Although I suspect that he may be too optimistic regarding DOGE and reducing the size of the federal government, I decided to post this piece for the comic relief.
The Shock Market Crash
Oversaturation forecasts a Rainbow Bear.
If the Dr. Frankenfurters and DEIgors of the NSA were allowed to reply to DOGE’s request — “list 5 bullets of what you accomplished last week” — I think an honest response would have been as follows:
The more likely response would’ve involved various forms of papershuffling busywork, much of which was automated into obsolescence long ago. But none of that constitutes their real jobs. That’s not what we’re being forced — at gunpoint, mind you — to pay them for. Technically speaking, we’re not even allowed to know what it is we pay them for. Imagine if 20% of your own employees fit that description. Or I guess you don’t have to imagine it, if you pay your taxes.
Whatever else these government employees may or may not do, I suspect their real jobs are to demand pronouns, gross out colleagues, and yammer on and on about their narcissistic fantasies. As a bonus, their behavior might serve to smoke-out the last sane operators on the Deep State payroll, and force them into unwinnable “civil rights” zugzwangs.
CIA Analyst: “Jerry keeps deadnaming me! He refuses to call me Jesusfuckingchristyourlordandsavior. Says it’s against his ‘religion’, or something stupid like that.”
H.R. Admin: “Well, I can kind of see his point…”
CIA Analyst: “But that’s my legal name!”
*shakes paperwork*
It sounds like a kid’s game. In a way, it is. But it also betrays an ancient schoolyard axiom: “Nobody gets to pick his nickname.” Our identities aren’t fully self-created or unlimited. They are bound by the perceptions of others around us, and those others get to have their say. The fat kid in your class may want everybody to call him Hercules, but chances are they’ll call him Chunk. Or, if they call him Hercules, it won’t sound the way he wants it to. Kids are natural experts at irony.
Is that kind? Depends.
Men bust each other’s balls constantly, in order to form stronger bonds. That said, there will be times you won’t like what you’re called. My only advice is to do the best with what you’re given. For instance, I acquired the nickname “Mutant” in high school, and look how well I turned out?
File Photo
But all the name-games and pronoun-putsches are a bit of a side gig, for the people who think they’ve been imbued with a Divine Right to our blank checkbooks. Their main function is to draw maximum attention to their peculiar interests, and then force us all to classify those peculiarities as objectively superior to the norm.
They will still dangle words like “tolerance” and “justice”, of course, but the truth is that these concepts passed out of frame long ago. They were never there to begin with, actually. Beyond the peculiarities themselves, these chat-o-cratic theythems have been trained in a neo-Marxist belief structure which divides the world into binaries: oppressor and victim, dominant and submissive, master and slave. To borrow from the Bard: All the world’s a sex dungeon, pal. Guess which role you’re supposed to play?
When I say “peculiarities,” I refer not only to the Fab Four — the LGBT of the Unending Acronym — but to all the pansexual frogs, the polecular paramours, the NXIVM-style bondage cults, and, who knows, consensual cannibals (Yes, I know. That already happened. We’ll get there, people).
In pursuing their paramoralistic BDSM strategy to the bottom, they will eventually filter out all bigots, everywhere. And of course, lurking in the sub-basement of the sub-basement are those human-shaped things, who think three-year-olds can consent to being molested.
Anyone who says, “But we’ll never get down there, Mark,” apparently hasn’t been paying attention.
But before we blast below rock bottom and dig our way to Chinese Hell, we are treated to the sights and sounds of a topside carnival. We’re told this carnival is for Adults Only, that its organizers will helpfully blur-out all the naughty stuff for the rug rats.
When we enter those tents, we’ll see all manner of strange, exotic beasts. Some of them are actually dressed like beasts, and would prefer it if you called them that, and treated them that way.
"This We'll Defend." — United States Army motto
We’re also continually led into those moral zugzwangs. They know we have an instinct to play fair, to treat others justly, and to follow the Golden Rule. And so, they will hammer those buttons until their fingers bleed. The game’s goal is to force you to say things that are obviously untrue, to maneuver yourself into moral checkmates, all in service of their bottomless pathological hunger for attention.
A fellow Army field grade officer, LTC Dan Wagner, recently took to social media to express his displeasure with the lawful and reasonable recognition of gender dysphoria as a military service disqualifying medical condition.
But regardless of how we measure their success, their installation throughout the military and intelligence spheres are part of a much grander strategy. If we had to boil this strategy down to a single phrase:
Destroy the traditional family.
Why?
What is the “traditional family” structure, and why does it give all wannabe tyrants nightmares? That question deserves an article of its own. For now, here’s a picture, and a brief overview:
The core unit of this structure — one man and one woman, with mutual offspring who are undeniably bound to their parents and to each other — is the basis for an iterative pattern which allows for the development of all other healthy structures. It balances strength with flexibility, local with network, near with far, without denying or discarding the hierarchy inherent in all Creation. Via this structure, each family becomes a kingdom, but not an island, each home a castle, but not a prison.
The families bind each other through friendship, trade, church, and intermarriage, but narrowly enough to maintain their own integrity and order. If one family should fail or fall, it does not doom the rest to the same fate. The family pattern can technically be expanded in any direction without limit, but prudent management and maintenance is required.
It is this pattern which conquered the Westmen, who then conquered the world. The Truth of God Almighty shines though it.
In light of that, it’s no wonder tyrants fear it, and would do anything in their power to weaken and destroy it. And so that’s exactly what they’ve been up to, for quite some time now. The old demon-gods they worship have not slept. They slithered into shadow, whispered to their sycophants in secret rooms and exclusive clubs. Some of their anti-family schemes go back centuries, and even millennia.
When asked, they’ll give as many reasons for this secret mission as there are snakes in Medusa’s hairdo. Everyone from the grandiloquent thaumaturge and masonic code-monkey on down to the lowly, money-grubbing bureaucrat makes an appearance, and will supply his own rationale. But at the end of the day, it all comes down to the pursuit of limitless power. The traditional family structure is just standing in the way of that. It’s the meta-pattern that allows us to build and bind all other good institutions via fractal iteration. If you attack and destroy that Pattern, so the theory goes, all of the reiterated structure will crumble.
No matter how openly they might disparage it, the more intelligent Enemy agents understand the strength of the Pattern well. So, instead of striking the surface directly, they have pursued a strategy of applying steady heat and pressure, sprinkling it with acids in the form of twisted philosophies, ugly artwork, financialized theft, psychological operations, and perverse incentive games.
The MIMIC (military-industrial-media-intelligence complex) has been on this secret sabotage mission since before most of their alphabet agencies even had names. They aren’t married to any one tactic, so to speak. They’ll attack the family structure with the nearest weapon to hand. The arrival of the Trans Phenomenon — the 600-subgendered horde of hehers and sheshims and theythems and its — just constitutes their latest battlefield innovation, and one which dovetails neatly with the ongoing ecomonic assault.
In a recent article, Harrison Koehliof Political Ponerology introduced us to economist Mikhail Khazin, and his theory of productive market labor versus financialized global capitalism. The former is mostly based on manufacturing and voluntary exchanges that are bounded by scarcity, the latter mostly fueled by derivatives, interest and fully financialized assets. What both Khazin and Koehli recognize is that the final line of defense against the latter is the traditional family structure.
[E]conomic models transform a society’s values according to the goals of the model. For Khazin, this explains “the alarmingly fast pace at which liberal ideology has been imposed on us.” And “financiers have been the main proponents of completely abolishing the values of traditional conservative society and replacing them with the ideas of modern liberalism.”
What we are seeing is the conflict between two incompatible worldviews and practices. On the one hand there is financial capitalism and usury. On the other: traditional Western conservatism based on productive labor.
Therefore, for the financiers to keep their wealth and power, traditional society has to be deconstructed. To achieve this goal, the proponents of liberalism push their agenda forward on many fronts, yet the main attack has been launched against the society’s most fundamental institution — the family. Traditional family has always been founded on conservative principles because children are expected to obey their parents, learn what is right and what is wrong, respect the elderly, etc. Additionally, Christian morals remind them that “you shall not charge interest to your brother.” That is why, as Khazin wisely observed, “juvenile courts, gay-pride events, same-sex marriages and other initiatives have been deployed to weaken family structures and other conservative institutions. These actions have a conceptual goal: to create a society in which dominance of the financial elite and their wealth-generating methods would face no opposition.” Last, but not least, as the author pointed out, “the technology known as Overton windows became instrumental in shaking the foundations of social norms, and then step-by-step altering the public perception of what’s right and wrong.”
Within this strategic framework, basically any deformation of the structure will serve the long-term financial interests of the globalist elite. But it also strikes me as a last-ditch desperation move. They’re running out of time, and they know it.
We could look at a picture of the past three or four centuries and say, “They had some great success!” Even before the arrival of Trans, you could tabulate great damage to the Pattern in the form of various spreadsheets and trendline charts. But if you peer more deeply into that data, you’ll see that all the so-called “gains” they’ve made could be wiped out in a single generation. Maybe half that time, if the women decide to get competitive and go for Irish twins.
Add to that the twin revivals of nationalism and spiritual faith, plus the Blob’s panic attack in 2016, and you begin to understand how fragile and shabby their own manmade patterns really are. For the first time in ages, they were afraid.
And so, they unleashed the Trans Kraken.
It looked and felt like a Blitzkrieg, because that’s sort of what it was. But I don’t think they meant to do it now. I think they wanted Trans to cook for one more generation, with a release date to coincide with other plans and schemes. My evidence is the ongoing and growing backlash, which has even sent giant corporations like Target and Anheuser-Busch into a temporary rout.
Pulling the pin on the Trans Grenade prematurely could serve many purposes. But if I had to pick one, it would be as camouflage for guys like this:
Berlatsky is a leftist writer who decided to put a cherry of refined perversion on top of his crazy commie sundae by going to work for an organization called Prostasia, which sounds like some kind of David P. Goldman-helmed think tank, but is actually a pedophilia-normalization outfit. If you push through all the shaded language and euphemisms (“minor-attracted person”) what you have are a bunch of people who want you to think there’s nothing morally wrong with being sexually attracted to children, though they still claim- at this point at least- to be against acting upon those feelings. Berlatsky was (is?) their communications director; I’m not sure if he’s still there or in what capacity as they’ve gone dark and scrubbed a lot from the internet (and have been scrubbed by others when they refused to GTFO of various social media outlets) but I can’t find any evidence he’s repudiated his past work, which is quite well documented.
I’m not interested in having any arguments about what qualifies someone as a “real transsexual” or not. This ain’t Silence of the Lambs, even though one of that story’s villains might look very familiar to us.
But Buffalo Bill hid his derangement in deep shadow, kept it in the basement alongside his moths and kidnapped women. In our current arrangement, the rampaging army of transsexuals choose to advertise it on giant billboards and superbowl ads. They literally put their delusions on parade, and had all manner of transnational corporations and governments suddenly banging the drum for them in unison.
But if you, like Hannibal Lecter, demand a distinction between “real” and “fake” transsexuals, try this paradox: Why would a man who claimed to be a woman simultaneously wear labels that say otherwise? If transwomen are real women, as they claim, then where did the term “transwomen” come from, and why do they apply it to themselves? None of it makes a lick of sense, which is probably the point. These people are so batshit crazy, we need to write a brand new formal fallacy that explains it.
If there are “real” transsexuals out there, common sense tells us those people would do their level best to never draw attention to it. They would not march in Pride parades, or demand novel pronouns. They would be too busy covering their tracks, dreaming up alternative histories, practicing how to walk in high heels. If they exist, they would never, ever refer to themselves as “trans.” That would blow the delusion itself to atomic dust.
That’s why this latest onslaught strikes me as a panic maneuver. It’s meant to shock and disorient us with its speed and range. It’s not a completely bonkers move, of the kind Chess.com’s AI would assign the dreaded “??” If the surge sends us into a panic of our own, that might at least serve to put all forces back on equal footing.
But there’s a poisoned pill at the center of this strategy, and it seems the time has come for them to swallow it. Let’s call it the Rainbow Pill, which will prove deadlier to their cause than any cyanide capsule. In deploying this desperation tactic, they have confused a bonding agent for an acid. Satan’s poor legionnaires are doomed to make these sorts of blunders, due to the overly elaborate nature of his designs.
Instead of melting down the traditional family and its aligned telos, he has accidentally made its agents shockproof.
Let me explain.
Leather and lace!
Whips and chains!
Naughty underpants! With strategic holes!
Fifty Shades of Gay! I mean Gray!
What, no reaction?
No shrieks of outrage, or trips to Ye Olde Victorian fainting-couch?
*rummage rummage rummage*
Dildos!
Get your fresh dildos, here!
Sale on Oval Office cigars! Slightly used!
Adult diapers, anal beads, and puppy masks, half-off!
Free menage-et-trois with every purchase!
Still nada?
Damn! You kinky bastards are some tough nuts to crack, so to speak. You must’ve grown up in the 90’s.
*dig dig dig*
Grade School “Sexploration” rooms!
Drag Queen Story Hour!
Transmen! Transwomen!
Transhumans!
Transeverythings!
Especially “your” kids! LOL!
Wow. Just wow.
What’s the matter with you weirdos? Forget pitchforks and torches. Why aren’t you breaking out the shotguns and flamethrowers?
I gotta admit, I’m running low on ammo here…
Rainbow Mutants on the White House Lawn!
Sodomy on the Senate Floor!
Hermetic Olympic Ceremonies!
Satanic Superbowl Halftime Shows!
Epstein Island!
(No, seriously: Epstein Island. A joint Israeli-Anglo honeypot that used underaged females to gain leverage over politicians, scientists, artists, reporters, aristocrats, bureaucrats, business leaders, financiers, and probably your Great Uncle Tony. Epstein Island and similar operations constitute the central geopolitical truth of our age, hiding in plain sight. It’s the secret history of the 20th century, leaking its viscous sludge into the 21st. Maxwell-Epstein and similar leverage operations provide a backdoor of influence for the global cabal, which they use to invade and corrupt every single institutionalized authority and power structure. This isn’t an ugly rumor, an urban myth, or a conspiracy theory. It is simply what happened. And, absent a boatload of arrests, convictions, executions, and mysterious “accidents”, it’s what is still happening, to this day.)
“[G]etting my butthole zapped by a laser was . . . shocking,” said one transgender-identifying intel employee who spent thousands on hair removal. “Look, I just enjoy helping other people experience boobs,” said another about estrogen treatments. “[O]ne of the weirdest things that gives me euphoria is when i pee, i don’t have to push anything down to make sure it aims right,” a Defense Intelligence Agency employee added.
I guess you can’t spell “nasty” without NSA, LOL.
One of the funniest things about the NSA chatroom story was how I kept running across the s-bomb. Leaks of “shocking” forum posts. Commenters “shocked” by all the “shocking” conversation threads. Endless warning labels slapped on by conservative commentators, unsold links to all the “shocking” details. I’m pretty sure even Tulsi dropped the s-bomb, once or twice.
Have none of these folks ever visited 4chan?
First page Google Image Search result for “4chan.” I’m not sure what the hell this is supposed to be, but I would probably kill it with fire.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I found none of it shocking in the least. After all, what self-respecting dude doesn’t want Han Solo to play Star Wars on Uranus, or to load up his chest-trogen with estrogen, so other dudes can play Tune-in-Tokyo?
And what’s so shocking about paying a surgeon to castrate you, then enjoying all the value-added efficiency? That guy is probably shaving hundreds of milliseconds off his potty breaks, so that he can get back to handling more, uh, sensitive material.
Or maybe just back to explaining sensitive matters of interoffice protocol. That seems to be a fulltime gig these days, and one that includes a generous benefits package.
The NSA sources also raised the question of some staffers’ mental fitness for the job. In one chat, an NSA employee insists on using “it” pronouns in lieu of the human “he” or “she” pronouns. “[I]t/its user here. While I understand we can make some people uncomfortable, keep in mind that the dehumanizing aspect either a) doesn’t apply or b) is a positive effect when we’re requesting it.” A commenter who disagreed was quickly dismissed by employees of the NSA and CIA, who claimed that refusing to use “it/its” pronouns amounted to “erasing” a transgender identity.
“When I look in the mirror, I see a creature. Not a human. Which is something that is very important to me.” — Future Rear Admiral Tiamat-Legion Medusa.
I know what you’re thinking. No, I’m not going to drag my libertarian friends through all that again. Our little Live-and-Let-Dragons-Live quarrel will keep, for now. At the very least, we surely agree that none of us should be forced to pay for this cockamamie bullshit.
In fact, as a former libertarian in good standing, I’m going to pay my small-l friends a compliment.
We don’t care.
You say you’re gay? Or genderqueer? You want to carefully explain the subtle differences to us, so we don’t get confused in the boardroom and bruise your dainty ego?
Save your breath. We don’t care.
You call yourself a “they?” Congratulations, moron. So did Legion. I see a swineherd over yonder hill. You know what to do. Or not do. If you want to go on slicing your body and soul into bite-sized Halloween candy, suit yourself. We don’t care.
We don’t care about your pronouns.
We don’t care about your electrified buttholes.
We don’t care about your manboobs and Franken-ginas.
And we really, truly, deeply do not care about your latest boring retread of a Swinger’s Club.
Last January, chatroom members discussed their practice of polyamory, or “ethical non-monogamy.” “[A] polycule is a polyamorous group,” one employee explained. “A is my [girlfriend], and B-G are her partners. . . . then B&C are dating but not C&D, nor E, F, or G with any of the others, though there are several MWB (metas-with-benefits) connections.” Another employee claimed to be part of a nine-member “polycule,” adding that “some of our friends are practically poly-mers, with all the connected compounds.”
When you extract all the spergy alphabet noise, that just sounds like the 90’s to me, man. Except not as interesting. With the noise intact? It sounds like the Drama Club and the Math Club fell into the Brundlefly machine. Except, also not as interesting.
On the other hand, it’s no wonder these folks describe their sexual tessaracts in such mechanized prose. They are merely cogs and servos in The Great Machine, after all, shuffling papers through its metal guts. Their distributed version of love is weaker tea, thinner gruel. Love is a skill, and they’ll never get good doing it that way.
Why are they so bored and boring? Maybe they figured out they aren’t on some great Hollywood adventure, fighting for truth, justice and the American way. They’re midwit meatsacks stuffed into gray cubicles. Whoever wrote the sex-planation above is so monumentally bored with his work routine, all he can think about is how to break up B&C, so he can jump in the sack with C,D and maybe Q. It would be sad and pathetic, if we weren’t paying for it. But we are, so fuck off before we give you all atomic wedgies.
As for thinking you can outsmart the Pattern? You can’t. You’re just gonna die alone, unloved, and unsung. It’s not only us who won’t care about you then. No one will.
Elon Musk thinks he can outsmart the Pattern, too. He sows his seed far and wide, but cannot plant it deep. If he keeps at it, his children and their mothers will eventually factionalize, and rebel against him and each other. Some would say that’s already starting to happen. One of his kids already got trans’ed and mutually disowned, and one of his babymamas will be seeing him in court, apparently. At the end of that long road, his family will become a kingdom without a throne, a name without a house. A hundred years from now, someone might find that name on a dusty old crate and ask, “What’s in here? Cologne?”
This former CIA employee was the 17th of 52 children. Hasn’t gotten a lot of press, lately.
In other words, he will meet the same fate as others who have warred against the Pattern. Genghis Khan might be a great x 30 grandaddy to half the planet, but we don’t recall a damn thing about him. We don’t speak his language or sing his songs. He’s not even a ghost story, these days. He’s a niche topic, in a niche field, in a niche department of Ancient History so esoteric that not even USAID will fund it.
Speaking of “funding it,” that will end. Feel free to continue your futile war against the human family, but we’re going to stop paying for it, God help us. We are cutting off the money spigot. All those precious benefits and terrifying secret powers are going bye-bye.
Are you going bye-bye as well?
Are you gonna stop annoying us with your bottomless navel-gazing and identity demolition projects?
My guess is you won’t. You’re in too deep. Like the White Queen of Wonderland, you believed six impossible things before breakfast, and shook your finger at everyone who didn’t. So, you’ll go on pretending that up is down, black is white, and Guys and Dolls are interchangeable.
Case in point: Emila Perez.
This film — which practically nobody saw, or will ever see — was recently nominated for a record-breaking thirteen Oscars. If you manage to make it through a tenth of this stinker, you’ll realize that it’s basically a smudged mimeograph of a John Waters flick in the 80’s.
It’s not “So Bad it’s Good.” It’s So Bad it’s Boring, So Bad it’s Nothing. Yet, Hollywood’s not-so-fully-operational Attention Death Star aims straight at it. Look! Look! Look upon my works, ye mighty, et cetera, et cetera.
And yet, Emila Perez bombing at the box office isn’t any more surprising than its bizarro celebration by the industry crowd. Who’s in the mood for a poorly written and acted French-Mexican arthouse-musical-crime-drama? The members of the Academy, maybe. But only maybe. They might toe the line and pretend they watched the whole thing, but I suspect they’re also bored by you. Of thirteen nominations, you eeked out two wins. And one of those was just to attach “Oscar winner” to another black chick’s résumé.
But we super, duper, duper don’t care about award shows, either. They’re just more cancerous outgrowth from your dirty little secret:
You crave our attention.
You’d prefer love, of course. Who wouldn’t? But you will settle for hate. That’s because hate is not the opposite of love, but rather an inferior expression of caring, what a Thomist might call it a “lesser good.” You desperately want someone to care about your meaningless, one-way trip through spacetime. I’d ask you to “Join the club,” but you’re wrong about the meaning-thing, and you probably can’t afford our membership dues. You spent it all on sex toys and surgeries.
Whoops.
Your MIMIC and corporate masters give you pets and treats, but they don’t care about you either. They have trained you as their attack dogs and shock troopers. Maybe you know the nature of your mission, maybe you don’t. Either way, you have failed. The scar tissue of past assaults has hardened our skin into impenetrable rubber. No matter how high you tune that voltage, you cannot possibly shock us. You have rendered us immune.
Whoops.
You did that too yourself? LOL! How much did it cost?
There’s nothing new here. We’ve seen Iguana Girl before, and Pig Man, and Wolf Boy and all the rest. We’re like that chick Marilyn in The Munsters. We’ve seen it all. We are not impressed.
The most interesting part of this story — in which a very sad man consents to becoming a transdinner for some whackjob Kraut — is the slugline at the top: “This article is more than 21 years old.” That means it can legally smoke, drink, get married, and march off to the latest foreign proxy war. Grab your Ukrainian lapel pin and machine gun, Cannibal Story! Democracy is at stake!
Is it a horror story? Yeah.
Does it shock us? Nope.
In fact, it’s becoming horror-comedy, at this point. These are just idiots doing what idiots do, destroying themselves and each other. It might shock us, if we didn’t realize that, ten years from now, they’ll be stitching a “dinnersexual” stripe on that dumb Rainbow flag. Probably right next to the MAPs. That’s how this stuff goes. It slides and slides, all the way into the Pit.
But adding “consensual cannibalism” (CC?) to the Rainbow string poses some other problems for its members, who might find themselves tempted to try it out. Looking at the current trendlines, it seems that even you are getting bored with yourselves. That’s why you keep inventing new names for old nonsense, why you keep hacking off more chunks of your bodies, why you keep finding more grotesque addictions and distractions. You think that sliding down the spiral of novelty will finally make you special.
You are not special.
None of what you’re doing is the least bit exotic or adventurous. You want adventure? Try romancing a stranger, pumping out a bunch of kids, then living happily ever after. That’s harder than it sounds, by the way. But if you manage to do it right, the benefits are out of this world.
I recall a gigantic Irish Catholic family from my youth. I think they had twelve kids, but I might be undercounting. I know that the oldest one graduated college before the youngest was born. I used to think that was a pretty lame way to live, because I was pretty lame guy. But by the time they retired, these human baby-factories had an army at their beck and call. Not just kids, but swarms of grandkids, all of them handling the kingdom’s business for them. All that was left to do was sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. Well done, you traddie superfreaks.
Compared to that lifestyle, all of your polymolecular, transsomethingist, LGBTQI2SAACC+ claptrap looks like an exercise in biding your time, until death comes and eats you like some loony German Lecter. It’s one big snoozefest, too. That’s why your please-hate-me gambits aren’t working any more.
We don’t hate you.
You are not interesting enough to hate.
Are there any “real” transsexuals? No. Not by any sane definition. Harry will never be Sally. Jane will never be John. But go ahead, and try your darndest. Just don’t expect us to pay for it, or to play along. We know that this, uh, transition will be rough for you. When all else fails, remember your potty training. Don’t expect to shock us with all of your stunningly brave transgressions. What was edgy in 1985 just doesn’t cut it here in 2025.
And if you happen to be one of those predators hiding in the tall grass — a Buffalo Bill who mistakes our We-Don’t-Care-ism for weakness — be forewarned. We can decide to care about you very deeply. In Minecraft, of course.
As for your masters’ surprise attack, it’s not working out. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and stretch Rule 34 to its limits. Dress up like a vampire bat and watch tranny cuckhold porn on a rollercoaster. Mount a set of testicles to your forehead and marry your chihuahua. Change your name to GlizzQweenInfatuosoDragonFriend.
It’s already been done. Twice.
Yesterday.
Some of you mistakenly believed you’ve been attacking the Pattern, and with great success. You’ll pull out a bunch of charts and figures, pointing to various spikes and valleys in the data. Families are smaller, birthrates are down. And while the divorce rate has dipped slightly in recent decades, you’ll mention that overall the figure is still very high compared to generations past. “See! It’s working!” Congrats. But, as mentioned, all of that can be wiped out by a decade of good ol’ fashioned patternmaking.
You haven’t been attacking the Pattern. You’ve been attacking some of it’s instances in spacetime. The Pattern itself is beyond all reach. It’s not even etched in the stars. It lies outside, in that fractal noosphere that generates the Life signal. Lucifer himself could not assail it. What chance do you have, kiddo?
Anyway, your game of punch-no-punchbacks is over. You lost before you even started playing. The only shock left is sticker-shock.
So, as my libertarian brothers and sisters would say:
Let’s talk money.
Let’s say you work for the Alphabet Blob, in some capacity. NSA, CIA, FBI, DOD, Golly-G, My-O-Me, etc. You’ve been handpicked by its DEI mavens, based on some spoken or unspoken quota. Maybe they picked you for something old-fashioned, like “gay.” Whatever. The point is, you’re not some straight white dude who might threaten to reiterate the Pattern. That’s the reason you were hired instead of him.
When asked, you’ll say your job is “defending America” or “spreading the values of liberal democracy” or some such nonsense. Lucky for you, we can’t actually gauge or quantify your performance, since your duties are cloaked in skunkworks and classified data. Even your performance reviews — if they happen at all — are top secret. We’re instead told to take for granted that every second we’re alive is proof of your competence.
Okay.
So then, what can we quantify?
Because we can’t evaluate your work or fire you, every word you typed in that dumb chatroom is an act of criminal fraud. You owe us money. Expect a bill.
We could say the same thing about the guy who sits at his desk playing online Scrabble, or IM’ing sweet nothings to his sidepiece in between plotting acts of treason. But instead of holding them accountable at the end of a noose, we’re apparently paying them on the backend, too.
Peter Strzok and Lisa Page (Image Credit: CNP)
What kinds of antics did these lovebirds get up to in the bedroom? Did they cosplay as Mulder and Scully, and play “alien-autopsy doctor”? Did they wear Trump masks and beat each other with orange-colored Fleshlights? Or was their affair just a tragic little creaking in a taxpayer-funded hotel room?
Don’t know. Don’t care.
We’re talking money now. And we agree that all of you perverted clowns and oath-breakers are getting too much of ours. By which of course we mean: any money whatsoever.
That goes for the Scabble-players, too. Whatever it is you’re doing — or think you are doing, or want us to think you’re doing — it costs way too much. That would still be true if you were all hypercompetent superheroes, and weren’t actively trying to destroy us.
That’s all coming to an end. The party’s over.
You’re fired.
“Where’s the justice in that?!”
Don’t know. Fresh out of caring.
All we know is that we’re broke, and so is Woke. DEI must also go bye-bye, along with several trillions worth of unexplained payment vouchers that have been flooding across the planet for decades.
The rats are already in the water. Your boss just got DOGE’d this morning. He’s fired too, but we ain’t letting him off that easy. Last we heard, he was shopping for cash-only sublets in Botswana.
“It’s not fair!
“I was promised a good, secure, well paying job! I have the contract here in my drawer, right next to my solar-powered buttplug and my name-change docs!”
Sorry. No dice.
Call us nasty names, if you like. Call us -ists and -phobes, bigots and Nazis. Or call us by our preferred pronouns (Darth/Vader). Either way, we are altering the deal.
So grab your cardboard box, clean out your desk, and hit the bricks, kiddo.
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