BUT SERIOUSLY: Why Pfc. Monkey Balls Sees Targeted Individuals as His Sworn Enemies

"I'm a Big Boy now! Where's my gun, Mommy?"

“I’m a Big Boy now! Where’s my gun, Mommy?”

 

Let’s wrap our heads around the mindset of Pfc. Monkey Balls, shall we?

If you are a Targeted Individual, there is one ideal you should ALWAYS hold to heart, and NEVER ignore or take for granted: The innate talent that is within you is A GIFT THAT MUST BE NURTURED and utilized to its utmost capacity—-because of, if not despite, the seemingly insurmountable obstacles you face from the evil torture pitted against you.

There are some in society, however, whose natural birthright in this virtue of pure talent had been stripped of them during adolescence, in a devious and sinister manner, by the global masters of unresolvable militant conflict (“The Machine,” if you will); and to each of these irretrievable victims of militant brainwashing I have dubbed a nickname of mocking tribute to their singular and voluntary nationalistic surrender of their own liberties and mental health to their treasonous lords and masters.

Behold! Private Monkey Balls!

Consider Private Monkey Balls. Monkey Balls is a “Big Boy.” His kind used to be called “Good Ol’ Boys” way back when, all the way up until mass media’s two-headed Political Monster decided that racism was best utilized as an amorphous, divisive distraction best unleashed during rigged debates, and should include racist scumbags from all  walks of life. This is the one tie that binds them all: Obedience to Bigotry.

Their brains were stripped and reprogrammed at adolescence by their masters; therefore Private Monkey Balls does not understand your innate gift of pure talent. As a matter of fact, your natural aptitude for creativity sets you so far apart from his regimented reward-or-punishment conditioning that he might think you’re an alien—-and we’re talking about the kind of aliens that come from a lot farther away than Mexico!

Your shining inspirational mind confounds and intimidates Private Monkey Balls, because this is exactly what was destroyed in him so long ago. He is not called “Private” for no particular reason. The Machine snares youthful recruits (the younger the better) in order to more proficiently sway their malleable immaturity toward its “tacked on the bulletin board” despotic reward-and-punishment  agenda of advertised concealment. You now bear witness to the end result of The Machine’s duplicitous handiwork. All of your embarrassing Monkey Balls recruits are “Private” now, and free to torture whomever they will, simply because they refuse to allow themselves to be tortured as “snitches.”

The Machine wants to privatize the thought process. This is the why and the wherefore of unbridled fear and loathing among your oppressors, as they secretly ravage and desecrate your every chance to achieve your full potential in life. Monkey Balls is the ignorant attack mongrel of the enemies of independent thought. And proud of it. And why not?A mongrel grins and pants for his master who taught him to kill. Does he not? There’s no real thinking  involved. Pride is an emotion, and it’s linked to institutionalized sadism. It’s part-and-parcel of all that reward-or-punishment conditioning just mentioned.

Force two dogs to fight over a bone and you’ll see a) blood, and/or b) dominance and submission.

It’s the Monkey Balls way.

Private Monkey Balls is the modern day equivalent of your average schoolyard bully who has been denied the opportunity to rise above his stunted emotional growth, and has therefore been programmed to resent and attack anyone who has successfully resisted the early coercive temptation to conform to the status quo just as he has conformed. He is an indoctrinated perpetual adolescent surrounded by mirror-image peer-pressure clones, hell-bent on destroying designated targets accused of mere nonconformity.

Monkey See, Monkey Do. And here’s your banana. “Good boy! And what a BIG boy!”

Better yet, consider this analogy:

Monkey Balls is the moral equivalent of an awkward pubescent boy who’s been ordered by King Kong to believe that amputating one’s original human genitalia, and grafting simian genitalia in its place, is a wondrous and profitable feat of “modern military science” that will ultimately grant the recruit “superhuman”—-and somehow, curiously, not subhuman—-characteristics.

Of course this all sounds perfectly reasonable to The Boy. After all, why would King Kong lie to The Boy? I mean, just take a gander at the Boss’s unit! Yowza!

Really, what human being can stand alone against Pentagon Schlong? Ha ha! Moreover, I ask you: Who’s King Kong afraid of? Nobody. Now, what cowed backseat American juvenile delinquent wouldn’t want to hide behind a guaranteed victory enlistment package like that kind of Army Super Bowl? Maybe some faggoty nerdy scientist who could care less about dirty militant super-bowls in a lab somewhere? Maybe. But not a “true patriot” like The Boy!

Huzzah!

Strike up the momentous symphonic national anthem of patriotic aggression, and either salute or hold your hand over your heart. But don’t go overboard.  There you go. It’s the ritual of Christian sadomasochistic idolatry sung to the tune of bombs bursting in freedom’s air just long and hard enough to strike fear (orgasm) in your enemy (lover).

And once the poor urchin has taken the “my country right or wrong” Winner’s Circle bait, and has submitted to the unfortunately irreversible indoctrination procedure (usually at bootcamp, or in some other inescapable totalitarian zoo cage), his humanity is stripped from him and tossed in the thrasher, and he no longer has a will of his own, except in the most menial sense. For instance, he may now on a whim utilize his mighty reserve of willpower in such ponderous decisions as the switching of hands while wiping his bought-and-sold ass; however, in matters of “vital national security”—-and other cleverly unspecified creepy generalities spoon-fed to him on a regular basis—-he must here and forevermore use his newfound Monkey Balls Devolution Package strictly for the benefit of his “Free World” masters, to whom he has sworn a blood-oath of feudal subservience.

He has been goaded down a rung on the Ladder of Humanity in order to “simplify” the chain-of-command stipulations of his inferiority-complexed superiors;  and he must now prove his unceasing allegiance to them by successively accomplishing these eight necessary daily services:

  1. Saluting his flag and zipping his fly, on a daily basis, though not necessarily in that order;
  2. Kissing his holy crucifix tattoo in honor of his delusions of voluntary personal sacrifice;
  3. Eating testosterone-spiked grub;
  4. Pressing the proper coordination of color-coded TI torture buttons over and over again until the end of his shift at the fusion center;
  5. Eating antipsychotic-spiked grub;
  6. Participating in classified “Christian” orgies until the cows go home;
  7. Scrubbing his skid-marked beddie-bye WalMart skivvies to the tune of  a mesmerizing, teary-eyed, yawn-inspiring “Taps” ditty;
  8. And finally, “assuming the position” on his groveling knees for Lord Commander Big Fat Asswipe, and praying to the Devil of his choice for a speedy victory over alleged yet ambiguously untried  “terror-threats” curiously and unspecifically designated as tomorrow’s targets.

Yes, all of these routine Monkey Balls requirements must be accepted as having been freely commanded unto completion by all gratefully enslaved liberators of the Empire.

His masters obliterated and reprogrammed his starry-eyed, star-spangled brain long ago, with promised visions of victory parades, and big tits, and perpetual pensions; and, in his patient apprehension awaiting the fruition of these presumably self-fulfilling prophecies of eventual self-exalting vindication, there is no longer any process of rational thinking on Earth that will ever convince Private Monkey Balls that he has become a brainwashed murdering psychopathic hypocrite for an unapproachably wealthy and disconnected oligarchy of greedy devils who have robbed him of his rights and his ability to think for himself.

His masters have convinced him that in order to attain the above cache of promised material treasures, he must be a “true patriot”—-this being defined as “one who obeys and performs the administration of his duties without question or reservation, in service to his lord and commander . . .”

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. . . and not  “one who supports and promotes justice, fairness, equity and compassion, regardless of the status quo.”

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"I'm a Big Boy now! Where's my gun, Mommy?"
   Perhaps Monkey Balls has confused the United States of America with Swaziland? Doubtful, but anything’s possible. In any case, he must comply, at penalty of imprisonment or death, with his masters’ wishes. And for the record, these “true patriot” duties include, but are not restricted to:

  • The persecution, in whatever specification, of any and all of his master’s designated targets;
  • The proselytization and recruitment of all prospective Monkey Balls prospects in his social surroundings;
  • The enforced assurance of unending tenure for the very oligarchy that destroyed his long-forgotten liberty, empathy, and reasonability in the first place. The perpetuation of the oligarchy is of prime importance to Pfc. Monkey Balls.

This mindset of spiraling desensitization—-even as he high-fives his accomplices in the throes of deviant, murderous actions hastily interpreted as causes for nationalistic media-driven celebration—-is the “members only” one-way street to hell in which Monkey Balls can at last revel in the inclusion and camaraderie of like minds embracing the intentionally sequestered and shared permissible psychosis of a government faction gone mad.

“Praise the Lord and bomb them to hell” is the required antichrist “Christian” agreement that must be acknowledged upon enlistment among all Monkey Balls clones.

Monkey Balls does not delve on matters of conscience or reflection, because at pain of imprisonment or death no one else in his peer group bothers to do so. “Shake it off! It’s Miller time!” Many of his off-time schmoes flop together at the Sports Bar. “Go Team!”

One vital tenet among Monkey Balls recruits is that an emotionally retarded bully always needs a vicarious whipping boy (i.e. the TI) as “comfort food” in order to march more securely—-more coyly—-down Hell Street, in brazen inaccessibility, with one’s accomplices-in-treason. The DoD needs this do-or-die affirmation and compliance from all  retarded bullies under its imposed global sphere of influence. In order for a grandiose fascist coup to be at all possible, there can be no “due process of law.” Only under these conditions can the comfort-in-a-crowd Coward’s Rulebook become national law for your average bully. “Mob rules” is the age-old adage for cowardly violence.

The Bully Pulpit finds no “inalienable right to due process” in its deftly redacted and revised, self-serving, post-9/11 talking-point history book, which must of needs be written by bullies. There is no “ethical presumption of innocence” for anyone on the DoD’s hit-list of secretly condemned targets who have received no hearing, no trial, no justice, and no recourse for their agonized suffering at the hands of Dick Cheney’s globally unregulated scumbag militant profiteering. This is the source from which all Organized Stalking and Electronic Torture originates.

Private Monkey Balls obeys his masters without question, without reflection, and without conscience, because he is routinely rewarded for his labors with tasty, relatively inexpensive, mind-numbing treats that dull his judgment and blunt his speech. When he hears his master’s call to fall in, he drops whatever he is doing and robotically conforms to the sublimated task at hand—-which is, basically, to fall in line, bark threats, propagandize talking points that compartmentalize a divided American psyche, and stockpile gullible recruits wherever “Security Specialist” Neighborhood Watch groups coagulate.

And then, Pfc. Monkey Balls astoundingly refuses to believe that he has been programmed to do this exactly while he is doing it. Massa Boss rings the bell, and Monkey Balls is off and running again, balls in hand, falling in line, barking threats, propagandizing compartmentalized talking points, and stockpiling recruits at every available Neighborhood Watch gathering.

Monkey Balls has been trained to think that nationalistic bloodlust, marched to the beat of the Pavlovian war drum, is synonymous with patriotism.

Pfc. Monkey Balls is a brainwashed asshole.

 

2016 Paul Sylvester Stayton