To the folks formerly known by the acronym replaceable by “Medium Sized Nice Black Cock,” the resentment radiating from your regretful reflections reminds me of my own repressed rage, except I can say whatever the fuck I want because my rights aren’t restricted by the rules and regulations of an uncompromising corporation. The country’s chief conspirators left no one for me to run and tell the truth to, as this indisputable inequity involves even investigative reporters, whistleblowers, and federal agencies. Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, I spent several late nights switching the channel between Comedy Central and Cartoon Network to see animated actors annihilate the world’s worst wimps and wusses. Yes, both of you should run for office. No, I don’t want either of your jobs. Talk is cheap, well, unless you’re a co-conspirator in a crazy conspiracy concentrated on crippling the consciousness of Christ’s choice chosen. Speaking of crippling, y’all, this strain feels like Satan is sitting his searing hot ass on my lap and stabbing me with his speared tail over and over again. I wish excruciating pain on all my enemies, especially the endlessly evil ones. Anyhoo, Jon, chaos and confusion come with the madness and mayhem of complacency and contentment in a country of comedians and content creators or consumers who see fighting back as fussing online. Jon and Stephen, I watched y’all more than I watched network news as a kid, and I’m happy you’re still around, but I wonder if it’s your writers with all the wit and wisdom or if you’re equipped for elections. If you’re at least fans of mine, wear pink bow ties sometime soon so I’ll know I’m not wasting words. And for the record, I’m not hiding, I’m saving myself for something special. Demonstrably, the most delusional dummies dedicate their days to designing disguises and distractions to divert attention away from their own attention-grabbing and humiliating habits, happenings, and personal problems. Politics is performative because excitable, expressive, and eager to explain people naturally pretend defensively as they’re the type to go above and beyond to prove a point. Exaggeration masked as exclamation, petrified perfidy posed as passion, and typical theatrics all summarize the story—reality reeks for runts when the real reveals what they’re running from. Conceding and complimenting or congratulating after opposing or being at odds with objectors that they’d deduced in delusion wouldn’t defeat them makes delusional dummies despise themselves, so they disguise themselves. In other words, feeble folks fake when they fail to feel like a first place winner. That capping is what the conspirators and co-conspirators are doing daily after defeat, and it’s why cappers deserve decapitation. How is a faker going to fib if their lying lips and bogus brain are detached from their schmuck-ass shrugging shoulders? Do you daydream about dishing revenge in the most demonic way? Imagine imagining that deep deception disguised as little lies softens the severity of a crime-ridden conspiracy that’s comprised of casualties, cooperative celebrities and crooked cops, psychological torture, exploitation, intimidation, blackmail, bribery, and worse. Again, if you’re wondering what I’m waiting on, you’re probably not spending enough time evaluating everything and assuring that your attorneys are properly prepared. But let’s end this on a light note, shall we? A short while ago, I had a dream, I guess you could call it a nightmare, where my house was being haunted by Michael Jackson. He wasn’t the zany zombie from Thriller or the mega metallic machine from Moonwalker, just Michael—the man. However, he was always sneaking in the shadows. In the dream, one night I went outside and attempted to confront him, summoning him like, “You ain’t bad! You ain’t nothin’!”, laughing my ass off. Well, I went back inside, and Ciara was there. Yes, the multi-talented entertainer. Then, weird shit started happening around the house. So, this time, Ciara went outside to see if she could stop Michael from being a menace. When I followed her to see if she’d get killed, she was on the side of the house making out with Michael. Then, I realized that he wasn’t haunting my house at all, he was just hanging out waiting for women. And because he’s Mike, he was weird about it. The moral of the story is, stop acting like you know what the fuck is going on. Because soon…
Omniscience