Let’s just say for now that you’re a recalcitrant white trash boozer from way back, and you’re down on your luck because those ditch-digging jobs are beginning to get a bit too arduous for your aging limbs. And besides, those darned Mexicans are showing up everywhere, and now they’re taking the jobs you used to get, and for half your exaggerated going rate to boot.
Mr. Grim feels your pain, you uneducated sociopathic slimeball. And that’s why he’ll always leave his door wide open, once you realize there really is nothing left in life—-for a bigoted peon like you—-but the bitter, demeaning, and ultimately hell-bent life of a lower-rung gang-stalking tool-of-the-state.
Oh well. Cheers!
Sure, we know you’ve got it tough, what with your commander sitting pretty up there in that cushy supervisory position, while you and the “boys” are out doing the grunt work. And lord knows, these new masters of yours never leave any doubt in your scrambled brain about their true feelings for you, whenever your smarmy codependent addiction to uncompromising allegiance to the Devil needs a another timely stroking. You know, like whenever they line you all up for another “good job, boy” pat on the back, and one more weekly installment of your blood-money pittance.
Religion’s a bitch, from either side of your flipped coin. God? Devil? What’s the difference, when the only thing your cult ever does is train you to lie and cheat and kill for its own benefit. This extraordinary whitewash of palpable modernity—-an apocalyptic paradigm that no longer conforms to popular perceptions of innocence or guilt—-is all over your head anyway, right?
Really, dude! How can you complain about things you cannot possibly understand? Why are you thinking , anyway? Did someone command you to analyze something? Leave those tasks for the big boys. Your commander is a generationally indoctrinated military psychopath. Of course he knows what’s best for you! How can a local spud like you compete with guys like that? How can your renowned distressing chain of failures in life compare with his decades of malevolent clandestine bootcamp conditioning? You’re a talentless, enabled mama’s boy. The only thing you can do is put up with the humiliation, and take the blood money.
Look at yourself. You’re a good-for-nothing unemployable local retard, and so you shall be for the rest of your goddamned existence—-without Mr. Grim’s magnanimous governmental brain-wash intercession, of course. So come on! Just shut up and obey, loser, and take the pittance. It’s that easy.
Here’s the scoop:
Mr. Grim wants you to convince yourself of the delusion that you’re always going to come off all smug and sneery to your targeted victims. You need to disregard what you know you’re actually revealing to them, with every pathetic gang-stalking step you take: the wanton, sadistic, soulless, hell-bent monster that you really and truly have become. And all thanks to the Unsightly Mr. Grim!
You see, the actual corralled, condemned and tortured souls in life are the ones who can no longer control their need to abuse others in exchange for profit and glory.
You’re the joke’s punch line, asshole. Suck it up!
But don’t think on this truth overlong—-and definitely don’t share this with your colleagues! Careful: Mr. Grim frowns upon realistic perspectives among his peons. Just imagine what his reaction will be as soon as you get caught red-handed on camera like Crank Boy and his pal did.
But aw hell, that ain’t no big deal—-at least not compared to the rest of your track record. Just keep thinking thusly:
Lollipops! Rainbows! Puppies & kittens! Hot bitches and Fourth of July hotdogs! Nothing but white people as far as the eye can see!
And keep rehearsing that smug sneer in the mirror until it’s perfected. A good example of the subtle yet incendiary Crank Boy sneer is in the photo below. You’ll get it down, just like he did. He’s just like you!
And graft on a pair of Monkey Balls! Quick! It’s a simple outpatient procedure. Advanced tech! The Borg rules! See more on this in the “Hefty Monkey Balls Indoctrination” page.
Practice some recommended tribal bonding with your commander! He’ll help you alleviate some of that pent-up emasculating malaise you’ve been experiencing ever since the death of your conscience at his hands. You scratch his monkey balls, he’ll scratch yours. Soon you’ll be out there strutting with the Big dicks—-although, of course, you’ll never, ever, make their kind of money. But maybe in time your commander will let you shine those boots you’re licking.
And remember, gang-stalker: You’ll only be as happy as your assigned victim is miserable.
Listen, gang-stalker: You’ll only be happy as long as you struggle to convince your victim (and yourself) that you’re the same smug, sneering “community watch patriot” as the moral misfit leering back at you every morning in the bathroom mirror. So just keep shaving that gnarled, self-inflicted, misplaced anguish off that over-the-hill mug in the mirror, and perfect that sneer, or else.
The inescapable fact that you’re still only Mama’s little good-for-nothing half-ass from way back—-however conditioned you now are to perform sophisticated acts of heinous covert treason for a boss who eventually throws peons like you under the bus—-is something you really shouldn’t delve on in your current state of codependent gullibility.
Oh, by the way: The cost for those hand-me-down DoD sweatshirts? You know, the ones that give you the particularly smug “faux patriot” look that ol’ Crank Boy is so treasonously yet ineffectually flaunting? That’s coming out of your first installment, knucklehead. Feeling better yet?