ALL HAIL NATIONALISM!
Let’s hear it for brainwashed murdering psychopaths and their support groups!
Mr. Grim understands your dilemma, Big Boy. Sure, once in a while your obsessive compulsion to have everything just right is occasionally thwarted by victims you’ve been designated to destroy who are just a bit too wise to completely fall apart from the “Stage One” level (that fun-filled psychological terrorism level) of your clandestine sabotage-and-torture campaign. And so you have to double-down, right? And that kind of “thinking on your feet” situation can often be a real problem for an unsophisticated goon like you without the proper leash around his neck.
Well, sure it happens! Come on, Big Boy! Admit it! You need professional help.
For instance, you know how hard it is for you to win a debate, right? Well now, just dig a little bit deeper into your manipulated psyche, and finally try to admit to yourself that you’ve signed your soul away to the Devil; and, that the Devil needs YOU to be his fall guy whenever he chooses. So let’s just discard any pointless attempt to salvage your wounded ego at this point in your conditioning. The bottom line is that the Unsightly Mr. Grim simply doesn’t need you to haphazardly reveal to the general public what an uneducated tool you really are. Loose lips sink ships!
I tell you what: Just take a look down at your new pair of bootcamp Monkey Balls ™, and salute for the camera. You can handle that simple order, right?
See? Everybody knows how dearly you cherish that grafted-on simian testosterone overdose you received during your indoctrination, and how incessantly you need your Massa Boss to upgrade it with every scheduling of your ongoing militant conditioning. I mean, do you remember that erstwhile pair of pathetic nuts you used to swing around down there during your old stomping-ground days? Surely you remember that sorry mediocre sexual sad-sack you carried throughout your teen years. Inferior genetics, improper upbringing, inconsequential grades, all the usual underwhelming inconveniences typical to future DHS recruits.
We have to keep reminding you, Big Boy: You’re a good-for-nothing petty criminal without the Unsightly Mr. Grim’s lifetime program of covert torture in your back pocket. Smile! It’s online Paypal payday for erstwhile losers! Let’s start greasing that palm, son!
But wait, let’s get back on topic first. What we’re really talking about, right here and now, is your typical stammering “numb-nuts” pose of “I know you are but what am I” whenever you’re confronted by intelligent, free-thinking human beings who tell you exactly what kind of compromised, indoctrinated, conspiring fool for the Status Quo you freely chose to become and are brazenly unrepentant to reconsider, with every added installment of blood-money delivered to your account.
You really don’t understand, do you? You really don’t know when it’s time to start getting a little concerned, a little paranoid, about the choice you’ve made to toss ethical standards to the curb and lick those oligarchic boots with pride whenever you’re ordered to do so.
Well, fine. If you don’t know what time it really is, I’ll tell you: It’s time for the victims you’re abusing to start challenging you to admit the truth about Organized Stalking and Weaponized Wireless Technology.
Whoa! Circle the covered wagons! Your fetid master, the Unsightly Mr. Grim, strongly suggests a couple of handy evasive tactics that can and will afford you the time to begin your cockroach-skuttle back to the hole where you belong, and evermore shall be, whenever that persnickety little conscience Mr. Grim helped you destroy suddenly resurrects in your heart whenever you’re confronted by rational criticism and other empathetic obstacles.
Mr. Grim will help you destroy that conscience, again and again.
All praise to Mr. Grim. Huzzah! Run! Hide! No, wait . . . Yes! Run! Hide! Ha-ha. Just kidding for now. Mr. Grim enjoys watching you bend over for him on command. Run! Hide!
Acquiescing to Mr. Grim’s desire to help you sweep that conscience under the rug again is kind of like constantly allowing him to unzip your fly in public so you can fix your bargain-basement irregular Walmart skivvies in plain view of God and Country.
Salute your commander! And zip it!
See? That’s how much you need your eternal Massa Boss to control your every move, you bootlicking tool.
Let’s all chant the daily droning dualism mantra: God is the Devil! Torturing “officially designated undesirables” is good for the community! Fear and Bigotry are Enlightenment and Strength!
Especially that first one. God is the Devil! Thank you, Mr. Grim! You are a demonic boon to the intellectually challenged. Where oh where is Michael Aquino, that we might graciously wipe the Divine Satanic Sweat from his implicated brow as he admires his handiwork?
You see, contrary to your usual acceptance of the guaranteed social invisibility granted by your masters, it’s painfully obvious—-even to you!—-that everybody in your goony conglomerate of gang-stalking electronic torturers knows by now what a manipulated prick you really are. After all, they’re all just like you, right? As a matter of fact, all of their paychecks come from the same Massa Boss, so they should know, right?
That’s right. Hey, just agree, stupid! And I wouldn’t engage in any unauthorized debates at this point in the continuing indoctrination process, if I were you—-unless of course your opponent in the debate is a member of your own goony conglomerate, and is all ripe and ready to coordinate all the necessarily pretentious hand-signals with you that you’ve both been practicing. Keep it simple, simpleton! Best keep things under wraps till you get your sea legs, Junior. Better to be silent and thought a fool than to speak up and remove all doubt.
And definitely don’t get into a public debate with one of your otherwise helpless victims. They’d wipe the floor with an unschooled delinquent like you. So cheer up, Big Boy! It’s not like you have to explain yourself to your victim, you retarded demon you.
Think about it: Throughout all of your misbegotten, disinformed life of hot dogs, and fireworks, and Old Glory mixed in with snuck-in contraband; of you and your “team” strategically and rapidly raping teenage chicks in miniskirts whenever you got them alone; think about it, for all that time, you’ve been taught that “patriotism” was synonymous with “heroism” and “goodness”—-despite the sundry hypocrisies your searing conscience screamed to confess the exact opposite in the testimony of your heart.
Yeah, the hell with that. Just follow the commands of your superiors. God is the Devil! Business as usual. You are hereby always commanded to kiss the biggest asses that Mr. Grim props up to your puckering lips. You are hereby always commanded to say “yazza boss” to the BIG Boy with the insignia on his arm. What’s his name again? Well, let’s take a look at today’s roster: Today it’s Commander Big Fat Asswipe. Local retired military psychopath from way back.
“And who,” you might ask, “are these other biggest asses I must kiss, for all of my sorry life, Oh Lord Master and Commander?”
Well, let’s see, Junior: the general’s ass; the senator’s ass; the “Citizens on Patrol” moderator’s ass; the local “holy” ass . . .
You see where this is going. Oligarch Ass!
And there you go. Obedience without question. Sure, you get to go through all the “suggestion box” motions by voicing your usual pathetic, quickly dissolving, nutless utterances, and your grinning superiors will reciprocate by offering empty endorsements of concern and eventual aggravated wave-offs of indifference. You don’t need a refresher course in Pecking Order Protocol, do you? Don’t forget: you’re a bootlicker!
My my, what a keen fairytale romance your youth must’ve been, to have enabled you to function at this insectuous level of inhuman disregard for empathy for so long. What an incorrigibly insulated and purposefully dumbed-down life you have wholeheartedly embraced. Huzzah! Heil Hitler, Big Boy!
Wait! The revelation gets even better!
Ever since you were knee–high to Sergeant Pedophile’s dangling baton of “private” recompense (ooh, let’s not talk about that memory), round and round you went, kissing every filthy demonic ass you were ordered to kiss. There you were, true to indoctrinated form, kissing one filthy psychopathic ass after another without question, right up till now.
And the only question that does get through is this: “So why stop now?”
Well, what should we expect from you, after all? This is all you’ve been conditioned to expect in life anymore, anyway: To be surrounded by people JUST LIKE YOU. Every single one of them kissing Devil-ass, JUST LIKE YOU. And all it takes, after the first psychopathic ass-kiss, is the next psychopathic ass-kiss. And the next. And the next. It’s that simple, for a brainwashed cog JUST LIKE YOU.
Good for you, Big Boy! You’ve found the path of least resistance. For people just like you, simple always trumps ethical.
This is why it’s perfectly understandable that as soon as they start beating that war drum, there you go, off in the direction they point their latest finger of media-driven conflict and condemnation—-which of course you’re also perfectly used to by now. All hail the Republican or Democrat whose turn it is this year to beat the drum.
Mr. Grim is so proud that you’ve figured out how to march like a Big Boy all by yourself. Good boy! It’s always Super Bowl tailgating season around these parts for all the teary-eyed National Anthem Wavers in the bleachers. Just as it’s always “Burn Satan’s Flag” Day at the next Yemeni soccer match.
Think of it this way, urchin:
You need to take a good look at how riled up you get, the next time you see the always-available instantaneous news footage of one of your insane counterparts on the other side of the “skirmish.” Ever notice how the media just love sprinkling salt in the wound for mass consumption of the gullible on both sides of the fence?
Recipe instructions: Flavor to satiation! Irradiate to taste! Yummy!
Now, take a closer look at the next media-driven “anomoly.” Come and see! Come and see the cringe-inducing broadcast of that goddamned flea-bitten towel-headed kook yodeling from his tower at sunrise for all the goddamned peons in Hovel City, Middle East Somewhere.
Yeah! Now, for effect, let’s get a close-up of that nearby desert, and also a smattering of the nearby cinder-block squatter-hovels. Watch all the peons get down on all fours and worship their goddamned false god for the camera.
There, you see, that’s how easy it is for your superiors to condition you, through plain and simple constant manipulative droning and media screening. That’s how they can get sorry recalcitrant scumbags JUST LIKE YOU to volunteer to get down on your own goddamned knees in front of your own goddamned four-starred kook, and in front of your own goddamned pulpit-yodeling “Reverend,” and worship your own goddamned false god on camera, as they command you to guarantee for them a continuing profit from the spoils of WAR, you goddamned ignorant hypocrite.
Oh, so sorry. I just broke from character. But how fun was that!
Oh, I forgot to mention: “Jesus saves! Mohammed’s a warmongering pedophile!” Ah yes. Back in character.
And please don’t switch the prophets’ names around in the above quotation—-unless of course you’re on the other side of the skirmish. In which case it’s okay, and admirably profitable for ammunition suppliers and gang-raping mercenaries everywhere.
Round and round in circles you go, kissing one filthy demonic ass after another, until your masters finally open up the pen and there you all go, charging out, frothing and steaming, screaming and flaying to your unleashed, manipulated, instinctually lizard-brain-aligned and unrepentantly psychotic hearts’ content, into the glorious fray of an orchestrated battle against your ancestral twin.
Huzzah! For liberty! For freedom! For Big Oil!
Oh yeah, that’s right, you’re actually doing it so those generals, and senators, and “holy” men—-and everybody else waiting in line for their respective payouts—-can continue getting their cushy asses kissed nigh unto perpetuity with monetary increments, and political tenure, and endlessly unresolved dualistic political baiting in the media for the doped-up masses.
And inconsequential peons such as yourself—-regardless of your “contribution to society,” and all that other cliche-ridden PopSpeak—-may be so fortunate as to continue having your own rights softly and quietly diminished with a “necessary for national security” tip of the NSA hat. And you’re all for it! After all, the destruction of inalienable rights for all is clearly your Massa Boss’s one and only sacred cash cow, Big Boy.
Here’s the deal: You allow your masters the deniable plausibility they require to maintain their illusion of propriety as they gut and rape the world at large; and they’ll allow you to continue to subsist as a meagerly compensated covert murderer-on-call who needs occasional ego-strokes and the latest smart-phone dumb-down upgrades. Deal?
Well, sure it’s a deal. What else is a sold-out, knee-bending, hanger-on stooge going to do, but routinely accrue for his masters untold wealth and power in return for a shallow mocking pomposity of worthlessness in life as a sycophantic gang-stalking misfit? Are you not among the “randomly” cast bubble-gum chewers for the camera, whenever you’re called upon to do so, during all of those staged-for-the-media false-flag fusion-center “emergency” blowouts? Of course you are, Big Boy.
Yeah, FUCK the Truth. I mean, to hell with everybody else on the planet, right? First things first, right? You need to finagle your own petty obligations and sucky compulsions —-bottom line —-at the expense of the torture of countless relatively inconsequential targeted individuals who obviously cannot have anywhere near the stultifying impetus of your own voice in the matter. Right?
After all, you’re a big boy, Big Boy! You need to have your compulsions fulfilled even if it means that others have to suffer and die as a result of your pathetic voluntary enslavement to the demonic powers-that-be, just so you can keep yourself in hotdogs. Fuck the Truth. Fuck your Soul.
Gung-ho and Banzai!
Hey, it’s only fair, right? Hotdog recompense? Let’s celebrate together on the next three-day national holiday. Mr. Grim will bring the fireworks. Everybody do the Bleacher Wave!
Come on, Big Boy. It’s simple:
- Don’t ask sensitive questions above your pay grade;
- Look directly into the camera and celebrate on cue when Pavlov’s dinner bell rings; and
- Scamper for the hidey-hole like a good boy whenever Massa Boss says so.