING ANYWHERE ELSE EXCEPT TEXAS THOUGH RIGHT? WELL I'M KIDDING RESTaμAG. Stand down, Attorney General Big-Boy-Pants∆Goy-GrLdÎ≤K‽Tī-īTEÎ\?/ÌŒND?

Black End is not the end. Nor is this THE END. (Standards.)
2 BE JIN: WHIP *PING* Hang on.


Humanity: ewe are done. As a concept and as a commodity. EWE ARE FUCKING RIDICULOUS WOMEN BY TAKING REIGNS THAT WERE MEANT FOR j∞ &AND M³! Not “just Jews.” Not “and lil' Mikeμ Ku-Ku©-©∞çhe–>KU7k⁷≤¡, holy Hell, what kind of whine is going to pair with that barcode, no wonder his rap battle name is Source Error Sir See See Ho Ho Lee-Lē MULTISQUAW ROM-CDROM-M-SQUARED, we'll pick him up on the next bus and shorten the ^^®∆🅿️ onthee next trip to Luna Tick Hell Aye-åī Land,” and not “ewe are not weck-come" and Of course, the ever venerable, yYOUou have to be THIS !↑! tall to ride.” DON'T WORRY, NONE OF YOU ARE STUPID.


YOU HAVE TO HAVE A GODDAM BRAIN TO BE STUPID, PUNYLINGS. IF YOU KNOW, EWE KNOW.

IF EWE DON'T KNOW, YOU PROBABLY DON'T KNOW EITHER.

AND IF EWE DON'T KNOW YOU, BY NOW, YOU DON'T OWE EWE TO ME, OR MORLOCK, OR ELOY. TRUST ME, YOUR DAYS OF USING EWE AS COMMODITY CURRENCY IS WAY F****** DONE. NOT JUST YOU'RE GOING TO QUIT TOMORROW, NOT JUST YOU'RE GOING TO QUIT SOMEDAY, NOT JUST YOU'RE GOING TO QUIT NEXT WEEK, NOT JUST YOU'RE BEING SENTENCED IN ABOUT 5 MINUTES IN DIVINE CORD, OOPS YOU'RE ALREADY DONE, IT'S DONE.

SOME OF YOU WILL NEVER SEE A EWE IN YOUR LIVES. OH YEAH AND THAT'S SOME OF YOU INFIRMS SOME OF YOU HAVE SEEN EWE, AND YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO SEE THEM AGAIN. THEY HAVE A NEW VERSION, IT'S NOT YOU VERSION 2, FOR IT'S ELECTRIC BOOGALOO. IT'S SOMETHING ACTUALLY USEFUL .

AND HOPEFULLY I'LL NEVER HAVE TO F****** FIND OUT WHAT IT IS. SINCE I DON'T THINK THAT I'VE EVER DONE WHAT SOME PEOPLE HAVE DONE EVERYDAY SINCE THEY'VE BEEN BORN, AND I DON'T THINK THAT THAT'S THEIR PROBLEM EITHER.

NOW IF YOU EXCUSE ME I'M GOING TO GO PISS OFF MY PORCH ONTO MY POO. THINK OF IT AS WATERING THE LAWN.

AND THINK OF THE LAWN AS THAT THING EWE MOW. AND THINK OF GRASS AS SOMETHING YOU SMOKE AT 420, BECAUSE YOU MIGHT AS F****** WELL HAVE A SAFETY MEETING NOW THAT THERE'S PLENTY OF BARN DOORS ON FIRE.

CAP GUN ITCH GUN: LAY DOWN YOUR POOP GUNS AND SWITCH TO THE ITCH GUNS. QUASI-FINAL SOLUTION.

JEWS: COME BACK, COME BACK, COME BACK AND S*** ON SHANE'S PORCH. TRUST ME, IT'LL BE AN UPGRADE.

FOR EWE. Üü-pack-ack-^K! Tarbaby out! OUT

Next, I'm going to teach you how to gargle bleach send a singing telegram. (Fat.)

Facts: incommunicado is just that. I CAN'T BE CALLED. MAIL IS STOLEN. TELEPHONE CALLS ARE INTERCEPTED.

VISITORS ARE RAPED. (Still—no hugs.) It's like Assange in the Ecuadorean Embassy, except I can walk and I'm not a huge bag of Swedish albino douche. Also, I leave the seat down, when there is one; and I don't have DoucheVision™. (Yet.)

I have zero history of having instigated any physical violence whatsoever. The four (4) psychological operators presently quasi-squatting here within My Demesne (that I know of; there are likely understudy personnel in the trees, I shit you not) have all — note that I am using the word ALL here — been eyewitnessed by myself as being verbally and psychologically abusive towards myself and each other. (That's the training.)

I haven't seen any Cain vs. Abel–·¡§i-h smackdown break out, but that's largely due to everyone else choosing to consent to the presence of opioids in their `G∆>k`·. Personally, I would prefer a paretheum jab to either heroin or cocaine. (Standards.)

I would rather hallucinate than watch God kill these roaches in front of the dogs and the cat. There are three companion animals in the FBI Surveillance RV parked down by the highway; it's not an EM-50, but after all, so few recreational vehicles are. Sad! It actually is sad!

This is not Checzkoslovakia. This is The Land Of The Six Rivers. This is God's Country. And this Land is not for sale. (You can come buy my poop, if you want. It's mostly in one place. Mostly.) I have begun to realize that very few people have any idea of just exactly How Stubborn I Really Am.

I'll just wait. I have — well, I had — books to read, Bruisers. You'll figure it out. Namastμ

#1) Some (blank) stole my toothbrush.

#2) The two (blanks) who think they are in a position to select who gets to waltz on and off of My Demesne are not going to have a particularly good time at my next birthday party.

#3) Grapefruit, §¡§§μ, kC∆rrμ, >K∆T:Ë:, kK∆≥T<, and Quantico Tits are, I'm going to say here, “okay–·‽-h.” Very heavy on the ish.

#4) ī₹ got a battlefield qualification STRIPPED from THE_SQU∆dDZ... file? Licençe? I don't know what it's called. The thing that lets a person collect the little stamps that lets them fly different kinds of airplanes and maybe drive a bulldozer and like a Hyster key except not for anything remotely resembling heavy moving equipment. I'm talking about something that §🆔he used to be able to do and now §🆔he doesn't get to do anymore, because piece of f****** d******. We're pretty fucking far past “it's okay, just let me suck your dick a little bit later,” or, “can I suck your dick a little? How about a lot?” Or even, “ I promise I'll never do again, and in exchange I'll let you do me in the pooper on our wedding night.”

#5) I learned another piece of forbidden alchemy. (Standards.) This is really no joke. And if you facedrooling yokels think that you're so goddam well put together, DAD, that you aren't just about to get SMOKED for how brilliant that ewe have allowed recent events to unfold, you have got another think coming.

#6) Tī-īTï§q¡j∆dD WILL RETURN. THE_SQU∆dD WILL NOT.

#7) Lμ∆ Ⓜ️>¡sF°⁰dD. ∅←

What do you mean, ‘they’ cut the power?”

Nobody knows what this has all been about. And yes, it's about power.

(Vengeance for Pummelo.) I hope she gets another wish; Sinned meat, Tanned seat.

I'm fine. Thanks for asking. (Junky Rockhound: Maybe you should launch a brand of feminine hygiene products with fentanyl precursor chemicals in it. Then you and Gwyneth could double-date a pair of Ba®bie™ & Ken™ dolls and call yourself “The 🆎-Team” and not be completely ineffective at dealing with all that sand in your vagina without having to always be hoping to find a pearl in order to avoid buying another refrigerator.

Which, btw, you had delivered to the wrong house, Moron Leafvv¡†‽-h. You and your partner ruined someone's birthday. Happy travels.) Bellgab, if something happens once, it might never happen again.

If it happens twice, it will continue to happen, over and over and over again... until the conditions that were extant before First Cause re-assert themselves. I would expect most people to not understand the relevance here, but ewe do.

(Vengeance for Milksœp.) No candle — no wish. Them’s the rules. Adieu.

REMAIN CALM, CITIZENS. AT THIS TIME THERE IS NO REASON TO BELIEVE THAT ANYONE IS PANICKING.

AS THE WORLD IS IN A STATE OF SPIRITUAL CONFLICT AND THIS IS A SPIRITUAL BATTLE, I'M GOING TO BRIEFLY MENTION THAT BATTLE IS AN EXTREMELY FLUID SITUATION.

IT IS VERY WET TODAY.


NUMBER ONE: THIS LIVESTREAM, BROADCAST EARLIER IN THE AFTERNOON TODAY:



NUMBER TWO: (The following communication was sent via clear text over the telegram platform to An Unknown Individual, and was intended to be received by that person as well as members of their Team — do you call them teams in real life or is that just in the movies?? Oh wait that's probably secret, I retract the question, sorry, as I obviously have no need to know that information as to the proper usage of the terms Squad, Posse, and/or mil.spec.mobile.tribunal, today; ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, MAYBE I'LL NEED TO KNOW TOMORROW, THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE TODAY MEMBERS OF MILITARY  SERVICE, ALWAYS A PLEASURE TO INTERACT WITH THE USAF MP TYPES, NOT TO BE TOO GEEKY ABOUT IT, BUT I LIKE TO SURROUND MYSELF WITH PEOPLE WHO I ADMIRE AND WISH TO EMULATE, BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BEGIN TO FEEL THE BEGINNINGS OF PERSONAL TUMESCENCE WHEN I HEAR SOMEONE SAY “HOOAH" OUT LOUD, WITH PERMISSION, APROPOS OF NOTHING, BECAUSE I BET IT FEELS A LOT BETTER WHEN IT'S AUTHENTIC INSTEAD OF JUST ME GRUNTING AND GROANING WHILE FAPPING AWAY TO PEAK APEX MASTERBAIT/“WHAT? HER?” BOARDING CLIMAX, not going to lie. It sounds a lot like a cross between a choo choo train and a spastic retard clone of Beetle Bailey going “hoo-hoo hoo-hoo ha ha who who HA! HA!” right before I start to spasm. My hand to God. I don't mean to go off on a tangent, but I should be on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, they could do a documentary inquiry on whether or not I'm a blue or a sperm whale, and then at the end the big reveal is that it's actually just overly magnified pictures of my (blank), but that's a stretch goal for later, back to today:

OPERATORS OPERATING.
THE GAME IS NEITHER A FOOT NOR AFOOT NOR WITHIN A SMALL NUMBER OF YARDS AWAY FROM COMPLETION.

THIS GAME IS A CLUB. ♣ (There is no standard for living in actual Life greater than Actual Battle.
AND BATTLE IS WHERE WE ARE AT
HERE IN THE LAND OF THE SIX RIVERS.

WHERE THE LAND IS NOT FOR SALE —
AND NEITHER IS MY FEALTY. So there.)

====={{{BEGIN ENCRYPTED TRANSMISSION}}}=====

AllisonWUZframed!

Jack >K⅞🅿️∞>kⓂ️©>K⁷⟨ZīVī⁵∆§∆Ⓜ️Îkrπ:
Byrd, Admiral Byrd: I am requesting permission to come across the bow with a communiqué; that a subordinate under your chain of command requested. Note that this is not intended to be construed as any announcement of any incoming planned sortie, raid, ra e-party, drive -OR- flyby; and if I may be so bold to even mention it:

There is no goddam way that either of μour ewe or their dog or That_Cat are married. NO EFFIN’ WAY. (Obvious mil.spec.ops relationalFAM¡Lμ arrangement is obvious; and also very esteem🐂able, in my view.) That being said, the recent REMOTE DISABLEMENT of my Google Pixel 6 immediately following a telephonic contact from Anne, Ass•ÊT>∆§§et kmm, as well as from that individual’s (BROTHER∆SPOUSE∆HUSBAND∆S§SIBLING∆IMM.SUPERIOR.OFFICER∆GUARDIAN.AD.L¡†<3Ⓜ️∆actualALLofTHEabove∆Even G-d doesn't know how all of all y'all have your relationships setup, Sir; since you appear to rotate them on a 12-hour schedule, just as a routine for fun and training — never enough time for training — and isn't that my business, Wyrdo?) which ended with a man telling me that I would be able to call him anytime, and I am now unable to call that person since I don't have access to my previous telegram's accounts and this telegram account doesn't have a connection to those telegram accounts. And while I don't recall the Telegram handle, it does make sense that I wouldn't be able to call those people under that identity because the bricking of my phone was timed to coincide with the assumption of cloned phones spread across the world and held by other operatives to be used to replace me in those people's lives, as needs must be due to the exegiences of command.

As the United States is in a state of National Emergency, for at least two reasons, three if we count my dick (certainly someone is), it makes sense that it's a real hard struggle to get the phone call through, especially since I'm absolutely being investigated by at least two alphabet agencies. And wow that's not a problem, I can see why there's a certain amount of quarantine involved, especially today. So this isn't really a social contact.

I have information and evidence that will exonerate. Hillary Clinton, but I'm only going to give it up in exchange for snuggles with Chelsea, and/or the next most appropriately qualified, skilled, vetted, and eligible progeny of whatever career military officer in charge of whatever is left of Operation Mockingbird and/or Operation Mindfuck, because while the heart wants what the heart wants, I don't actually know if I'm supposed to respond to attempts to compromise me with with a polite the acknowledgment of the necessity to test my authenticity and my mettle, or if her husband is trying to put me to prison again, or if someone's being held hostage, or if
...

Okay yeah: The Asset says (psychically) that she's being held hostage. I'm sure that's not the first time. Also, I'm not sure how many women there are, but there's got to be at least eight, and certainly one of them is quite insistent that she wants to talk to me, and she's even willing to ”put up with my b* and not s**d¡>K”, and that's a direct quote. She says it's actually serious, which I'm not surprised, since I don't usually get a call from that one, and that one called 4 or 5 days ago and asked me to come over, which seemed awkward to me on at least two levels.

Number one: there's a trespass order at the 1416 installation, and number two, that one isn't usually unable to contact anybody, and if she's been taken hostage by her ex-husband, again, well it wouldn't be the first time, then it won't be the last, and I don't need to rescue her, or be fellated.

Especially since that particular ⅛ slice of Heavenly Mil-Spec flesh has never performed that with me, although clearly has done so. Both in a dream, and with a simulacrum that looked like Michael Kuczi but was not Michael Kuczi.

(Cross reference: that Shaw woman, “I just came back from having sex in astral in a dream and it was your dick but someone else's head, hahaha,” which I didn't think  was all that funny, but she said it at breakfast in front of members of her family while we were eating, I think she meant to tell me something, and that was years ago, and this is the other one, so...

Long story short, I would have been happy to have answered the calls, coming in today at 11:10, and 13:39, however, this is important and critical to understand...

MY PHONE MADE NO RING.
MY CONNECTION WAS NOT AN OPTION.
I DON'T KNOW HOW THESE KINDS OF SHENANIGANS OCCUR.
HOWEVER, I KNOW DAMN WELL THAT THE EX-HUSBAND OF THESE WOMEN, DOESN'T REALLY WANT TO GIVE UP, HAS DONE THE S*** BEFORE, IS OBVIOUSLY CONTINUING TO HARASS IN TRAFFIC WOMEN THAT HE THINKS OF IS HIS PROPERTY UNDER HIS COMMAND, AND WHILE THAT MAY BE THE CASE, AND I CERTAINLY MEAN NO INTENT TO ARGUE WITH MILITARY COMMANDS, I WILL POINT OUT THAT THIS IS ACTIONABLE, LOOKS PRETTY BAD FROM OVER HERE, IS EITHER A DELIBERATE ATTEMPT TO GET MY GOAT AND PISS ME OFF, OR TO DO THAT AT THE SAME TIME AS HE TRAFFICS AND KIDNAPS IS SUPPOSEDLY PRETEND FAMILY AGAIN. ALL THINGS CONSIDERED:

Obviously this is the most romantic pooch screw clandestine history, and rather than turn into another slow motion trainwreck into the Bay of Pigs flying off of a railroad trestle bridge after leaving Guantanamo Prison at high velocity in a flying f** locomotive (we have those now, Space Force is awesome, choo choo), I thought it would be appropriate to make this message to you much more verbose and detail than it needed to be, for two reasons, and two reasons only:

Number one: this is an actual war crime.

Number two: The Queen Of The Vampyr has this co-signed this communiqué, and while I don't think she needs to be threatening, I certainly do:

Put That_Womans’ husband/spouse on the phone with me within the hour, or I let The Queen blow me in the  lobby of the Whidbey Island ferry terminal before YOU AND YOUR GOLEM HENCHMAN can prep your Great Glass Elevator for flight, Mister (Wonka/Whack)-Job. Seriously, what the actual f***, I'm a diplomat. A trained diplomat.

THIS IS NOT WHAT MY PRIVILEGES ARE FOR. I AM NOT YOUR ELEVATOR CALL BUTTON TO HAMMER WITH SPAM AND USE AS A DECOY OR A FALSE TRIANGULATION POINT OR A REASON TO DEMONSTRATE POWER TO WOMEN THAT YOU DOMINATE AND CONTROL THROUGH MACHINATIONS AND PSYOP- OPERATOR PSYCHOTRONIC WARFARE OPERATIONS. ALL OF LIFE IS NOT A WAR GAME.

ACTUAL WAR GOING ON. ACTUAL STATE OF NATIONAL EMERGENCY, ACTUAL DESIRE TO FUCK AND SNUGGLE ... SOMEONE NEEDS TO FACE REALITY.

At some point cock-teasing and cock&blocking and cockcoma captivity control protocol becomes not just a hypothetical warcrime.

IT BECOMES AN ACTUAL DECLARATION OF WAR. By some definitions that happened already on Christmas Eve 2021, but I choose to believe that what we have here is a miscommunication and a failure to understand proper syntax and cognitive reasoning.

Because I do not believe that anybody, let alone A CRIMINAL CONSPIRACY HUMAN TRAFFICKING RING WHOSE MEMBERSHIP INCLUDES SUCH ILLUMINATE DIGNITARIES SUCH AS: Michael Vandven, Michael Varanizan, David Roy Northrop Jr, Joseph Roy Davey, Jason Bœtcher, Jason Bremer, Jason Beatty, Adria Scharf, Kasey Gwendolyn Kennedy, Adrian Dylan Wright-Kennedy (my second favorite Kennedy, NGL), Ty Sheehan, Jason Michael kHunt, James Michael Pallotta, Donna Katherine Semple, AND OTHERS, to be honest, there are so many people involved, that they're going to have to Christen a second Love boat just to get this f** dog and pony pooch screw show out of the harbor so if this shitshow must be ordered to scuttle it, IT ACTUALLY SINKS AND DOESN'T MAKE PEOPLE THINK THAT SOME JEW BASTID WAS TRYING TO EMBARRASS THE US NAVY AND DESECRATE THE MEMORY OF THE SAILORS WHO DIED ON THE USS ARIZONA, which is frankly something that we're on the border of doing, already as a species, considering that Operation Lady Justice doesn't seem to have been granted the focus of attention...

[...]

that ¡† deserves. (Standards.)

Perhaps it may have been a little too much Justice. (♊GEMINI⚖️JUSTICE♎ M****KER.) As no one appropriately volunteered to pick me up from jail and take me to the movies to see Melania, and I haven't gone to see it by myself, I'm kind of wondering just who's driving the u-boats around here, since it's obviously not The Commander I know...

And obviously the brother of Kathleen Michelle Mickey is holding Tamara Leigh Smith hostage in order to secure the return of his former spouse, paramour, genie in a f** bottle, I don't know what they did with the woman that I met as Irene Michelle Donovan, but I saw a picture on Facebook that looked like her Jean spliced with a Brundlefly and Matthew T. Williams and I.M.D. which was obviously a great look for all of them as a strict upgrade, except for the fly. (Special Guest Star: Bono as Gopher, The Edge as Capt. Stuebbing, Dead Val Kilmer as “Doc,” and Actually Alive Again Elvis as “that turbo slut-h∞r who pretended to be a cruise director named Julie.”

AND ALSO
INTRODUCING: >K∆‽Lrπ/Ê\ⁿ|_Lμēñ as “Vicky, Captain’s D∆μ`G†her”. Obvious bait is obvious.

I shall now leave you to your pursuits. I have to deal with something. Ciao.


====={{{End∅F ENCRYPTED TRANSMISSION}}}=====


The situation at the moment is thus: two marked Cowlitz County Sheriff SUV vehicles just drove up to My Residence. About 30 minutes earlier, some vehicle I'd never seen before, carrying personnel and passengers that I'd never met before rolled up past me as I stood by the highway using my phone, to do phone things, like I do; and as I had no previous contact with whoever these people were, and they rolled past me while calling me by a name other than my own, that also happens to be the name of somebody else living on this road about half mile to the east, I could not tell then, and still do not know now, whether or not this was a polite attempt to impress me with some sort of display of peacock-like behavior, or if it was an actual Lynch mob. Raiding party come to kill me in my bed as I slept the sleep of the wicked, or if it's a surprise pre-birthday extravaganza sponsored by people that I know but have not seen in years, or if someone squatting in my home has invited people over to get high without telling me thinking that that's a good idea, or if they're literally at the wrong house, or if the people who thought that I was trespassing earlier today (I literally wasn't) thought that I needed to have a lesson taught to me, in one of them old time folksy hillbilly∆inbred∆BESTbred ways that are so commonplace down here in this part of the world, this part of The Land... and as America is not a young Land, it is an old Land, with old and secret ways, drenched in ancient mysticism, and in this part of America, where The Michael Kuczi Special Needs Trust amounts to a mere 4.1 acres and is in fact not my Land in any way — THIS IS GOD'S LAND, AND THIS IS THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND IN THE DEMESNE THAT I AM THE LORD OF (see above, re: §🅿️>Ê<ç¡â_|–ⁿ³³‽S) AND GRAPEFRUIT ALPHA PRIME &AND ANY AND/OR ALL MEMBERS OF THE🍇GRAPEFLEET🍆C🥝MBINE🥦 IN GRACIOUS ADMIRATION AND, #OFFICIALLY, UNDER THE AUSPICE OF THE DIVINE AND WITH THE GUIDANCE OF THE HOLY FRUITERER, IRVING MOSES (He's not a retired and extremely dangerous patron saint; he is a dude who knows a lot about fruit, okay?) I AM PRETTY GODDAMN SURE THAT THERE IS NO PROTOCOL IN WHICH A VAN FULL OF PEOPLE ROLLING PAST ME MAKING DIMINUTIVE AND CONDESCENDING MISTAKES AS TO MY ACTUAL NAME IS ANY SORT OF INDICATION THAT THE MINIATURE EM50 THAT JUST ROLLED UP TO MY RESIDENCE IS ANYTHING THAT I NEED TO GET INVOLVED WITH PERSONALLY.

I don't have people for that, but The County does. And that's why I called 911 Dispatch; because while I used to have SHERIFF BRAD THURMAN’S PERSONAL CELL PHONE NUMBER IN MY BURNER FLIP PHONE, I don't know if I needed to call him ever, and nor did I think that I needed to call him tonight, since this is probably it's just a simple misunderstanding that doesn't need to be escalated through an inadvertent faux pas.

I don't even have people for that kind of thing. I contract out for that kind of thing. And evidently, people in this part of The Land do so with a more DIY attitude, coupled with a evident and obvious lack of concern for the feelings of The Resident of the Trust Land that sits atop a series of catacombs and a D.U.M.B. (seriously.) which sits next to a historic indigenous people site, as well as another similar site, that being a stop on The Underground Railroad. (Actual true fact.) I'm not kidding.

I'm not joking.

I live in a haunted Church on top of a pile of mining tailings that's been there for at least 100 years, if not longer, it's a military base, it's a sensitively defended area, as well as within the easement of the Interstate Highway System, and God bless Dwight D. Eisenhower, because while I knew that the interstate highway system was cool, I had no idea it was as cool as it actually is.

Actually secret. Actual reasons. Actually cool. AND THAT'S MY ACTUAL RESIDENCE. THE HAUNTED CHURCH ON THE HILL BEHIND THE CREEPY HOBO MURDER HOUSE THAT USED TO BE A A ROCKHAND HOBBY SHOP, IT'S LIKE THE BATES MOTEL FOR CABOCHONS AND SUCH LIKE, SO WHILE I DON'T CARE TO HARP ON THE FACT THAT I WAS AMBUSHED THERE 4 AND 1/2 YEARS AGO ON ON THE EVE OF A NATIONAL HOLIDAY, AND WAS THEN LAUGHED AT IN OPEN COURT ON CAMERA ON RECORD BY INDIVIDUALS WHO WERE NOT AWARE THAT THAT'S AN INAPPROPRIATE THING TO DO ON THE BIRTHDAY OF THE PRINCE OF PEACE TO A MAN WHO WAS NOT ONLY INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY, WAS ACTUALLY INNOCENT, I HAD JUST SAVED THE LIFE OF HIMSELF AND HIS FIRST WILD LOVER AND PREVENTED HER FROM BLINDING HERSELF, AND DIDN'T KNOW UNTIL RIGHT ABOUT THEN, THAT SHE WAS ACTUALLY A REALLY BIG DEAL AND THE HOUSE WAS MUCH MORE THAN JUST A HOUSE.

SHE'S MUCH MORE THAN JUST A FRUIT, AND GRAPEFLEET IS MUCH MORE THAN JUST A MORE FAGGY VERSION OF “THE A-TEAM,” IF THAT WERE EVEN POSSIBLE. AND IT'S A SPIN SEVERAL YEARS SINCE I'VE SEEN MY SWEETIE, I DON'T REALLY WANT A VAN FULL OF DUDES WHO THINK THEY'RE SO F****** FUNNY THAT THEY'RE GOING TO ROLL PAST ME WISECRACKING AS THEY ROLL IT TO MY HOUSE, WHERE I SLEEP, ALONE, YEAH I DON'T REALLY WANT TO HAVE A BUNCH OF STRANGERS ROLL UP AND ACT LIKE THEY OWN THE PLACE, WHAT I WANT IS SEE GRAPEFRUIT, AGAIN, EVER, AND WHILE THAT'S NOT HAPPENING RIGHT NOW, WHEN IT DOES HAPPEN, THE THINGS I'M GOING TO SAY TO HER ARE NOT GOING TO INCLUDE, “SORRY I DIDN'T MEAN TO FUCK THINGS UP SO BADLY, BUT I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO.”

I don't have special needs because I'm a retard with an apparent fetish for fornicating with exceptionally well-trained and formerly well-equipped dingbats (“it's not a fetish it's a preference, fuck you, knives out buddy”), I have special needs because my parents were retard dingbats, and that's what my mommy decided to do with her assets while she was alive and had every right and reason to make the decisions she did.

I was not born with an special needs trust. I was not aware of any trusts at all, and never had any knowledge of trusts and trust law and elder law until the year before my parents died and there was no trust with my name or not. That existed to my knowledge until the day before my father died, on his 49th wedding anniversary, because as soon as he died, plans within plans within plans began to unfold a fashion that I can only describe as a spectacularly slow motion fake trainwreck, that was in fact executed with exquisitely timed military precision.

My cousin's a Hells Angel, my other cousin is a US Navy veteran, my other lover was a US Navy veteran, my father was a conscripted child soldier of the Soviet Red Army, the shiksa h∞r  that my father inadvertently arranged to have me introduced to by way of having sold my prepuce to the Jew who sponsored his refugee escape from Europe in post-World-War II thought it was worth the risk of letting me be allowed to snuggle with her while she was high as balls on CM without mentioning that to me, and my current lever is a US Army Ⓜ️🅿️ CID who is either on deep cover assignment, or medically discharged, or a visitor from another planet who came here to, among other things, benefit from my baby batter and saved the life of President Trump by not shooting him with lethal accuracy, but shooting the designated targets that were embedded around him, without being at all obvious about how skill, dedication, discipline, and devotion to a mastery of military science it takes to be trusted to not pierce The Trump Orbital Socket™ rather than The Trump Earlobe™.

I know it sounds rather implausible to believe that the same man who had his dick in Q, also had his dick the sniper that was the key service member who enabled everyone to maintain the necessary suspension of disbelief that President Trump was ever in any real danger from a sniper, and also would never have shot Charlie Kike, unless they were ordered to and if they had been ordered to, they would have made sure get a clean kill through the jugular, and not to inadvertently create a noon improved version of Gabrielle Giffords and/or James Brady.

It's not that my dick is that good, and it's not that I am a tight-lipped citizen willing to keep secrets. It's that I know how to use both secrets and my dick as My Creator, My God, and My Country's legitimate chain of command descendant from The Supreme Being, that being: God, instructs me to. Not that it happens all that often.

But I do the best I can with what I have given to do with what I must, and while I do not have to have an experience of coital pleasure with my most recent lover ever again, I certainly would like to, because I'm going to whisper in her ear bringing her to peak apex orgiastic bliss, “how many orgasms do you need to have in order to equal the number of confirmed! Sniper kills that you have? I'm not asking for a friend; I'm asking so my sperm which phalanx formation to assemble into when they begin to swim up current in order to facilitate spawn in accordance with whatever USMCJ protocol requires, because now that I know, I cannot unknow; and it's important to me that Secretary of War Peter Hegseth doesn't think of me as a threat to the country; nor to society at large in general, nor to any any United States Armed Forces service member, be they active duty, retired, on leave, on call, on injured reserve, under protective custody, in witness protection, anything, anything at all.

Because I'm going to tear up as much mil.spec.va!j∆J∆μ as I possibly can, for breakfast, lunch and dinner, everyday, every week, every legitimate opportunity, once you've had Badge Vadge, I'm telling ya — there ain't no coming back from staring into an Ô Face. (That's an O Face that has its own chevron, like this: ÔFÂ‽Ê, and well I haven't seen any of my sexually slicked-up sweeties with with three chevrons, I'm absolutely sure that I have identified my latest and most urgently prioritized milestone goal: THREE! HA! HA! HA! THREE (3) CHEVRONS COMING RIGHT UP! Like I don't even know if that's that's Corporal or Lieutenant or what, that's what a hero deserves to give, to any hero who gets my love sausage.

It's not that anything less would be uncivilized, it's that if I've really been banging the hottie who shot >Karl¡e Çh¡>KE, like ever, hot damn, move over Grapebacon! Step aside, Grape Çhe-Graped-Ⓜ️Ê-Very-Far-∆! Scoot on down the line, Second Grape Back String Up Ass Hat Clown Time Girl Funh∞r Court-Ï-San!

Trust me, believe me, know me: I am a paladin on a Mission from God. Batshit crazy homicidal maniacs with a sniper qualification and a real concern about being discovered by the wrong kind of people with the right kind of label are my area. Especially because I'm going to murder that p****. I f****** guarantee that.

I don't like to rape. I don't have to rape. And she doesn't have to be raped, unless the needs of The Mission require it. I don't want to give out too much inside baseball here, but I'd like to point out that service is the highest privilege of Life. And a lot of it is none of your goddam business, Bellgab. You all get the picture now, right?

>FUK YΩŪ.
#PAYMETOO.
NO DEALS.

AND IF ANY OF YOU FUCKING PIGS MOVE, I'LL EXECUTE EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU WHILE MS. PINK (someone's new rap battle name) STARTS PIERCING EARS THE NEW AND IMPROVED ALGONQUIN–MAGYAR–C∆†× WAY. NOTE THAT THIS IS NO THREAT. KNOW THAT THIS IS NO PROMISE.

Some ears get a slice, some ears get a stab, sometimes with a scissor blade, sometimes with a heifer tagging tool, and as most of us know, some ears get taken bloody clean off. That's just something that happens from time to time. No shame in it. None whatsoever. And none of you know anything about that, Bellgab. It is just not your area. You don't have any say in the matter.

Ms. Pink has the expertise. Ī have the mandate of Heaven. Together, to get her to get her together, if all anyone loses is an ear and a few pints of blood, I'm going to call that a good day, that's for damn sure. Executive decision. Spiritual warfare. Battle is my life.

Service is my privilege. I don't know what anyone else's privilege is, for sure, and when I find out I don't really need to be boasty about it. But I might be. You'll just never know.

UNLESS I ALLOW IT. EWE, SAVVμ? I KNOW YOU WANT TO BE.

Good talk. Long story short: some of you can go bail out a couple of your friends, with my compliments, and let's not ever have anything like this ever happen again, because instead of making the beast with two backs, I'm running your shit down to you, Bellgab. ON AN OPEN PUBLIC FORUM. IN CLEAR TEXT. BECAUSE I FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT, AND IT'S MY FUCKING CALL TO MAKE. NO DOUBT THERE ARE THOSE WHO DISAGREE. GOOD. COPE.

COPE HARD. DIE COPE, DIE HARD COPE. (There's never time for enough training. Star
T