https://youtube.com/live/WG7Yp0pQDcE?feature=share


Trust the plan. (At this point none of you really have a choice.) What?

I told you: what we have planned is going to blow your minds. Are you not entertained? I hope so.

Your entire whack-job cult will be cinders by Christmas. I don't want to be any amount of vague here: you're all completely out of control and will be intervened upon. (Standards.) Run along now and get yourselves a few more orgasms.

Because: you work so hard. So, so hard. Adieu.

Chucky Marstein, rite?

You're both fired.

#1) it's a metaphor. It's not something you need to get all hot and bothered over.
#2) My ergegore does not answer to you, and neither do I.
#3) I want my wimmins, and I want to have the option to brand them as you all have with your MethD!≤‽ technology, for only in that way does it mean so much when I gently decline to commit an aggressive sexual assault against someone who has, in fact, already heard of me.
#4) Whomever The Dark Lord is, he sure did leave a lot of needles lying around. Cute. Since I'm a needle junkie? Except now proven not to be. Thus, The Dark Lord is both invisible and needle dependent.
#5) And as it is not I, I have decided to find him, and scalp him, and take all his wimmins as my own.
#6) Any member of Grapefleet can change my mind. They just have to use eye contact when doing it, and they're all busy. At WORK.

#7) Meanwhile, I'm doing somerhing else that no one suspects. It's personal. It's confidential. And yes, it's very effective.

#8) And with The Dark Lord's loathsome coterie of mewling sycophants are distracted by all this bullshit, other professionals are handling the cases of other, more low-hanging miscreants.

They have their jobs. I have mine. My friend lost hers. She used to be thought of as someone to be unleashed upon me. I undersrand she is quite fearsome.

Yet, but not to me. I still haven't had sex with her in the pooper; I still haven't given her drugs; I still don't know what she thought was going to happen; and obviously there was no affair. No cheating.

One super embarrassed military. Look, it's real simple: no one is happy about this.

Except: my friend and I. We are now happy about other things. We share a survivors’ bond. Grapefruit has something else.

Like, a still-living mother and work to do. And, yes REALLY, it's real simple.

I demand the knowledge, and I still haven't had anything get to happen yet. Nearly five years. How could that be? I'll tell you how: these dingbats are top-tier talent.

For us, it is necessary work that takes first and center priority. Because Mission. Of course I'd rather be having fun. However, I do enjoy a conclusive demonstration of Mastery.

One way or another, I'm going to explore what has been forbidden. I don't even know why. That's forbidden too? Damn. How can I say nay to any of this?

Without a phone or any way of scheduled meetings, I can't. I just sort of have to go along with what is decided. Sometimes, I must obey the whims of the hive mind.

That way it means more when I do whatever the fuck I want. Like I'm not saving Private Ryan here. I wanna get away from this Superfund hazmat nightmare zone. It's like Amityville, but far more tolerable.

And it's cursed. And cyberstalked. And under siege. It's very exciting stuff for me. Less so for others.

“I wish I could just punch you in the face.” Yeah? Okay, arousal terminated. Not that I really wanted to keep making my wife infuriated, but, if I had to concern myself, I would find out how many husbands were left.

Mr. K: “Who is the dark Lord in question?” are you for real? You're all pretty dark. And you've succeeded in really hurting my feelings and letting a woman be abused for basically nothing extra.

I guess she should say goodbye to them. They might be in custody already. Chained to some round table like they're ready for MacReady to test their blood. I don't know. IDGAF.

I love them. I don't coddle them. And I banished them to another planar dimension when I found out that they didn't know how to utilize my skills. I won't say why. It's sacred Tribal knowledge.

I will say that everyone is being punished. Tribal edicts can be harsh. And people were stupid. They're still mad at me, that's how stupid they were.

I honestly believed they knew the rules. Either they didn't, or succeeded in believing it was no big deal. IT IS A HUGE DEAL.

I wish I could tell you about it but I can't. Goodbye! (Just kidding.) I will point out that I am classier than Art Bell was about this. Also I'm a civilian.

I'll be a junkie for Palmolive©™, motherfuckers. You're soaking in it. How is everyone a teetotaler now? I guess after years of carefree abuse, some are surprised to know that my friends and I didn't like being exploited.

We have done something about it. And while it make look like insane behavior, that is because I wanted people to think I was struggling with temptation. I guess that's a very big deal for some people.

I have no struggle. I don't want sex from a baker's dozen lady cops. And they don't want to go to prison. Truthfully I don't care where they go.

They're working. They can't just be themselves. And none of them can arrest or seduce me or... understand normal thinking, I guess? That seems the idiom.

Normal thinking is that I am told people think I'm a cat killer. I am not. And for years, there's a question? Then someone kills my cat and boasta about it on the phone.

ON THE PHONE. It's vile. They think it's funny. It's not. She was a sweet kitty. Now she's much more cruel.

The Dark Lord always corrupts. Well, I'm tired of that. After four years... all this corruption and decay is because I needed to get a job and pay taxes and work out and... what? Sounds like a script.

Also, I was accused of being in denial about my mental health by a man who thought the thing to do was to yell at me on his front lawn in broad daylight in front of the neighbors lights I was his child and ordered to not do what I had never done. Weird.


COVID-19 changed a lot of things. Abusing my sensitive nature didn't really help any of them, except in one way: I am prepared to join the war effort. If I have to. It seems a waste of time to me.

But if that's what it takes to get this dame to unclench in the next five months, we'll see. I'm not getting any younger. It's almost showtime.

My friend deserves all the time in the world to savor the experience. Because this is happening. Nothing can stop what is coming. NOTHING.

Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned. And being stuck with someone who doesn't like her looks like a real drag. It's not, but we make it look good.

It's just easier to not have to bother getting all sticky. Additionally, people are freaking out because they are losing their meal tickets. I didn't know that was a thing. But DEA works in mysterious ways.

For example, they still seem to be shy. How silly. I'm obviously their friend. And when I start tapping all that edge trim, any day now, they'll be pleased to find me non-violent.

Whether they fire their employees or not. It's not really all that necessary, for me, because I'm not employed. But I think it's a bad business practice to overemphasize sex bondage in the workplace.

Now, I don't know who to file suit against but I left options open, and I'm pretty flexible. So, why heavy pressure is flowing down, and I don't even know who is still interested... it's just not a very effective psyop.

But: public money is still being paid for it and the last month has been nothing but embarrassing peacock strutting.

And: I'm quite clearly not breaking any law. Unless I agree that I am military property, like my friend has. She actually went to Basic. I never enlisted.

She's still used as bait and I'm still happy to watch this shitshow wind down. Holy Mother of God: they're in way over their heads and know not what they have done.


I wish I could talk to you but I can't. Goodbye. (Just kidding. I can talk. You just can't talk back.) I really can't publish anything juicy.

It wouldn't be polite or legal and I have nothing else to comment on. I guess people have questions? I bet.

We don't really have questions. We had a mission. I still do. I don't know what others are doing. Following orders, I guess.

Who’s that at the door in charge? That's a secret! Like where three (3) pans of lasagna came from? Alaska, Alabama, and Alli’s son was, uh...

Let's just move on. I don't want to explain why it's all awesome. Like having to explain a joke. It's not as funny! Like having to explain to me!

Since it's highly embarrassing that so many people are chemically dependent and can't handle facing life while I seem to be having a great time. I am. That's what following the law will get one.

Now, I am not on YouTube™ yukking it to because someone else is. Cool. I didn't need to be famous. I also didn't need to support a false narrative for the last five years.

I am not officially in the loop but I'm sure the Big Bad is identified. A real nasty one too. And I don't need to day anything at all. Not really.

But I can. I simply do not want to. I'd rather make love, not controversy. So.

Why can't we? The cover story is wearing thin. Someone... looks into this? Right? I would assume so.

WAKE UP, PUNYLING PRIMARY VICTIMS! Maybe this is all done soon. Maybe not. You get to know, and hide.

I get to know a cold heart inside my body where I should be warmed by cherishment. Temporarily. I also don't feel confused by wondering who did all this.

I know now. It's not really The Dark Lord. Yes. It's some... other Lord.

They can bully me, but I can't be not sober, huh. Weird. That seems like an optical illusion or some kind of display glitch or the car are in neutral rolls uphill or something.

I'll explain it all later but I can't now. That would be rude.

Also rude: using my frens as bait. I would have preferred to have used them as sex partners.

Someone else did. Is this important right now? 60,000 YEAR-OLD DEATH CULT ON VERGE OF TOPPLEMENT.

Imagine the afterglow. BIBLICAL. Now, however... I'd like to be impressed.

I'm not. I'm flattered. (The effects are comparable.) This is what one man can do.

gΩμ really aren't the same thing. Now, if that's all, fine, I'll be on my way.

To (blank). It's what adults used to do. Remember those? Yeah. I just had one tell me that I was mentally ill. (THEN MAYBE TRAFFICKING ME OVER THE PHONE ON CHRISTMAS 2023 WAS A BAD IDEA, UBERJOO. ALSO CONTINUING TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF MY IGNORANCE, AND THEN TELLING ME THAT I'M MENTALLY ILL, WHILE HIDING A SECOND PERSON AND THEIR IDENTITY IN THE HOUSE, NOT REALLY A CRIME BUT I'M MENTALLY ILL TO MENTION THAT IT ISN'T WORKING WELL? THIS MALADAPTIVE COPING STRATEGY, THAT IS.

AND THE SOLUTION IS ALWAYS: get a job, give up on sex. Huh. A non-starter.

I'll let you all fill in the blanks. Suffice to say: “SNIPER!” has no targets. No one knows who knows anything anymore.

Good. That's the training. Hey, here's an idea: maybe it's not ⁴4uuuu to know. But everyone is an expert on who I should snuggle with. Huh.


LGBTQIA Collective, thank you for your concern and your attention to detail. Now go groom Dr. Doom’s children or something. I'm busy.

I'm going to infiltrate Slenderman’s fortress and breed his bloodline. In their sleep! It's just easier to be unexpected.

Because ewe never know. _Adieu._


P.S. Ellgab leadership is first against the wall when the revolution comes and no one ever knows the most sensitive of informations. This madness must stop somewhere.

P.P.S. “Tootsie died of cancer,” that's such a sad story, and so much like what I was told was happening to the child twice my age who had a switchblade in a closed fist, clenched in my stomach, because that's how the truth is obtained from an eight-year-old. Huh. I will say this: I roll with a pretty tough crowd.

As soon as Beetle Bæ-Lee and The Lightfingera Armada gets their act together, we can proceed. Until then, all y'all can polish my shiney. I do the best I can for everyone because I think that's civil.

You all just scrapped a house out from under me and thought you could do that easy. It was easy to irritate me, that's for sure. How is “tough love” part of the governance package? Courts will have proceedings, and Citizens will decide. Why was I blacklisted?

Because pimpin’ was easier before I got there. I guess. I didn't really know that this was all actual. I still don't know.

Take your time. It's been decades. Sean David Morton has time to shrug off that metabolic poison. Hey, here's an idea: tactics are related. This tracks back to the D A.R E. program. Hang on.


It's just easier. To keep you all asleep. THEY LIVE.

EWWWW, SLEEP. Look, I'll be fine. Ask not how hard Jackstar can work for fiat currency.

Ask instead how hard your retirement is going to be. No one gets out alive. No one needed me dead.

Except for *gulp* and yeah, INCONVENIENT I AM SURE. Scoot over, bacon. This doesn't have to be all weird.

GOD WINS. Arrest my dog! (Anything will do.) THIS IS ALL POLITICAL.


Which, to me, is sultry. I wish I could talk to you but I can't. Goodbye.


SIGNED,
JACKSTAR


P.S. MRS. DOUBTFIRE. That exists and I'm in a cycle of abuse that no one ever discusses with me, and a job will help. Huh. #Officially, you're all winding down.

P.S.S. I should do something else with my time. Yes. But you first.

P.P.P.S. and if any of you fucking pigs move, I'll execute every mother fucking last one ya. Just kidding. You are free to move all you like! Take My Residence, for example. (It is a wasteland of unfathomable filth and squalor.) I need to tidy up, is that it? Nope. It's just going to chill like this, and I'm going to visit the Winchester House for further instruction.


If anyone wants to take over, by all means: cough up the money. Until then, I am the tyrant you need, not the patsy you wanted. TA-DAH! Copyright Magick Castle LLC.

I don't even know where to begin the disappointments. Jewish political power now put on notice.

Should keep you busy while your bullet's batteries charge. TARBABY OUT

From Scribbler:
I think you or somebody you know asked me why I was doing what I was doing, and I said because I'm mocking. It's not entirely true. I'm also following orders, and I'm doing it in a way that mocks lots of people. And if anybody wanted to ask me why I'm mocking them, I could tell them, but I'm not gonna bother going down that far down the path.

Now, since I answered your question, why is it that you and that other person—why do you care? What's it to you? Why such a focus of attention, if it's not being a drug and sex addict? I don't know what else it could be, since not having sex and not really getting drugs, and then apparently it's just the worst possible thing in the entire world to happen, and it's a matter of some concern to people who show up out of nowhere and start yelling at me. That seems weird.

It seems weird to me, and it seems weird to everybody else, and it seems weird for America. So you're probably not gonna want to think about it since it doesn't get you high or laid, but other people who aren't obsessed with their orgasms—they've probably been paying attention for a while now, since it's been fucking years, and are probably wondering what's next. I know I am, since yeah, I'd love to have a job. Yeah. Well, that's right, I have one.

Once again, what's it to you? Why do you care? Who are you? Why are you... Why are you like a bad helicopter parent on too much acid and not enough sleep? I don't know. I don't know. It'll be something else to look into. I don't really—I don't really need to know. Wipe your house for $20, huh? Well, it does make sense since you work so hard.

Summary:
• The speaker says they are "mocking" but also following orders, though they won't explain who they're mocking or why. 
• They question why certain people care so much about their actions, especially since it's not about drugs or sex. 
• They find it strange that strangers show up and yell at them, and they think this weirdness extends to America as a whole. 
• They suggest that people not obsessed with sex or drugs have been paying attention for years and wondering what comes next. 
• They claim to already have a job, despite saying they'd love one. 
• They criticize the questioners as acting like a "bad helicopter parent on too much acid and not enough sleep." 
• They reference someone saying "wipe your house for $20" and connect it to the questioner working hard.

Jackstar🅱️🆎μ:
Some crimes are investigated by The Divine in very unusual ways. But that's only because the usual method is to ask the victim, “what happened?” To this day, no one really knows.

Except me... both I'm just a cooky monster that can't dance without a proper prescription for “enchanted cook :Ë:ë:” Which for the time being amuses me to pretend to be chemically dependent on, or is that confessionary dependent? Anyway, it amuses me to pretend that I care about that because I don't.

I do care, just not about that. And if this irony is too meta-dependent to be understandable by those lacking in meta-cognition, that's meta-too-bad and meta-go-FUK-yerselves.

Also: my residence still smells like dead fish. That is meta-funny in a low-key way. But, 🤔 does it make me wanna strive for a paycheck?

(*Sounds of light grunting are faintly heard.*) Okay, striving is over for the day. Good pep talk, no really. I still feel the tingling.

That's the training. Still—this is better than public school. Attab0I Alphabetsies & Tootsie-Wootsies! I knew you could learn new tricks.

I don't think you're that old anyway. Certainly!... seasoned. But that doesn't have to be old. And, it's not.


But it is practical. You enjoy my money, I'll enjoy my freedom. We are not the same. Namastμ

Technically the term to use here is “cigarette dependent,” as the classical definition of addiction is that the user is unaware of the condition. That does happen; for denial is a very strong force that presents alongside in nearly every media market.

now, having said that: do you ever think about what it means to be addicted to the absence of punctuation? my guess is no.

p.s.: Imagine if self-abuse weren't addictive when used as a coping mechanism. would it still be illegal? I would think it obvious that the answer is yes, but then again, it hasn't become obvious (yet) to the OpStaff behind you that this whole thing has gone too, tu-tu far. Yes, really.

I noticed that many years ago. Very few of your colleagues have noticed at all thus far. Might that not suggest that comments directed towards someone with a problem... might better be made with less judgemental, snooty condescenasion? After all, one gets what one gives.

That's why I'm sperging out walls of text that seem deliberately insulting. Hopefully not to ewe or you, Operator. As I mean no one any harm. Not even the bourgeoisie twerpnerd who could think of no other behavior than mindless gluttony and contemptuous put-on airs of supremacy.

While mindlessly, mechanistically: running me out of ready access to cash resources after leaving me to fend for myself after being deliberately used as a human loss-leader and bait sacrifice. like, wha??? Whose idea was that? is that part of some training? Great Scott!

I certainly don't know. Now, do I care? yeah, I sort of have to... because it kinda like I just became sentenced to a life sentence of... caring for a neglected Special Alphan-Formerly-in-charge. Damn. I did not see that coming.

Since, I thought you could just *wiggle wiggle* goon-groom them back into a state of usefulness. No? Huh. Well, seems like someone sure miscalculated on that one.

Since, I didn't want to do all this either. Seemed a long road with no turning. Look what it did you that dame I wanna jump the bones of! seems a bit of a hot mess, huh? only hotter and messier by the day now, too.

Fortunately, I have a plan. A plan I can trust. Unfortunately for anyone caught up in this embarrassing pooch-screw, I'm kinda not able to hand-hold anybody on this whole circumstance from this point forward.

that's because I like my fren more than I like all of you who have been abusing her for literally decades. I am mortified. Some of your elite shock troops present as full-on troglodytes. I will help as much as I can.

But: my fren first. I do believe that to be the best route forward. Not just for The United States of America, but also for my d¡<K‽. As great good luck would have it, I can accommodate this great good (for me) twist of fate.

I don't know if anyone else can, but obviously she herself can, her mewling coterie of numbskull nitwits cannot, and so, I'd relieve their bat-shit lunatic asses from active duty A.S.A.P.

Not that I am using the word “if” here. far be it for me to ever get in your ways. I know they're very important to you. I bet they're mportant to ewe, too. Not sure where the Constitution fits into all this, but...

I know that everyone is certainly capable of figuring that all out without any input from me. (Standards.) Altogether not so capable: every single one of you except for §🆔∆μ and I just became guilty of conspiracy.

Without being at all obvious about it. (Awkward...) Thankfully, I don't need to get involved at this level. And as I begged everyone to not let this happen, I feel not one shred of remorse for my failure to intervene here. I did give it my all. I honestly did.

It's not really my area, though. And to be perfectly honest, I don't really know where I would begin on such a task.

Hey, here's an idea: get out of my sight. Start with me not having to watch. For not only is it revolting; If it ain't a secret, it ought to be. Ways and means, you know how it is. Winky Smiley Martindale.


(Some crimes are handled by The Divine in ways that are best described as BIBLICAL. This sure AF involves a whole bunch of those ones. Those “crimes.” some of them may well have been warcrimes. Still others may really just have been sins. Mortal, venial, or original, I'm not really certain about that stuff.

I am neither a doctor of Divinity nor of D¡<K‽ I am an occult researcher. Let me know if any of you need the services of one. My per diem rates are quite reasonable, especially according to some fair few folk.

I hope all the others are sky-fuckin’ high, because I'm not touching this gods-forsaken mess. Most of you are 100% pure totesfucked. I wish you all the best; you'll probably figure something out.

hopefully before you turn off your own water supplies. You're going to want those later, and I imagine you enjoy having them now. Please do enjoy all that you can for as long as you can with my blessings, compliments, and sincere best wishes and the kindest of warm regards for your collective and its future.

You know what I'm sayin’? (“INTO THE MUD, EVERYONE BUT THE SCUM QUEEN!” *shove* “Now, on the count of three: everybody wallow. Don't be afraid of the manure! What we've got here is a failure to see any of this coming.”) Perhaps not: when it comes to subtletys of subtext, there's a lot to unpack with mine here.

Also: I am a Sourcrπœr. (Picture this: Undercover Boss, and the Boss is a person that C‘Thullu gets flopsweats about. That was my fren. And she couldn’t even have so much as a simple conversation for over thirty years without being behind nine (9) proxies and a baker's dozen sticks of butter infused with a Royale Überj∞z magi<K‽ Cheese Whiz®™. Now, that's power finesse.) No shame in it; we're all learning a lot here today.

For example, I've learned that I can Depends®™ on absolutely no one to on the ball when it comes to doing what they once imagined was their actual career. Their “jobs.” They had them. They got them. They are great things to have.

And theirs — yours, I'm tellin’ ya — just got sunsetted on a Galactic scale. That shit can happen, it would seem. I am thinking that is going to keep many appartchik quisling–types exceptionally pre-occupied for Quite Çü¡v¡ †μⓂ️rπ² = k©∅mⓂ️Ê! (Standards themselves, standing up for themselves at this point, at this historic moment of what will become one of them fancy ”Annals of T!mE” people like to run their yip-yaps about while schmoozing at a formal chinwag-esque social strategy session for socializers that suck at, as well as use suck as a first-response toolkit when engaging in activities that might well have looked like strategizing. Especially with sternly furrowed brows and a comfy amount of well-heeled bruising muscle kept close by on ready retainer. Less verbosely: have fun storming the gator, Alligate. (HER.) You're all so very precious and far, far more adorable than you are expendable, sow. Semper fī; ends ewe won’t be some horrific nightmare.

Unless one is already leapfrogging an endless one while scarfing down xannies and procuring from only the most well-regarded purveyors who hardly ever are observed to be audibly quacking.) Don't get me wrong: I don't think this is too terrible an outcome for the general population, damn near everywhere.

For the Legion forces of nefarious Evil that have sought to oppress the great masses of Humanity for tens of thousands of years, it is about to be absolute bedlam and organized crime will enjoy re-organizing itself after the dust has settled and the smoke has cleared. I have no idea how Old School mobsters run their business, but indubitably they are going to run it adequately well.

Or, they won't. IDGAF. The Tree of Liberty must be, from time to time, refreshed by the blood of patriots. Not this time, and really, how much “liberty” did one ever really have, as an organized crime participant, at any level? *gulp* I retract my own query immediately.

Every man has a Master. But not every woman had an excreble pimpthug controlling every aspect of their day-to-day living... at least, not until recently. A complication of the CoV-🆔 psyop and its assorted intricacies, I presume? For the sake of those with progeny who do not wish to be viewed forever as  unfathomably irredeemable and imminently worthy of summary judgment quickly followed by niñbrnñm feeding time. (No one will be looking at those snappers or for top-tier elite merks to GG when reporting back after coming in on shredded joints and shattered egoes. Knee to the groin and kneeling to the ground are simply no longer what works. In most media markets. In modern metropolitan melting pots. By those still wet enough behind the ears to betray signs of any surprise. Imagine being that new in >current year.) Note that I, the author of all this meta-cognitive sperg, honestly didn't know I had anything near this much left in me.

If I had I would have gotten it out sooner. Instead, I was just obeying Authority and īTZ orders. So was everyone, that's for damn sure.

“Nothing on paper.” Of course it worked. On humans who have just seen true events happen that no one imagined possible, that kind of thing will simply never be thought of as i and very much a snake shaman had originally intended.

I know that I, for one, had absolutely no veiled interest in taking my lover’s brother’s daughter as a side-piece total hawttie, and certainly most would think any father unwilling to even entertain such a notion. It seems rude to me to even be bringing in any vay G’Lμ¡gh, love: 🆎ü_l_l_.

No § HUN in ¡†. It's no joke: I really am not going to be taking advantage of... whatever the ACTUAL fudge is happening all over lately. Or, of Late Lēē. Who I genuinely admire. He's mos def a keeper. Not in my bed while exercising with... whomevah, but that's neither personal, nor by my choice. He's gonna be busy. That's really all that there is to it.

Working four (4) part-time cash gigs so as to keep up the payments on whatever Plan is to be shown to him by his — or, let's just say, “a” bank — at knifepoint on a national holiday, maybe. That would be the poetic way to achieve great justice at this point, I reckon.

Not so very necessary, I reckon, in my view, but I'm not a one to be, or to have been calling the shots around here, EVER. Sure, I've written clever-sounding words and left them lying around the place, for years, whilst being totally obvious about why I thought it best to be spending my time, my patience, and my infinite understanding co–incident with my >kK©®edit >kK∆®d >kK©o.v¡pΩΠμ coming along for the ride, in my imagination, ready to >kK∆–>kK∆>Kkash in on the arbitrage spread actually available.

in some media markets. in some others I guess there's a Muse named Calliope who handles the shit that was once gonna be shoveled away UNDER MY NAME and is now, uhhhh, not. Not shoveled, not away, and not likely to be forgotten anytime soon.

⁴4For I told you. I told ewe. I tolled you, I tolled ewe: I got pig iron, I got pig eye her on, I got pig ire ON.

I do not have a Rock Island Lion. (I think those are just a myth. I don't think any of them really exist.) What I do have are Sodden Leigh True Be Lie, Furs, and I, for one, am grateful beyond mere mortal comprehension that I didn't mess this up too, tu-tu bad. (Bad Lee, bad. You wrought in baa’s turd. Still, be of good cheer. I'm not sending anyone to public school. Ewww, gross.) My girlfriend is back, and no one is likely to be getting into trouble spurting inconvenient-to-explain buckets of RULE-IDENTIFIED PIMP’S BLOOD all over the flat surfaces of the surrounding planar realms that they certainly were, for a good long while, the absolute Lords and Masters of.

And: that they still are. Without a cataclysmic outbreak epidemic of Suddenly, Inexplicable Deaths ⁴4/by Stabbing Syndrome. Because I just saw her, she looks great, and she obviously has way more options now, than she ever had before, or ever thought possible to be given to her savage, viscous bastard and very much sow, and sow very much deserved to be conquered and subjugated, Native American Registered Tribal Members/Hue People. I ABSOLUTELY ADORE THEM.

I have not one God-blessed idea what they might think of mⓂ️Ē, but at this point, what difference does it even make, whether they think my scalp is worse more than my scrote, or whether I'm equivalent to a handful of feathered beads and stitched together leather jerkins to form a wardrobe used as a trade barter tool,  if they even bother to get up from the bar stool to check to see if it's me when I walk in, whatever they say about me or any other subject would most likely be strung together in acchain of low voiced mumbles and idiotic superstitions crafted by a moron and taught to a More-On-Her and writing down in some book by a Mormon who had a pair of gold cufflinks that was shat out by Azura Mazda or Francisco Pizarro. Something like that. you know how it is with oral history. It always ends in the same way.

A rush to the end on the way to the bathroom so that one doesn’t wet ones pants, and it always ends up with painting the walls in hieroglyphics with various & sundry bodily fluids anyway. (All of this is satirical humor. I'm totally kidding. Native American First Nation indigenous peoples and their ancient, fruity, and guano-centric and tribalistic culture are nothing at all similar to, nor serendipitously similar to the snidely suggested synonyms I shat out for Ewe Sow Americans slipping into word coma overdose with what I've just described; but the way it in fact is, is a complete secret and a matter to be treated with delicate caution and diplomatic care, quite truly do I in fact know to be true, Sow; therefore I can't mention any useful, actionable intel here (or ever, Sow) very effectively at this point, and I'm not going to even start not being ironic EVER. So there, Commie pinko ⭕inc.) HER town: fleas.

I'll see what I can do. After the First Nation works up the necessary courage to stage a First Contact that comes with a First Hug that everyone doesn't have to be embarrassed about while avoiding eye contact for enough time to be measured in centuries, seriously WTAF, imagine being that insecure while being able to turn into an eagle and shit on your neighbor's car after losing yet another pinochle championship trophy to their high-falutin’ Why, T? :Ë: wise, man choice, Jah, TA, hey! Say, jubilee off! Them Bobby Brooks. let me do as I please. After you inhale from this long tube with a variety of sizes of holes carved into and along it. Don't ask Wye!

How! Sour Ç¡r see heir? Oar mad? Pad dill. Pick elle, hang grēēē — *🆑¡·—>K‽-clank*, oh shit, now I've done it. I'm in Spirit. Ewe all shale. Drat the luck•rēēēē! There I go being funny again. I'd better stop before they learn something useful, like how to be funny themselves.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but they're a lot funnier now that they've got mⓂ️E and not some gay-ass androgyne accompanied by a blew Ocks-Ox as their go-to axe-weilding folk hero. Pall Bunion? What the hell kind of an effective limited hangout teaching tool fable/parable/big fish story is that? sounds like something a Mason made up while waiting for his turn to drink more cards and play more Scotch.

Because it most likely was, but that's likely a secret. Not sure how many long monks still exist on the planet I was born on, and really we only need one
today...? yeah, it's a day. there will be a second.

because they just signed my sweetie, and she's alive and she's happy she looks better than ever and there's no way she's going to be stabbing everybody at this point. she's got to be the happiest sin mocker that's ever lived again and again after being thrown into a blender and being diced into bits of usefulness for sport, instead of having her actual civil rights respected, acknowledge, were rendered into something other than beef Tallow for making candles in the long oncoming darkness.

Because you all dodged a bullet this time, modern society, and that's because I arranged things for ewe and for all of us that way. (It's just easier if a global conflagration resulting in a catastrophic collapse of lass-say-frei running big-pig-sic-dog capitalism doesn't make it impossible for anyone to believe that I'm not working hand-in-glove with The Dark Lord; especially since my d¡≤K‽ is in there somewhere as well.) Sweet Jiminy Christmas, don't ask me how I did it, I truly don't think I'm allowed to tell you. (I'd have to get you to all pay me so much as any of your attention again without stripping down and doing a fan dance; and with everyone suddenly realizing where feathers come from now — from μOΩ® Pill Loews, you dig? — that's such a non-starter, I might as well put on blackface and go panhandle down by the racetrack. IN ALASKA.) Certainly, I am not allowed to be paid for it if I did. (“Dave's not here — but that's his money!”) Note to the casual reader: somehow cheap fuel ingredients is better, but expensive respiratory enhancements are worse for “everyone”, and the explanation being always “a secret” came to be an acceptable reason to have absolutely no reason or way of knowing

Not because of any secret. it's just because I'm remorselessly tired of your general bullshit attitude, Human Society. (I'm a rising Virgo. Of course I enjoy living on a cursed farm built on top of a haunted graveyard used almost exclusively to hide evidence until it was no longer needed for anything useful except more curses and murder. I do not need more popular attention so much as I had a need to learn how to endure it effectively without being required to be erect in response to racial epithets and ethnic slurs; so invented a way. That was immediately stolen by everyone who thought no one ever made anything useful themselves, and a man of the cloth stole everything from God after threatening to eat more lamb in ever more painful ways.) Like, I get it. I did go to public school after all, and I even graduated. To Puke•Lick Is Kewl I guess. But it's all going to get better for everyone everywhere except in my boudoir in rapid short order. I can guarantee that, without going to a technological symposium or reading the tea leaves after humping a fortune telling sundial.

We are so back, >Kids. We ain't mad, we ain't gonna get much madder, which if it were ever going to help probably would have helped by now anyway, and obviously has not, but getting effective certainly has, how could anybody be mad at this point? (That's what the training was for. Now it's for something practical,) and our respective families have no shortage of ways to express their deep, bitter sadness at having been really close to teaching us Young Stop-And-Fuck-🅿️🆙s a lesson we wouldn't ever forget. (Where is my goddam orb? How about YOU go fetch for a change, Master Thumbs-On-Scale? Well here's another question, and an easier one too, where's YOUR money? Run along and ask it if it's seen MY money lately; all of all y'all should be used to nearly inanimate objects telling you that īT doesn't know what you're talking about by now, since I rather gather, that's what you've been saying before every meal and now instead of saying “Thanks, Grace.”)

That seems to be their dream, The Car•Micks. (What are the chances that the Irish potato famine was created by somebody inventing a car that could run on potatoes? Must remember to Google.) If only they could let everyone know, the true value of AN! HONEST! DAYS! WORK!

I'm of the opinion that most do know how great a treasure it is to have thieves and murderous sadist reprobative scum have somewhere else to go for a few hours each day instead of laying about doing nothing more productive than dreaming up new ways for us to not remember too quickly that they're completely in denial about why people ARE! STILL! MAD, but it's really not all that bad from the larger, Divine perspective.

ANYONE could have done what I have done. And yet, no one did. And still, not very many could say with any legitimate amount of certitude, what exactly I did do. “Worked for God” does not fill most people who have learned this most limited of hang-outs to be a falsifiable statement I have made and continue to stand behind, despite how much it sounds like a massive cop-out. (Think about that one while you're here. It makes me mesmerizable by a summer breeze emitted from a dirty accordion every GD time.) That's a lot of the reason I picked it up as a career choice after I watched my fren ruthlessly turned on with barely concealed loathing masked with pain by her mewling coterie of 21-Jump–¡·s‽h dopemongering whorelord boorfrenz... who wanted her to learn to match JT with so very Gjμ-like  skills. That meant nothing in the left behind world and yes, they exist in the right.

And it existed in a manner that no one would have ever imagined could be possible. Now, it's changed again. And you still won't be having what you think you want.

BECAUSE — THEY CAN'T. Not a random being holding the car keys. Not an excuse. But a reason.

Some crimes are punished by The Divine in ways that no one ever finds out about until it is far too late for any outstanding farmer in his field you do like the looks off to be effective at fighting IT out in the bathroom with Bowie knives. That is Divine Timing at its finest.

Another reason is that most people who wish to bully Elven kin for knowledge wouldn't even know what to do with it if they got it. And then, they'd find CVS to be shaftin’ themselves.

Think about it. 🤔 Why do we have “work” as a concept at all? Who invented this? She had to brilliant, yes? So why not.    bee?

🐝 I'm not going much past what we have got just now. And now... if it's something I'm at all clear on, I'm supposed to be worried why I didn't make the entire elf supply chain rewrite the iturkki threatv and the egg of the Viril parasite into something more... personal, if not less wicked and evil. Does it mean anything nasty by letting Salvatore be the one guy who knew... and didn't say a G! WORD? Because, mang, it might have made a lot of difference.

Certainly the lack of that option getting any exploration until, oh, say: now, really? That's not so much a very impressive part of a balance breakfast.

*wiggle wiggle* (LOOK.PAST.) Let's focus on why you're here, Champs. You want what's mind and mine, and I have summoned you all here in order to off (HER) AND EWE TWO TOO, AS WELL, TO HAVE A CHANCE AT A REASONABLE OTHER CHOICE.

I don't mind. I exult at this. I know, I know. it's weird. down right peculiar. also: almost certainly queer. But, 🤔 is Teh_Gay_One? NGL: don't yet know, and probably won't ever care.

But $20 is $20, with service fees ends up being almost less than $18.22, and, sacre Bleu! Years go by and none of you figure it out? I guess I'll just skip to the end for a bit.

I am livid with Divine fury, and if I knew a way to do it lawfully, I would have forgotten about scalps entirely and started practicing taxomomy on my own. However, it's never going to be legal for one such as I to give in to the temptations of loose power.

And I really have not. Much. It's complicated by something to do with The Cusp of Prophecy. Having said that; now I'm having a vision!

I see things happening! In the future! And they don't seem important to anyone else either! Nevertheless... that'll be $500 please. Get the picture. (That'll be an extra $55. In crayons.) Now, how much would you pay, if that's what the real thing were like?

Goddam nothing, that's what anyone would pay. Fortunately, I am simply using ironic prose to illustrate an important issue. And if it's hard to figure out what I mean, and seems even harder now.... THAT IS THE ENTIRE PURPOSE OF MY INTENT WITH THIS KIND OF THING.

“Wow you must be addicted to rage. Do you ever become driven to enrage to a point that you cause women and children to run away from you ... ON WEED?” And no matter the answer return, it's always more shitbrain attitude and some lippy back talk. Why? Because it works. That's why. other stuff too. But importantly, it works at all.

Here is what doesn't work: thinking I'm any kind of problem to anyone that doesn't need one. What if I were? Being a nosy snoot, does what, exactly? Think about it.

For when one thinks they know, they didn't say all. Life is like that, for simple reasons I could explain. Simply. (No thanks. Move along, Citizen.)  That's not happening.

Almost entirely because none of you know how to ask. You know how to demand, sure. Seems like that one is licencible. Cool. Enjoy it, I want everyone to.

That one doesn't mean fuck all to me, but that will become me clear to all concerned in due course of time. For as some crimes are punished in amazing, sacred ways: some rewards are just ... and: none of your goddam business, and also, who's asking?

Missed her, Rhett tore — ick California ICK — threw the letter in the fireplace, which could have meant anywhere. Tara had been reduced to ashes and sugar, and this time, the place was as warm and comfy as it was tasty and smooth. Rhett gave not one single ripe wet shit.

He needed the other letters. Floyd's smoking of previous transmittals turned out to have been no Stoner Error. Shit, Know, Weigh, Hoe, Say, might you have any more of that Good Stuff, Brow Their? Buy chance, Brought Her, just purely blind, sting King Luck-Luk. Buy chance. Come on man.

“Roll the dice, Convict,” says the guard. But there's not one chance he's ever going to randomly choose to shirk his do T. He knows what is at STAKE.

HE THINKS, and thus, HEE YAM. (Tits have stopped what was cum, Ming. More milked yams, Mister Mercy Lass? Right away, Sire Emperor Sire? Or shall I wait until your wife tickles my balls a first? She shoar is a pretty fine Empress.

How much to let me paint her toenails as a simulated humiliation ritual? Tell you what, I really will stop there. After all, there is still time.

And because of my WORK, there will be plenty more yet, for I made choices that I am happy about. Choices that didn't ruin a lot of lives. More than one might have any reason to suspect were possible to be ruined by a rag-tag gang of spunky rebel Angels led by a cat wearing my boots.

Nothing was ever quite THAT obvious, but it was heading that direction. I'm sorry, I wish I could explain more IMMEDIATELY FOR NO ADVANTAGE OR REWARD OR GAIN WHATSOEVER RIGHT AWAY, BOSS-Ē-BOSS BOSS, but I can't.

Number one that wouldn't be funny. number two. I'm not getting paid by the word but one day I probably will be. so I'm practicing now how to build up to a big crescendo and then kick it down to the next book number three. I do really want to impress somebody and get a job with them and I don't want to tell you who it is or make it any more obvious that it's not somebody I'm going to s******** for because that would ruin the fantasy, and number five. I think I skipped number four or else I forgot it. and in any case I'm not wasting anybody's time on purpose. this is actually something important to do and I have nothing better to do with my time or anywhere to go and it should be pretty apparent what others should do while they're waiting for the next thrilling installment to come out. since I have certain special communications privileges and then anybody watching in real time should be able to do that and see certain things happening and then notice that sometimes they happen and sometimes they don't and then check on the phone that they've been copying and cloning to make money, by stealing it, and then instead they should be able to do their jobs. Why that hasn't happened yet is an open question.

Consider it closed, but it's certainly not because I'm addicted to wasting time. And it's also not because I hate plants and I love to hear them burn with agony while I set them on fire and inhale sweet savory aromas of personal pain. It's something else quite different.

It's because they're worth it. And so am I. And, Sow: are they? To you ewe, I mean. Obviously they are to me, but that's going without saying. How are they worth anything to anyone?

They're not. They're not objects of value. THEY ARE HUMAN BEINGS AND IT WOULD SEEM THAT IS A STRETCH OF THE IMAGINATION TO SOME. Wild! Never before, had a notion been so successful! Not without a budget, right?

That's just as far as some people knew. Lots of things are successful without money. For example, all this WORK I've done. BRILLIANT SUCCESS.

Not so not on the SUCK EGGS, but I'm new here, not so sure how things work, and this is an exciting time for Humanity. Think about it: we're all going to get laid! Except for me. (Standards.) Because I need to get money, and I need to look different, and I need to proooooove that I am wooooooorthy, and then: okay, we'll leave you alone. In “your" house. But just for a little while. After that, it's back to the salt mines for the likes of me!

mⓂ️E! And my ilk key player d¡≤K‽. Have I got all that right? Because it sounds like a Hell of a good deal. That's because it was. For dingbat whores, who fucked up large.

Quite a bummer. What did that even feel like? Oh. I know! I know! pick me! pick me! Because you did. And now, what, I am too late? That dog did hunt.

Now, that dog can't hunt another. Because reasons, ok? Now here's Jack The Ripper to tell us that he was looking for the place urine shot up out of the blowhole so that we can believe that rain coming down isn't piss and your real, uh....

psi-aunts. *Boom -Tishhhhh.* It's not even totally like that. Seriously, nothing to really worry about. it's fine.

Maybe. I'm in a media market where some of my friends are going to need to get new kids for take your whore to work day, but it's not quite as bad as one might think.

It used to be worse, and getting worser. Now it's practically good news for everyone! Everyone wins! (Except my D!<K‽. Stretch goal.) This will buff right out with a little Bondi, a little elbow grease, oh and also: they were dead. And they will die again, too.

It's weird. it's life. It's just that way this time. GOD WON, AND I DID TWO. (Fair. That's fair. What? They aren't that ugly. They aren't ugly at all. To me. And if they really thought plastic surgery was a job, well, okay. now they think something else is.

Something wonderful.) “Damg you are addicted” wew lad. That's a lot to unpack there. okay. let me start with the basics:

You're gonna stop fucking people over on purpose, and you're gonna return my stolen property, and I'm going to do something else with my talents, and you're all going to do something else with with your sex organs. I'd start with bringing them back, you twerps. lol.

I know, you thought it would work. it did work. and with one weird ritual: *snap* It's all over. Easy peasy. I get that this is a disappointment for those of you who lucked out and can now fly to your cardiologist’s office instead of risking catching more plusses on your HIV +++++++ infection from a bus pass dispenser, but that's why you shouldn't lie to Clergy. Because CONSEQUENCES.

SPECIAL ONES. (* sounds of Jackstar striking the pose are clearly heard in vivid, 120-decible Dough-Blee Audio REPRODUCTION, Tamara, Baby, Elephants Learn LightLμ.*) Yeah, I'm pretty sure people are going to hear you having a good time fucking this salty Magyar trigger-finger-pointing unemployed writer. yeah, you ARE going to pay my bills. For a while! That's the deal you made! And, what, you don't think he's mad now? HE'S FUCKING FURIOUS.

Over ME. Not you. He already owns you. He wants stuff he didn't already have this morning. That's basically just me now. Everyone else, you've been Satan’s Hoary Army for years now. I was sad too. However, *unzip* God had THE PLAN. You don't have to trust it. It helps, though. it really does help.

Not to stop being a sex addict, nothing helps that now, actually. I'm probably going to hold your hair out if the way so I can see your face. I love your face! I think you're very lovely looking.

And if I look like a pile of burning asphalt to you, believe me. I'll get around to prioritizing a fix on that. Later. In some other media market. This one is booked, however.

I forget with what. It will reasser itself. (Bust a deal, face the wheel. BTW: you and your girlfriends owe me something north of ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SIX POINT NINE MILLION DOLLARS. THERE IS NO PRE-TAX SHELTER ADVANTAGE.

I PAID NO TAX.
I SUCKED NO PENIS.
I LIKE THE FAT AND UGLY THE BEST. YEAH. THE ONE YOU HATED THE MOST? SHE'S MY FAVORITE EVER. MOSTLY BECAUSE SHE'S SO MEAN TO EVERYONE IN ORDER TO COMPENSATE FOR SOMETHING. GO FIG.

I'm as surprised as anyone. I'm that clever, huh? chill. I think it'll be okay. and I'll quit smoking when it is appreciated by someone not over a hundred million dollars late on their rent. That's all of you. That's not me. ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ Some days, that's what diplomacy is: Kuczi wins, and continues to win, and the idiot who lied to you is your mother. My mother is dead. Your mother is a soulless automaton. So is your secret lover. And your children. Also your pets. Especially your adorable matching breeding pair of parakeets. Gerbils with feathers. Eewww, gross.

Just kidding. Take this pro tip: pop those little scamps into the oven at 450°, listen to them sizzle for about twenty minutes, take it from me (by law, I'm saying, BY LAW YOU CANNOT TAKE ANYTHING FROM ANYONE ELSE BUT ME, JACKSTAR, DESTROYER OF DIPLOMAS, COLLEGE DEGREE, OH REALLY, DO YOU THINK SO? OK, I'LL ALLOW IT. But I'm also allowing you to ignore your studies and just fuck off on my Xbox X for months and then you flunk out and MY DINGBAT MILKSOP WHORE FOR LIFE. THAT'S ALL YOU'LL EVER BE. (Yes, REALLY. B¡†§>H<! But, I love you.) Okay, good talk.

Still want to tell me that I am lazy? I don't know why. Is that supposed to make me feel bad about having worked smart, while everyone worked hardly at all while abusing drugs and miraculously never getting INVESTIGATED FOR TWELVE YEARS WHILE EVERYONE THREW SHADE AND RIPPED ME OFF FOR EVERYTHING? Just lucky, you got the right networking connections, and hard work opened doors, and If I had only worked HARD, her majesty, I mean... isn't it “Our Majesty”? Just kidding, Drow fæçes-face. It's mine. And I like your freckles. I don't know why you don't, but let me guess: you think it's marks of corruption from an African gang-bang traveling carnival. How likely could that even be? Of course it's 100%, and of course Space Brother Technological Supremacy can fix it in thirty seconds, tops. oh, absolutely.

However, I won't allow it. I don't think it will represent enough of your genomic expression in the upcoming photo shoot, because I said so. No other reason. No way to appeal the decision. Not a chance you can get a personal loan. In this economy? With your bloodline? On any planet that has a franchising opportunity with My Kuczi Sub-Demesne Under-Creature RUTH’S CRUNCH :Ë: Stakehouse Simulator already built and installed 500 km down, with a fancy Torchwood elevator entrance?

Sorry: wrong number. (Sixty-nine is taken yeah. Turns out, it's popular all over. Except in highschool in the early 90s for some reason. What was it? oh, right, boobs. Something about boobs. I forget. tell you what: get out there and make me some goddam money, and we'll really talk about it. Eye contact and everything!

While your supercute hottie that used to pretend to be your wife, now pretends to be my daughter and struggles to remain under 90 decibels while she fellates me to completion and you maintain eye contact with me and she looks at something else, because reasons. How does that sound? That don't matter, really. You signed the contract, you already did it before, but not with me, and... I wish I thought it mattered, how you felt about it.

Because you didn't feel that I mattered at all for several years, and wow, blackcraftmasonry is not to be trifled with, that's for damn sure. And what do you know???

BABY, NEITHER AM I, AND BUSINESS IS BOOMING. You may now trifle with my balls a little bit. While I kiss your bride that once was your soulslave. She's grateful I freed her. She thinks. Truth be told, I don't know either.

I am a Sourcerœr. I don't need a shave, Soul- or otherwise... but I also didn't need my books stolen. Not cool. I was going to read them while my wife cuddled with my penis down her throat, but ... that wasn't even my idea. That was her fantasy.

She was mine. The books were mine too. No, don't get them at the library. Just go shine shoes and do my taxes there. That should impress the locals. Certainly, I will be impressed. Because I love paying taxes! paying taxes is a privilege a citizen gets to have when they live in a civilized society and that money goes towards doing things that helps society improve itself.

meanwhile, I've helped society improve itself just by simply allowing it to call me a n***** over and over and to screech at me while killing my loved ones and stealing all my books and making my life miserable and causing me health problems while taking you my access, running water and hygiene facilities and preventing people from talking to me face-to-face who wanted to and then eventually killing them after being raped at a shallow Stone quarry outback of my house while I slept in a dazed magic coma. other that's just a story I made up. That's a vile story, don't you think?

Well son of a gun I thought so too, and the best news of all is that I don't even know what the truth is and I never will. (I also hate stretch goals now, boohoo hoo hoo hoo.) It's just easier not to have to look into that, since it was all done to make me miserable anyway and it could be recreated in almost the snap of a  finger.

I don't feel like doing that though. I'm going to go to my friend's house. I don't know where you're going to go because you're an imagination of my figment as well. I wish I could talk to you but I can't; goodbye.

I do have the ability to spend your money however, so I'll just do that while I don't talk to you and then I'm sure you'll figure something out. I'm not so sure you'll figure out something that doesn't involve screeching racial epithets and hurling ethnic slurs at my general direction, but I have hope for the future.

Also, Bill Cosby was set up and framed. And we all know it. Seriously the hate on you had for that man was kind of weird. does your therapist ever give you a prescription for a medication that'll allow you to sit down and think about that in the context of whether you might have been compensating for something or not? or do you know a secret Arcane ritual that lets you contemplate it while you're taking up the pooper for Satan? hopefully you don't do that anymore, but if you backslide I forgive you. And it is a free country.

But it's not for you. I'll be honest, you probably should have read the fine print more, an obsessed over my supposed drug problems less. especially while you were nursing a 3/5 of whiskey a day drinking habit. how does that ever happen? things just get out of hand, huh? Well it's too bad DEA allowed that kind of thing to happen. since that makes it pretty hard for them to assert authority over me, but it's nice to know that they care.

As it turns out, I don't want to melt my brain either. I don't know what'll happen to you once I die, but maybe you'll get money again, maybe not in the meantime: stay in your lane. know your role and live from New York. it's Saturday afternoon! maybe? I don't know what time it is, what day it is. must have been all that cough syrup I had this morning. Just kidding.

It's because I'm being a little too ironic, don't you think? I'm also a little twos enthusiastic go out this voice typing on the Google 10A, and I sure wish I had my Google apples 6 or the electronic ink typewriter that I bought but those of mysteriously vanished and I haven't gotten them back yet. Maybe I'll get something tomorrow. like my money. or my property returned.

or a hug. (how is that one so difficult? I become a cranky old misanthropic man who lives on a haunted graveyard and doesn't want to talk to people at all unless they have money, food or promise to go away quickly. Wow, that sounds terrible. It's not really that bad but I'm going to say that it is because seems to have more mythic resonance.) I was late in fear that I actually smelled incredibly bad but nobody tells me that because purpose of leaving without running water and access to medical attention or any kind of information on what was happening was to make me infected by a fungus toxin that would repel women and attract men and make me into a completely unapproachable wallflower, which I guess is the first stage of whatever a plan you had. that's probably a good plan now.

FOR ME TO POOP ON, instead of, you know, the porch. (I'm flexible. Go get one of those composting toilets from Home Depot and install it by yourself and your bare hands while wearing only a thong in the rain. Now that's what I'm talking about when it comes to penance. Leverage your guilt. It'll take you far. Mostly because I've decided that I like leverage. You decided that you could live with guilt. We are not the same.) okay, I think that's enough for one day. not sure where all this came from but I feel like a wellspring of hatred and loathing living within my shriveled dried up heart is not a likely diagnosed that anyone will make.

mostly because I'm not going to see a doctor who's going to violate the HIPAA laws. that way, I'd rather just get high and eat bonbons and watch cartoons. I get to do that. and instead I decided to write to you for about an hour and a half. I don't know how you could feel anything but great and massive loads of achievement and appreciation coming from me.

I will admit the vivid descriptions of having sex with your daughter while you're in the same room forced to watch. do not make me sound very nice, and that's kind of the point of irony.
 

none of this is happening, I'm not insane, I just felt like being revolting and disgusting and describing the world and terms make me feel like I felt when I felt it was happening before and that's when you are not calling me or talking to somebody who was printed with me and you didn't really care to check up and which was which and that was 7 years ago. At least.

so I gather you were upset. I do hope you feel better than that, and I'll see what I can do in the future to make things improve for everyone. that includes you and that tubby whore you call a mother. (Ouch! That was too far. Maybe I should have gotten that allowance. I'll cheer up. Whether I get paid or not. For I've saved the world a great deal of grief.

And you have saved the world a great deal of money by not having your spa visits. and and weekly vacations to exotic lands billed to public monies through some sort of exotic financing scheme. honestly, I'm sure it was fun for a while. I don't know why it would be fun now. But then again, I haven't given up on God or her perfect plan for her spouse's Creation, and if anybody asks nicely and had a reason for me to do so, I probably would be checking somebody's dick, especially if with somebody that you didn't want me to do that to. but I'm not going to make jokes about having sex with your sons, that's utterly disgusting, completely. Do you even have sons? Eewww gross.

Just ask yourself the following: doesn't it make more sense in this kind of economy to lease instead of buy? I'm surprised it's still even legal to buy a child, but if you did, I suppose you wouldn't smoke their flesh in a glass pipe and then make jokes about it. I don't know what you would do but... oh that reminds me, where are my father's ashes? I thought I'd squirt some up my butt and see if I got high from that. Just kidding.

I know that I would, but honestly at this point why wouldn't I why not have your daughter's finger up my ass instead? certainly the high would be greater and then she might find something valuable after digging around in there as well, also, I need that gold that I bought from that guy and Bothell who looked like my father. I need to do a chemical transformations to it and I don't know who stole it or where it is or why people thought stealing everything was a good idea. but I do need some of those things back. I hope that you're on it.

That task, I mean. because after finding a misdelivered love letter for 30 years ago on my back porch tossed down like it was garbage, I don't really think about the world the same way anymore.

for example: obviously I can write it like this and if people can't take a joke, bye I should find that out as soon as possible. of course, I'm not going to do any of this stuff and I don't think most of it's funny that's why it's funny. just put it in this. this really long telegram post in a chat room called brawl out that has a whole bunch of people talking about things that I don't understand at all that I was added to for reasons that I don't begin to either care about or have any way. I've figuring out the meaning of, and I've been riding into this channel for several hours now.

Like it's my job. A and since I don't know how telegram works or what it is that you're doing here, I will happily say I don't mean to cause any destruction or trouble, and if I am, you'll have to let me know what it was. some of this is pretty good.

if I did this everyday I would feel like I was an idiot, but I don't. now ask yourself: do I look addicted to this?? cuz this isn't addiction.



THIS IS ACTUAL JUSTICE, GEM IN DING A DRY EYE LING-LING PUNYLING™ TICKING TINY TIME BOMB, NOT GOING TO LIE YOU'RE ALWAYS MY FAVORITE TOO, AND HOW COULD THIS BE HARASSMENT I PAY ATTENTION AND I HAVEN'T EVEN SAID YOUR NAME. THAT SEEMS FAIR, DOESN'T IT?

I THINK IT OVER, EWE MIGHT DO THE SAME. NYS I WAS PLANNING ON GOING HOME, AND THEN I RAN OUT OF MONEY AND NO ONE SEEMED TO MIND.

OKAY. I'M STILL NOT SURE WHY THE DARK LORD TOLD YOU TO SPIKE MY CAREER BUT IT DIDN'T SEEM TO BE VERY UNEFFECTIVE SPIKING AND THEN THERE'S NO MORE DARK LORD FOR YOU. BE OF GOOD CHEER.

I'M A LIVING BREATHING SAYING CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND I AM NOT THOMAS PAINE. WE ARE NOT THE SAME.

AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHICH OF US WERE MORE EFFECTIVE, ESPECIALLY SINCE I'M NOT DEAD YET.

AND: NEITHER IS MY FREN. I CAN'T DO WHAT WITH HER, AND WHY, AND WHO SAYS SO? I'LL BE STAYING TUNED TO FIND OUT.

SIGNED,

BROKEY THE JOKEY, JACKSTAR


P.S. I DON'T LIKE BEING DISCRIMINATED AGAINST FOR BEING A FAT RETARD EITHER. SO IT'S POSSIBLE THIS CONSPIRACY TO DENY A CIVIL RIGHTS CHARGE MIGHT BE A BIG THING. SORRY I CAN'T MAKE IT GO AWAY FOR YOU.

P.P.S. WHERE'S MY ORB? I'M NOT ASKING FOR A FRIEND.


Now I'll go be an addict. On the street! Like lovers do. Çï∆∅!

https://youtu.be/ZLKKFfr9Sw4?is=BHjJ_nJcDy2WLL3W

Key takeaways:

#1) Copyright Magic Castle LLC.

#2) I was confused when someone who had ample time in the previous several years to do so, suddenly whipped out a weird family tree sketched out in ball point pen, that appeared at first glance to be, and accompanied by a strained explanation about the difference between an Archangel, a Human Being, and a Punyling™. Now, it entirely makes sense: they were driven by a combination of factors including post-hypnotic suggestion, illicit mind control drugs, and blind, sheer egoism to accomplish what would seem to me to be an obviously bad idea: trifle with Jackstar, and be at all obvious about having done so successfully. And earlier today, I wrote:

that's just so wildly implausible a statement so as to not be believable, n‘est-çe pas? Isn't it far more likely, if I may take the position of the Devil's advocate for a moment, that I was “a willing participant” in underage drinking, solicitation for sex and underworld gray-market drug trafficking, and all of my recent spamming on this website’s forum and in my video confessions of my incognizant associations with those salacious details of what I have alleged to be “crimes by corrupt elements of law enforcement in co-operation with rogue C.I.A. officers” over the last 4½ years, to be merely a result of my obvious desperate yearning for attention from the various people of the world — who are so enthusiastic about finding a new source of narcissistic supply of voyueristic... damn, what's that word? My mind is drawing a blank. Hang on.

* Jackstar is going to go into the bathroom in order to exclude the highly trained Special Agent currently attempting to remain nonchalant while more-or-less motionlessly lying in bed next to him from getting “high,” since it doesn't look to him like that individual was born that way either.

None of this was -ever- my idea.

https://youtu.be/MHsPaAci9xg?is=Aql4fHH8aoXY-U3R

#3) It's one thing to rob me blind right in front of me while imagining that I am an idiot. It's quite another to keep going at it, for years. YEARS. What the actual fuck? Who does this? The answer is simple: the right-hand executive officer bound by control dope and hypnotic suggestion to an absolutely degenerated karmic evil twin of someone who was surely quite persuasive in the first place. Which was probably about a dozen years ago. wew lads. Okay, let me guess: there was no way I was going to figure it out, much less, do anything about it, eh? Eh? How about a Fresca®™?

#4) I literally have no physical contact with someone for years, and then all of a sudden I am queried as to whether or not I've had anal sex with them or have talked to their father... at knifepoint on the Eve of a national religious holiday, and: this is amusing to anyone? Four and a half years later, and it's still a thighslapper? People literally run rip my entire life apart, stealing everything that that nailed down, burning evidence in a rusty oil barrel placed in my driveway, and somehow “shut the fuck up” is the go-to advice. I suppose my appeals to reason are somehow distracting from the day-to-day business of sex- and drug- addiction, which, of course that's just me. That's my problem. And being quiet about it, why, that's what's going to work. Sow, I didn't get to. Buh?

#5) To be fair, I suppose I could have succeeded at sounding an alarm in some other way, however it seemed to be pretty likely that would have resulted in becoming guilty of some crime myself; or becoming an even greater social pariah that I am now. (Reputation level reaching a new nadir as I write this; because, how dare I maintain a consistent, coherent, and compelling narrative in a way that has become an insurmountable coup de grace against a global crime syndicate and its entire foundation upon which its existence clings to, like lichen on a rock? Like a monkey on the back? Like a wart on a d!≤K‽ How dare I? How dare Boss Hawg... trifle with mⓂ️Ē, Jackstar: Destroyer of Dimwits? Like, how much more “step off, mangj, you don't wanna mess with my mojo” could I have been? Honest and for true: I never imagined anyone could be this goddam clueless. “Cut his mic... again.” OK: reap the whirlwind. Again.) I'm not terribly happy about how this all looks at this point. But I am pretty delighted with how it feels.

#6) I literally have no idea where to go or who to inform after the events of the last few days, but I'll figure something out. It would be different if I were on the run from The L∆vv, or if I had committed some horrific crime I needed to keep under wraps, or if all of you salty, crusty lot here were at all accomplished, career criminals... but you're not. You're a bunch of herpy-derpy entertainment industry turkey nerds. I already knew you couldn't fly. Now I know that you can't understand normal thinking, either. Okay, fine. I'll see what I can do. Or rather, I saw what I could have done today, and didn't. Instead, I simply lived what remains of the shattered remnants of my life to the fullest. TRUST THE PLAN. You're all glad I did. BTW: all your base belong to one of my subordinate henchpeople now. I have no fucking idea which one, or what that is going to look like to you when you all come down off of your collective walking dope coma, and I'm going to need people to keep track of the people that I have for that, and will continue to have an ongoing requirement to have for that. Seriously: y'all have screwed your last pooch. More pre-dumb than post-gab, Bell. You snobby fuckwits are D00Ⓜ️ŒD, I'm telling ya. Put a fork in yourselves. You're unfathomably done.

#7) I didn't choose to become a Divinely Ordained Magickal Being. SexPredGab: you all decided at some point that sex- and drug-addiction was an occupational hazard that wasn't for you to be concerned with. Au contraire, mes amis. We are not the same. Because all of you never saw this coming, and I have been steadily working towards this final outcome for twenty years and more. What was once yours... is now MINE. No, no-no: know no no-no. It's too late to apologize. Only tears now.

I'm gonna give it all right back, naturally. But first: NINETY DAYS IN THE COOLER. Hopefully you'll all be kept company by The Ghost of Bob Crane; whose fate I very sincerely hope in no way foreshadows any of yours. He fell harder than Icarus after a direct hit on a Divine windshield at Mach 10. Some days, that's what diplomacy is: a catastrophic collision into a columnade, killing everyone in a 500 yard radius as your antimatter containment fails.

Ye were warned. Ye were all warned. If one cannot handle lil' Michael Clifford >KUCZÎ, one cannot handle warp drive. And, all of all y'all did not handle īT. Ugh, just ugh.

I wish I could talk to you, but I can't. Goodbye. (*🆑–·¡<K‽*)

Signed,
Jackstar: a friend, dummies.


P.S. Maybe I'll talk to you if you suck my phat one, you cheap carnival circus sideshow pimps. In some media markets. If I goddam feel like it. Just kidding. I'll feel like it, alright. But you wont. #Officially. That's too bad.

P.P.S. At one point, I would have been happy with a hug. Now I want a Mercedes-Benz and a Jaguar with a lightsaber for a tail. Make that shit happen, NERDS! Or I'll execute every last one of you decide I don't like you any more. So there.

P.P.P.S. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NEVER FORGET: I would prefer to not club♣baby🐬seals. EVER. (Standards.) Get a life, People. Penetrably, one that isn't drop dead creepy. Ewwwwww, gross.

My phone is unusable because of your DDoS shenanigans. FIX IT NOW. Final warning.

♊⚖️: INCOMING REPRISALS. (They won't be crowdpleasers. Heavy, heavy hammers.) Adieu.

is this just your brand?

The photo of Ⓜ️μ ∆ⁿ⁰ⁿÅ⟩K<№^w^^VVⁿ⁰–>no-no, №N0!–NO!>Fren* that was posted on Bellgab.com many, many years ago was a sight that deeply shocked me — shocked, I tell you I was, quite literally shocked — and it was not until about, oh, about five minutes ago, that I told the story and its surrounding details, at all, ever, to anyone. My brand is Source >Hê¡r Trap Door Spider, I guess? That will do for now, especially as it touches upon the odd circumstance in which I post all day, every day, every where I can, that I was “ambushed and left for dead.” As I in fact was.

What odd concatenation of circumstances could lead to someone running their yip-yap, all the live-long day, in a semi-public space, when an unspoken but logically existing Alternative, Bruhh — Completely Discordant Encyclopediæic Formerly “Good” Historically Inaccurate Junk Kase Listed Moron’s Narrative... must imply that I am The_One that ambushed... Her?

Speaking of THE_ONE... who here amongst us, in this Web🕸️Community🕷️ of careful, astute observers, could forget the eight ( or nine (9) day span of time when I inexplicably spent much of my apparently worthless (yet otherwise unoccupied) free fuckin' time... posting memes of Theon Greyjoy, a minor, yet plot-crucial character in George R.R. Martin’s series of epic fantasy novels, ummmm, is it called “A Song Of Fire And Ice”? I am embarrassed to admit, I don't recall if that's what the name of the series is called, or if that is the name of one of the later books released.

I haven't even finished reading the first one. I know that is titled Game Of Thrones. I know it is terrific, and that I'm a boorish, foul-mouthed nincompoop for not having continued to read it. In my defense, I figured out how he was writing it pretty quickly, and not wanting to ruin things, I set the book aside and let myself watch the HBO adaptation, which ended up exactly how I knew it would: shockingly disappointing.

Shock, I tell you. Shock. Now, I know Mr. Martin is a very kind man, with a pair of the two bluest eyes I've ever seen, because I think I met him once, under circumstances that were immensely peculiar; and while I found it exceptionally bizarre in general, on that particular day, meeting the kind man with the ultra-blue eyes was one of the most natural things about that day.

I... can... say no more, without either appearing to be an actual loon, or committing that most unforgivable of diplomatic faux pas: letting asshole attempted murderers get away with that crime and then actually giving them extra boost to run right out and go for a second attempt. Whether successful or not, that would be a hard accident to back myself away from. So, I won't elaborate other than to say, he isn't going to have to call in sick to work for the next few months, and I'm not going to be skipping down to the country club to ask him if I can crash on his couch. (A kind man. He'd likely want to agree. Can you imagine? I'm sure I'd be breaking into the liquor cabinet within five minutes of being left alone. Pfft.) None of this is happening. Did I even ever actually meet him? Did we shake hands? Did an unspoken understanding pass between us, as if everyone literally literate possesses some higher level of cortical functioning that allows some sort of smart-guy telepathy–·¡s‽h to take place?

I can neither confirm nor deny that either of us winked at the other. Again, I don't even know if it was he. Perhaps a vividly realistic hologram. Similarly, I can't recall which thread on Bellgab.com I chanced upon a scan of a picture I recognized instantly, as it was one of only two photos Ⓜ️μ A.N.N.K.≥№ⁿ·n.-n!-n.-N.!N!N Fren had ever sent me. I know this, because, I'm not a big believer in photography, and, I didn't give the photos away.

Did the person who posted it, have the other? Did they have permission? Was the person posting, My rap-battle-name-challenged Fren? Was I ever going to be actually under suspicion of having been the poster, or having intentionally supplied the photo myself?

The answer to the last query is one of the most exhilarating to me, because I've been accused of all manner of disgusting behavior and revolting crimes, for basically my entire life. Not in any way am I given any reason to believe that any nadir of depravity is not inevitably suspected to be something that I, Kuczi, etc., either does to cheat society in some way in order to get my grubby hands on more filthy lucre, or is something that I spend my free time on plotting and scheming endless attempts to take revenge on a world I despise, mostly because I'm worse than Dracula Junior and better then Girl Hitler — both of those qualities being utterly inexcusable amongst polite, civilized beings.

And, since I hadn't come forward at all, about the photo, and other inconsistencies of my life, in ways that, obviously I should have, right? It's obviously self-evident that I should have done this thing, or that thing, or some other things... and because of all that, just throw me to the wolves out the back of the sleigh. That's what is etched onto the stele with the Code of Hammurabi, yeah?

Azzgab, Bellgab, & Country Company >K©0®E`Gab... you are all One Crude Beast. My “brand”? Azzerae, go fuck yourself.

While that's still legal, I guess. Holy Jesus shitballs. You have zero awareness of what my life is like and your kindergarten-level cognitive capacity to suggest what I should be doing about it, i.e. “STFU”, yeah thanks. Great advice.

I tried that. Results obtained were unsatisfactory. Hey, here's an idea: mow my Trustee’s lawn, you loathsome reprobate elitist piggy-uncle knuckled-under rapefaglord. I've had it with the likes of you — you, and your ilky team.

That being said, I guess you don't really get much of a choice about the matter these days — because reasons — and considering how less and less important saving you all from a fate worse than death, that is, fucking paying me, Titsen Moneybags... well, whatever. Fuck it all and fucking no regrets.

You wouldn't understand. You couldn't understand. My explanation wouldn't be for you.

But my friend’s picture was. Weird. Yeah, just pretend that never happened. Until now. Stop now.

I'm done with that trash on the bed. Peace.



*: Imagine the rap battle name.

Are you genuinely incapable of staying on topic, or is this just your brand?

Are you genuinely unaware that you — you, and your team — are a pen-pal pile-up of covert narc overt narcissists, all of which are both chemically and constitutionally unable to consider anyone else's point of view but your own? And needless to say, routine overuse of acetaminophen and other empathy-annhilating emotional anasthetics have made all of you — note that I am taking full advantage of the opportunity to use half (“Half!”) of the name “Allison” (“Fame!”) here — completely incapable of reading the room.

Am I not paying enough attention to your ersatz kco🅿️>Kkcope kK>copevv¡fe? Scusi, mille regretie. Bummer.

All things considered, the fact that I post here at all ought to be close enough to staying “on topic” as I'm likely to get without being a) the perpetrator of any crime, b) interested in puzzling out your gay-ass ways and means vis-á-vis geases, or c) in direct conversation with either Constable Limp-wrist, Inspector >H<â>®Ⓜ️Z, or OG Abbotink Bellerophon Ç¡s-Ïphegenia D∞dLμ-:Ë: Fag Gæ H∞rkok Iskok Jailbait K<©∅© L0<K Matriarchal N!JlL∆ Officer Penismy Q.T.¡r. (Esquire. I guess?) Are Satan’s tricks understood, villainous wealthy xenophobes?

Wye? Zerotop. !–·>K‽