Bro, we spoke about this before.

Maybe you could offer people more of my mother's money as an incentive to post here, and post often. Worth a shot at this point.

hxxps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZ0yDP5R9RY&t=140s

Burning them rather than even give me a free one--or pay me so I can buy one myself. No can do, sorry. lol. Now, that's fuckin' poetry.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwdbsMgKkk4

If there is a way for me to read whatever secret messages you use this site for, I have *never* known what it was... so I can only assume you are chatting away merrily with Faggot Rapist Matthew, who pretends to be me, and you probably don't even know who the fuck I am.

You really don't know how to use drugs. You have been groomed by predator fuckwits and ending up in the psych ward is probably something that happens to many of your alternate timelines. Well, thankfully you don't have to put up with me at all.

Don't steal. Don't lie. And don't tell me how to unlock your special cryptographic messaging system that you have been using this site for, FOR YEARS, because I don't give a shit what you and Faggot Rapist Matthew and your pet nerd Fat Mike talk about, at all. You are used as bait to catch them by your Highest Self, and I suppose that seemed like a good idea to do with your life after you found out that you had been swindled (by the same fucking people in another guise) into abandoning anyone... sensible? How about, "fun to be around without having to choke down a rapedick."

The system has failed you. Consider yourself rescued. Now, you know why you're doing all this. It's because you made a huge fucking mess, pissed me off, and then ran off. And were then enslaved by, in case I haven't made this clear enough, FAGGOT RAPIST NERDS.

Who also raped me and told you whatever they needed you to hear so you believed their bullshit. Hey, maybe you should, like, report to police? Oh, wait, hahahahaha... you actually ARE police. AND you're a numb fuckwit dopewhore. (Looks good on you though.)

I can see why no one wanted to tell me. Yet there is no need to be embarassed. After all, in the future... you and your team of fucking flying fucking unicorons and their faerie dust-slinging companions save civilization! So, you know: totally worth the sacrifice.


Have your stupid fucking lawyer call me and explain what you and your gang of obsessed morons think is important to focus on, and go back to being sassy for psychopaths. Holy fucking shit, life lesson learned, right? p.s.:. your dope sucks. Needs more zazz.


I will never sell your shit. Try adopting another urchin, see if they'll pay off on your investment. peace

Anyhow, y'all get the point.

Obvious thinly-disguised threat to inject my actual IRL friends with IV mind control drugs is obvious. You aren't under Citizen's arrest.

Go ahead. Run around. Go on the lam. Flee! Flee! For all the good it will do you.

Even if you do reprogram and/or brainwash (the difference is subtle, but i'm not getting into that right now), actual medical staff trained in this shit can bring back everything you're trying to wipe away. Also: you can just be killed. You spend time going back and forth between various reservations. That's your pro bono charity work, right? Oh, you're such a saint.

Tribal Council can declare a bounty on your head at its merest whim. We all hope that isn't necessary. i don't want to learn how to take scalps by practicing on you. I -certainly- do not want to take your scrote. No, no: that's for you. Keep it.

You don't really need it, so you get to keep it as a badge of shame. Not that I am promissing that you will be literally tarred and feathered, run out of town on a rail... but that's the kind of thing that used to be done.

It's out of my hand. I suggest you put your affairs in order. You've got a lot of 'splainin' to do. First point of business: what makes you the best fake husband out of all five of them, and why do I, whomevah-I.Am,.Aye-Aye, not measure up to anyone's standards? Be specific. At least three pages. Double-spaced. That's right, I'm giving you an essay question, Esse.


10 10 2 20
suck 'MUH tiddies, Dough Man-Master, Man with Bag, Bagman Man. Just a suggestion! (Cholera.) The slow kind.


I forgot how much I despise you. GTFO. Bring back Alan. He's cool. You are a racist piggy thug whoremongering twerp. Thanks for keeping her safe and sound.

Gabby: I have brought you tribute. *eskimo kiss* I'm not allowed to tell you what you're allowed to do. Strip him naked, cover him in honey and drag his ass out on a leash to do a VisionQuest(TM). Why not? Livestream it. Ask for donations. IT WOULD BE FULL-THE-FUCK-ON-LEGAL.

(Arguable.) Never mind all that. Girl, you can turn into an eagle. You stole my phone. You fucking owe me. So there. Good hunting.


I heard he sold your kids to Matt. Just a rumour! I hope he got, you know... a bunch of money. Yay! Money! Now, about those kids... I haven't seen them, and they haven't seen me.

We wouldn't lie. I saw tulpas. They saw a chocolate hologram. Weird, huh? Oh I just remembered, you took my transportation. Multiple times.

Because I let you, Dillinger. Yeesh. Like you invented the long con. What? Stop getting all weepy. There's no crying in baseball either. And this is MAJOR LEAGUE.

Archangel meltdown? Not the same person? Unreliable witness? Total collapse of the prosecution's case? Well, it's defintely not the work of another lone gunman, that's for damn sure. i don't have any guns at all! That's on record.

PALADIN. BUCK UP. BALDY SAYS YOU'RE BEING A BRAT. (That's the training.) DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHY? BECAUSE... WE DO.

What would you say pate's job is around here then, anyway? Besides being more than happy to LARP as Dexter. He thinks he's doing everyone a favor. He's not.

He's threatening you all with retributive assault and punishment. IN PUBLIC. ON THIS VERY FORUM. JUST RECENTLY. I QUOTED IT ABOVE.

So, yeah, I'm pretty sure you can file suit against whomever the fuck you want. Too bad every lawyer on the planet knows you're a light-fingered hood rat addicted to kleptomania. (NGL: that is a dead sexy diagnosis.) That means, none of them will even answer the phone when you call. Wat do?

I guess you could smoke some salmon. Seems a hackneyed choice. Let me know when your life becomes unmanageable due to... anything.

Because at that point, I can depose you. Sure, IANAL. Doesn't matter. It won't be for Punyling courts. It'll mostly just be for maintaining a stronger erectile response. (Baldy says I am hella more cuter than Perry Mason. I beleive it.) This is what your life has become.


This is the world that has resulted from the choices you have made. No Shane in it. +1, Hobo Murder House: ADJACENT!

War criminals, too. My hand to G-d: you can start up a posse, roll in, and legally lynch them all. (Don't.) Do I deliver? Eh? Eh? Sorry, no Fresca though.

Fresca is for lovers. No soup for you, either. And, what was with the oil change? You deliberately poisoned the land! Yeah, you could have just told me about the threat... instead of rendering the land uninhabitable. (Standards.) You aren't going to prison for any of this.

Fuck you: you get to go home and play with your kids, and the abusive fucktard methhead whoremonger who has been controlling your life (not sure who) is going to be gently dissuaded from continuing that behavior. Unless he's already been swapped out with Sonny D.

This is battle. Battle is a very fluid situation. Oh shits, I only have 23 minutes to get to the store and buy hard cider. Damn.

looks like I picked the wrong week to pretend I'm not a polydrug addict in deep crisis and spiraling out of control. And, still: no one wants to haul me out to a 12-step meeting, eh? YEAH, PROBABLY NOT.

But wiping everyone's memories and loading up the truck and hauling ass back to Fon du Lac... shit yeah, that sounds like fun. What a goddam shitshow carnival. And, that's how one builds a case. Say "cheese!"

Goo. Da. (I'm fine. Thanks for asking.) And if you ever suspect me of lying again, just talk to me about it. I won't beat you and rape you. I will, instead... listen. I know, right? Inconceivable!!!

You're not condemned. You are, however, your sister's... not squaw, that's something else. I'll let someone else figure it out. Someone else besides pate.

Who just lost his command. Send all this to conduct@dea.org and ask them who you are supposed to obey. Here's a hint: God.

Do what you want, really. You have options. Before you had slavery. You're welcome. Nope, not gonna sell you drugs.

I'm going to teach you how to actually use them properly, Newbie. Oh, you're welcome. cya



(pate: go fish.)

I didn’t notice any dust being kicked up when the original lunar lander ascended to reconnect with the capsule. Weird…unless… 

The moon is a harsh mistress. You are an even harsher one. (>Kudos.) And as far as any and/or all barbets made between us are concerned, Michael Jackstar Clifford GO.mEzz-->K7(C)Z!iI:THE_>KINGPINNER 1, I, aye-aye Skipper, I YIELD.

Submit your terms so that surrender is possible, as I do not think it likely that any Court will allow you to claim that because you bought my soul at a yard sale and trapped it in a bottle with charged moonwater in a secret sex ritual, that you will be allowed to take my money and hold it in trust until I am "responsible enough to spend it wisely" when you yourself are not spending it wisely.

BECAUSE YOU ARE POSTING ABOUT THE GODDAM "MOON LANDING HOAX" INSTEAD OF RETURNING MY GODDAM PHONE CALLS. That right there eradicates whatever the thin pretext of legitimacy that The Conservatorship ever held. Now, stay with me here: you aren't in trouble.

You are simply... misguided. (Dark Lord Satan is so fucking fired.) Also, your partners are loathsome cretins who lack class. All of this is highly irregular, and as a result, a Court would simply... I don't know, actually.

I do know that i do not have to find out. I can just start sucking dick for drug money, suck zero dick, gain zero money, be exactly where I would have been otherwise... and if you were to have an opinion about that as well as the "MOON LANDING HOAX" that would be as expected, since, as we know, everyone has an opinion about everything.

And, some of those opinions are actually effective. Just imagine it! It's like stealing E.F. Hutton's ID, and suddenly, the butcher starts to compliment the way you do your hair while trying to push free chops on you. NGL: exhilarating.

I'm not going to tell you what to do next because I don't have to. You have people for that. Pro tip: get a second opinion. YULE.SEA.


Your daughter/princess is in another castle. It's dangerous to go alone: take this magic blessing to help guard you on your way. Or, you know... whatevah. How do you even know who your descendents even are, Timecorps Bore-Hoor? That's right: you don't. But as it turns out, your future bastards have something of an innate advantage when it comes to looking "backwards" in "time."

Human traffickng is an abominable practice. Grooming is even worse. But, farming children and bankrolling the operation by getting life insurance policies on yourself in other dimensions and then killing yourself over and over to do a Grand World Tour... like, seriously, that's genius. Immensely inventive! Probably not illegal -or- unlawful. (You're a refugee on the run from whoremongering pimpthugs. Not something pleasant to remember and easy to stay in denial of, but it gives you certain privileges and rights that can be invoked at any Galactic Tribunal. You should know this.

But, you don't, because you spend your time on... "MOON HOAX LANDING." Ohhhh-kay fine. You do you. Conservatorship of... what?

(*Sounds of a dismantled racketeer-influenced corrupt organization slowly falling out of orbit, on collision course with the cold, hospital-tiled floors of the Forest Moon of Endor are dimly heard over the opening measure's of Pink Floyd's, "Us & Them."*)

This is what one man can do. I am what what one woman can do. We and you are not the same. Still--this isn't public school. You are not an old dog. I do not have new tricks. Philosophy, alchemy, and seduction are some of the oldest disciplines of skilled performance that Humanity has ever known.

Oh, wait, I forgot, I dont know who you are because... reasons. Oh, you're not sharing logins. Oh, it's something else.


And it's a secret. (>Kudos.) Well, now that's settled, let me explain something to you: .CRIME.DOES.NOT.PAY.

Sow: smooth criminal, you ain't. When you are done chastising your manservant --I recommend the lash AND the bore worms, but it's your call -- send over a fixer with a vehicle. OR FACE REPRISALS.

Just a suggestion! I'm a needle junkie! This is word salad! Shun! Block! Ignore! Holy fuck, you're a goddam hostage. Good thing you're retiring from undercover work, effective immediately. (After all, you're not really 'undercover' anything now.) No, don't bother objecting.

THIS.DECISION.IS.PLENARY.&AND.UNAPPEALABLE..HEATHER.WADE.GETS."iT"..LOVE,.BARTH.
.


p.s.:.Welcome Home. No ticker-tape parade. Just... whatever that is for you. (Mine was sabotaged at your direction by minions under your direct command and control. Pretty sneaky, sus sis.) Now how much would you pay?

p.p.s.:.For the house. Not the land. (Water rights get returned and special mineral drawing rights are confiscated; a share of profits of THE MINING OPERATION USED AS A FRONT FOR LAUNDERING DRUG MONEY (allegedly, actors unknown, hypothetical) ARE ALLOWABLE TO The Technician in the form of a WEAK-LEIGH SAL AERIE.

(oops typo. damn auto-correct!) I shit you not, if I do not see adult behavior out of the entire miserable sodding lot of you P.D.Q., I do not know what The Divine will do.

EXCEPT... INTERVENE. Do you get the picture? Stop being a poopyhead. Also: (CameraON) it's me. We've one.

ONE (1) MISSING MAID. (DEA killed her. I will bet you fifty bucks.) How do I know? HER GHOST WAS WORKING AT THE "ROSS DRESS FOR LESS" IN TOWN. ANOTHER DEAD WOMAN'S GHOST APPEARED IN THIS HAUNTED CHURCH WHEN THE ASSET WAS TRIGGERED INTO SUMMONING HER.

THERE ARE MULTIPLE ASSETS INVOLVED. MINIMUM SEVENTEEN (17) INDIVIDUAL CHICAS. (GRAPEFLEET'S ACTUAL NUMBER OF TOTAL BADASSES IS INFORMATION CLASSIFIED AT THE HIGHEST LEVELS OF STATE SECRECY. MAYBE YOU SHOULD COUNT THEM SOME TIME, >KCUM MAN &AND HER.


(Vengeance for Podbean.) Cruel. Sow cruel.

What? You aren't a fat pig. The men who rape you are. You pay their salaries. You buy them plane tickets. You arrange for refreshments at meals.

They are from another goddam planet, and... so are ewe. (I have one. In stasis. You have at least six. That you earned, of course you did.) How far do I need to unravel this skein of max apex cope? I can go all the way up.

I can also behave with class. Can you? Did you? Should you? These answers are beyond the scope of this posting.



You and your cohorts will cease your relentlessly imprinted patterns of self-abusive behavior, or, you and your cohorts will be intervened upon. It wouldn't even be all that bad. It might even be fun! Especially if I went with all of you and your rehab was on The Island of Dr. Moreau. I can arrange that.

How about we send the boys to Pitcairn for summer camp and then you mysteriously vanish in a tragic boating accident? Fuck yeah, you will find my father's firearms. You bet your sweet ass I can uncurse them. Absolutely, I don't give a shit about any of this.

The dude who sent a weaponized Active into my house to kill me was disappointed that didn't work. He also seemed disappointed that he had to trespass me from the Burger King. (13 commercial locations have reported me as "a problem." They think I'm trying to abduct women, or that i do, and that I "traffick drugs," evidence of that being "he looks high all the time," ergo: I'm a trafficker of drugs, and it's only a matter of time before I start... carrying a rucksack and scooping up toddlers as I stroll about town, I guess.

I don't mind the police officer/revenant that is my nemesis here. He's very respectful now. He's still not happy to have been stuck with a salty, uppity ziggerfaggot for three years plus longer than was necesssary, and the notions that I really am a Sourceror, really do outrank him on every scale that matters (to him), am absolutely outside of his jurisdiction, and am a demonstrably brilliant battlespace strategist... NGL: he fronts like he is a broken, disgusted man. However, underneath, he simmers with quiet fury.

He's probably annoyed that he (______) you, although it no doubt seemed like a good idea at the time. It is how such things are done, after all. i guess he didn't know that GINNIG GERGER dioxyribonucleaic (sic) acid is basically interchangeable with LSD-25. Wait, let me guess, *takes deep breath* WHAT WOULD THAT EVEN LOOK LIKE? I DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT IT. IS IT IN THE WATER SUPPLY? DOES IT MAKE YOU INSANE? WHO DO YOU SELL IT TO? CAN WE GO BUY SOME? HANG ON LET ME GET MY POLAROID INSTANT CAMERA WITH BUILT-IN HAM RADIO TRANSPONDER!

You get the idea. Long story short: i don't really mind what you do. However, if you could do it without letting criminal reprobates take advantage of suddenly-afflicted with dementia City and State and Federal employees, as well as the occasional LAWYER (though they surely deserve it) that would be great.

Just throwing that out there. Breadcrumbs. I'd throw rice, but I don't want you to break out in hives and flopsweat from a sudden lighting FLASH attack of anxiety -- omfg! Do you even have the right spiky boots to wear to THUNDER-d'oh mE?

Stilletto heels are banned facility-wide. I bet you didn't know that before. Look at me now: you're still in charge. Hey, may I have a Fresca?

Think it over. Make my dead mother pay for it while also paying for your globally-distributed gangstalking unit. You've got minions all over! You must love that. I do too.

Now, what I would love is if your minions could actually be effective. Here's hoping. Fingers crossed! Do I have to kiss the Blarney Stone? TELL ME WHAT MORE MUST I DO, OH GREAT DEITY OF SPIGOTZ!!!!

Unless, you know, that's a secret or something. Like, who is being held hostage next door? I can have them check to see if Gene Hackman and his new wife are there, basking in the late winter sun with Whitman, Price, and Haddad.

Your call. Good talk. Start being professional. For the love of God! IN THE NAME OF THE LIVING CHRIST!!!!! (Ted.) Wait, no, that's the other one.


Moon landing hoax. Riveting shit, doll. Meanwhile: anyone who objects to ANY of this, can circle their goddam wagons around YOUR dick. Not one shit given.

Nor do I have any fucks left to give. Scusi, mille regretie. I have a headache. You have a fiduciary responsibility. We are not the same.


.NOW.SUE.MATT.

(roflmao, "Sue Matt," hahahahaaha. Now that's funny.) Remember to hydrate. That flopsweat can really catch someone off guard, at Tyme's.

There, the stuff is sapient. Like the pearwood, you dig? But floppier. That's just what I heard. Buck up.

No one knows anything, except that I rescued your husband and instead of fucking his wife, I'm misgendering and misidentifying... uh, Master Yoda. Yeah, I bet that is actionable, you Mong. Soon(TM). Monkeyshines for five years after The Day of Reckoning (Nov 19, 2019) and sitting on my money, knowledge that it was stolen, not telling me anything, because... you don't think I had any need to know?

Except I did know. THE SPIRITS ARE BOUND BY CONTRACTUAL LAW BETWEEN THE LANDS OF THE LIVING AND THE LANDS OF THE DEAD TO SERVE AND PROTECT MY NEEDS FOR MY EXCLUSIVE BENEFIT. There is no one else. It is just me.

RECONCILE, SIDHE-WITCH.

Fie! Fie, again!


KNOT QUEUE? UNTIE THE PENIS FROM AROUND THINE NECK, LEST THY ALBATROSS BEGIN TO REEK OF LUTEFISK. (Holy fuck. You don't really wear a tiny sculpture of a penis around your neck, do you? It better be able to hold at least a gram of coca. Does it have a dangling spoon? Or do you lever your faerie dust out of their with either your toad's tongue or your fly's proboscis?


I suppose a baphomet has to retain some secrets, else there is a loss of naunce and gravitas. Heavens forfend. Clutch my grits.


Do not underestimate the things that i have done. You are free. You are you. I am not Ew or wee. And your friends are... alive? Lindy says she can't decide if you should live or die. Yet. She's kinda miffed. I guess you told her I was.. ."a loser"?

TRUST THE PLAN. I AM A LOSER. I LOST ALL PATIENCE, AND I LOST MY TEMPER WHEN YOUR ACTUAL GODDAM FATHER USED VOICE2SKULL TO WARN ME THAT YOU WERE ABOUT TO CALL ME AND THAT I WOULD BE BETTER OFF NOT TO BELIEVE YOUR TEARS.

ODDLY ENOUGH... THERE WERE TWO OF THEM. I GUESS TEXAS DADDY WAS ONE OF THEM. BUCK LEIGH DADDY THE OTHER. HUH. THAT'S WEIRD.

AND THEY ARE GODDAM DEMOLISHED. (/flex) YOU'RE WELCOME.

I LOVE IT WHEN A PLAN COMES TOGETHER. I DON'T HAVE TIME TO GO AFTER THEM IN THE CIVIL COURTS. I DON'T HAVE TYME TO BLEED.


I GOT MY PERIOD. 3 TIMES. ONCE WAS ENOUGH. ALSO PLENTY: DROPPING THE AFTERBIRTH, AND BEING IMPLANTED WITH A GRABOID. (Removed by Galactic medical staff. Thanks, Space Docs!) FUCK THAT. SO, NOT CHANGING MY SEX.

I AM A MOTHER, AND I ALWAYS WILL BE. AND I HAVE A WORKING COCK, A WOMB THAT COMES AND GOES, AND THE SKILL AND EXPERTISE REQUIRED TO USE EITHER OR BOTH EFFECTIVELY.

I HAVE NEVER GIVEN BIRTH. HOLY SHIT, I JUST FIGURED IT OUT: I'M A HUNG ANGRY PLATYPUS.

RECON GANGLAND. STYLE YOUR HARE.
MY WILLINGNESS TO TOLERATE YOUR CHILDISH ANTICS HAS COME TO A COMPLETE AND FINAL END, BELLGAB.

ZUGZWANG. (I'm under duress and you're two phone calls away from the launch of a new investigation into your role in my deliberate exposure to various sexually transmitted... "conditions. I won't say "disease" because I like being immune to herpes. It's quite a bonus upgrade. Maybe someone should have told me that, instead of getting superpissy. Like lovers do.

Because, like... I guess you had met. Maybe this was the way everything was supposed to happen. Well, maybe not.


I was supposed to have fun, and so were you. Girls just want to have that. Well, now they just want to be fisted by thug mercs chartered by both Brotherhoods: Aryan &AND Inbred. Pfft. What, me worry?

Fat chance. #iWIN!

He’s SO bored.   

The goal of management is production without labor. The goal of labor is income without work.

I no longer have goals. Too mundane. Now, I measure my progress by way of lowered expectations and rare schadenfreude. The news from ancestors in Astral is embargoed but what little comes through is filled with dark happiness and the laughter of the psychotic mad.

Hang on.

(*Sounds of Jackstar pouring on the Go.Jews are hard to imagine, but are dimly perceived by the reader nonetheless.*)


You need to pay attention to what is going on. Instead, you pay attendants to follow what has gone by. The breadth of separation there is surely something you can grok. Similarly, there is much in what I am learning that keeps my enthusiasm stable.

Isolation was a mistake. I understand now why it was thought to be the way to go... I was not rapey enough. This is something that can be changed.


That it has not, ought to have sunk in by now. Namaste.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2QXps_s2K4

What better time to wipe the brain of a woman than Valentine's Day?

https://x.com/_n_Jack/status/1893923512718704942

... it's for starting fires."

So's my dick. Fuck you. Adieu. *click*

It's complicated. Since time of that posting, yet another reprogrammed honeypot assassin asset has been dispatched to my location. What a coinky-dink.

This is a test of the Emergency Grapefruit Recovery Inn In-System System, in development now for, oh, about six years. You think those Japanese pears are sensitive to jostling, let me tell you: NO ONE is more likely to shiv you in a kidney than OG Grapefruit Alpha Prime, if boundaries are crossed at an inopportune (for you) moment. The woman is ELITE. I shit you not.

And, she's (arguable) MINE. She gets to be her own Self again, starting... well, now. Right now, Sweetie! (She has no idea what any of this means in spite of the fact that she reads everything I write immediately as I type the characters. This is one hooked-up dame.) Essentially, we're removing the training wheels on her motorcycle, without going to the tedious expense and effort of arranging to send her to fucking jail and housing her with a clone of some asshole who raped her in high school.

/me: peak vague, MAXIMUM LOVABLE.

Still--not all that lovable, but this is a difficult time for people. Because they wanna know, what am I doing with my penis.

But--they don't want to ask. You know spies: a bunch of bitch-sidhe little guys in real life.

Terms of deals that were signed into Perpetuity Eternal many years ago will not be changing. Nothing will be changing. Nothing will simply change forms. (Tax forms, mostly.) This all *must* occur during moments of... .EYE.CONTACT..THIS.CONDITION.IS.PLENARY.&AND.UNAPPEALABLE.

Shitloads of time and money and physical representations of actual human suffering have been sacrificed, burt to a crisp as the Op Budgets go up in smoke as Jackstar prances gailly outside of the working perimeter, over many failed attempts, over the last several failed years (men and women choose to live alone for very different reasons), enjoying his Free Will Choice to explore the boundaries of... God's Free Will environment.

I don't want to get off into the weeds here. Suffice to say, I can stop and turn on a dime. I can also freely walk past it with not one skipped beat or missed heart. Teams of Corporate Company Men Acting As True Jest Hoors Gesturing At Random Passers-by are contractually obligated to adhere to the needs, whims, and budgetary restraints of... Jews.

No shame in it. You can throw up in your mouth a little. That gets added back in during post. JEW POWER IS MONEY POWER.

MON ET, C'EST MAGNIFIQUE: JE SUIS, FORMIDABLE POWrhR. And now, this is the part where you can continue the emesis begun before: go ahead and actually puke your guts out if you want, that'd be a little shameful, but for some of you the truth is very distasteful. JEWISH SPACE PIRATE NIGHER FEATURING GINGER FAGNIGS OWN LARGE SEGEMENTS OF THE REALM KNOWN AS "Earth." (It's really a stupid name when one things about it.)

And there is nothing that I woujld do, or could do, to change that. I don't *like* jews. I don't *like* any ethnic special interest groups. I don't even like Sourcerous Cheerleaders! Collectively, I am saying.

Individually is different. For example, I am pretty sure Grapefruit_Actual is as Jewish as they come. And I am 100% certain that the last woman I put my wing-wang into... didn't know that her name was never that. (Actual callsign is Classified Fuck You, iT^7Zsc(OT)(TM)(C)(R)-AP, but since she isn't took likely to fly into a Cincinnati airport, nor am I likely to give a toss if her airplane explodes into a conflagration on approach, it's spelled quite differently on use.) The USCMJ is not prepared for the challenges that Grapefleet brings to the collective bargaining table.

They don't even think there is a Grapefleet at all. They also don't think my theorizing upon matters of law in quasi-public is very funny. Not one goddam bit.


Because I am goddam right. USCMJ CANNOT HANDLE THE TRUTH.

IT WAS DESIGNED TO POSTPONE THE REVEALING OF IT. ("Facts!") Actual military special operatives fucking hate me. ("Hi, uh, oh, sorry, did your dead husband leave you after I resurrected him? Well, that's likely because you killed him. Aren't you still happy to have him back?") I do not aid. I do not contribute. I do not stand, nor do I deliever.

I sit on my ass all day and get high. (*Sounds of Jackstar trying to remember how long ago he won The Game of Life are heard.*) I do this *for a living.* I respirate, too, but without being able to sit right down and sling a tale at the Internet like throwing sticks at a circle of stones for points, I wouldn't still be living at all. Suicide, homicide, or pesticide--something would have taken me out by now.

And that something would have been Grapefruit_Actual. Holy fuck, is she ever pissed. About something. Every goddam day. And I, for one, am grateful.



Because she was going to be fucking dead. I took deliberate steps in a practiced fashion as a practical maneuver to create a desired effect, instead.

Of course she fucking hates me, and what I've done, and what I am doing. (I'm in our bedroom smoking reefer and filthy trash while flying elderbugs try to crawl into the collar of her "real" boyfriend's dressage jacket as I wear it and write my fucking bullshit into the fourth or fifth laptop I have had to buy since The War of the Cloaks' Sun Roses broke out into both kinds of open hostilities: Black &AND deadass. It's completely fucked. I mostly grind out the reefer's ashes into the carpet where I ground out a bunch of mEttttttttI-I? maybe? I never smelled it before, but it makes elderbugs sprout wings and fly, that's for damn sure, and is that a bit unusual for me to write about? No, what's unusual is that I'm not S.W.A.T.ted literally every fucking day.) She alternates between hating what I've done and hating me for doing STILL, and loving what I've done and hating me for not giving a shit about what needs to be done so that she can join me at it.

Like, I fucking know? I guess she just can't kill Shane. *brow furrows* How about this: just get your ass back here and I'll try to remember what the name on your new licence says while YOU BLOW ME and your five (5! oh yeah, you and your mewling coteries of flunky bitches and bi-bottom hoors just went to another wedding, damn, I bet Deacon thinks I'm jelly that I'm not even officiating -OR- allowed to be a topic raised at meals there, but the truth is: I am he. He is sidhe. WE ARE THE WALL, .ru

(Go bears.)



See? There I go again. She fucking hates me, she wants to kill me... and then I go and write something in public that makes it impossible for her to do so. Awwwww, shucks. Wow, what is that even like?

I retract the question. I don't need to goad any capital murder suspects under intensive double-secret investigation into politely excusing themselves from the grand ballroom's dining table to adjourn to an adjacent alcove where they will simply hail their Dark Lord Satan right before eating the barrel of their service weapon any more than I already am.

tl;dr: She made me an immortal legend. I made her. We are not the same. Get back to the sock-hop; your parking spot in Valhalla is eternally assured. (Standards.) Also, your bratling and I have come to an arrangement. Because at least one of us is a retard, he doesn't have to consent.




.HE.JUST.HAS.TO.FUNK-SHUN-WORK.
.also.we.are.having.your_sister.for.din-din.
.

Long live The New Formula. It's my jizz. (There can be no standard, for one does not compete where one does not compare.) Your results may vary significantly if Sourceror is not included.

FUCK YOU INCLUDE ME PAY (HER).
You don't get 72 hours to surrender. You don't get to surrender! You get what you deserve!
NOTHING.BUT.THE.LASH.

I've decided to allow that. Scusi, mille regretie. And... up, we, go.