Run Up to the Run Down
Welcome to the diversity of this LGBTQ+ extravaganza paraded forth longingly by way of my two-handy appendage type-setter middle fingered mind recording representational originality inclusive of a space bar thumbing supplementation leaving seven others pointedly awaiting a contemplative crossing, or cracked up respite of tensioned relief. Though before I get too far into this article, perhaps it is time explain the years it took me to hold fast on the two spirit journey into the current realm I so type forth.
It all started at 27 years of age, when a working holiday in Australia put a sudden end to my teetotaling ways. Bourbon, whiskey, Chartreuse, vodka, Slivovitz, Vietnamese wine, Ouzo, Jägermeister….I would drink it all. Besides, to do otherwise at the time, to my hosts, would have been rude. Oh, to be in ones twenties again – I would not want to go back for the life of me. No, just a two spirit man nowadays, If I had to I would drink gin, and if it were absolutely necessary, gin could be palatable in a spirited two shot abundance. Though really, nothing quite beats a good microbrewed beer. Well, spirit of 1516 is more like it. Reinheitsgebot – gesundheit!
As for the LGBTQ+ portion of this chaotic, alphabetically slung mess, ENDPOLITICIANS.COM is about to reproductively insert some needed reflectively torpedoed vigour projected down and outness into the sunken, Satanically venal, threshold double crossing void beamed forth by the mere shadowy presence of the following not to be outslunk LGBTQ+ train wrecks parading the Loathsome, Grotesque, Befuddled, Tainted, Quizzical and any other Additional pluses negatively befitting the leaked mind pooling shallowly garbled and thoroughly bewildered nothingness passing as something of societal value.
That’s right folks, this is the second coming of, Oh Christ! Oh Christ indeed. Shocking revelations, personified in self righteous logorrheic delusional thought spewing not meant to see the light of day, other than the reflective darkness of the psychopathic beacons emanating from the fully tainted minds of evil incarnate.
For those who never read it, and those who need a refresher; last November, ENDPOLITICIANS.COM managed to get hold of one of the diary entries from that decrepit sack of shit and all-round piddly lower cased filth known as queen charles the turd. One of the mistreated and simultaneously blessed Windsor Castle curtain-twitching staff must have torn the page from upchuck’s diary when “he” and Camilla were passed out from excessive baby blood and gin cocktails. Or perhaps it was sent this way by Camilla herself in a fit of jealousy after upchuck claimed “royal” wearership of queen elizabeth II parachute panties and saggy boulder-holders. Either way, what is important is that it arrived for ENDPOLITICIANS.COM to publish. And, so now have other diary entries from some of the Globalist’s of proportional largesse.
LGBTQ+ spillage. Loathsome, Grotesque, Befuddled, Tainted, Quizzical & Additional insolence by way of wasted atomic Globalist abominations. Enjoy!
Peon This Fool
Oh my; Billy GOAT, I certainly am the Greatest Of All Time. Come to think of it, space too! Black holes have nothing on me; warping time, space, and swallowing endless mass crushingly whole, pfft!, how inconsequential and distantly boring. One certainly does not become anything until one is able to warp the minds and subsequent perception of society at large, attaining such power by means of purchasing the media in order to indoctrinate the public into swallowing endless piles of codswallop. Codswallop indeed, I just followed that “royal” playbook; Satan praise my gloriously handsome mate, Old Chucky the Turd of England.
A philanthropist, hah!, Even I cannot think that thought with a straight face, let alone say it out loud and keep my feigned composure. I watch my interviews when I am brimming with narcissistic tells of the psychopathy leaching from my hollow core due to not having the necessary love from that battle-axe hag masquerading as my mom. The only thing my parents had right was the essential need to attempt to stop non Aryan blooded master race Demigods such as myself from reproducing.
Geez, do I ever miss my old buddy Jeffrey Epstein and his high flying Lolita Express! When the need to pork a fifteen year old girl arose, all I had to do was hit speed dial. Good thing I convincingly shattered the falsehood of Jeffrey and I having a long-lasting acquaintanceship that had nothing to do with the fact that he was running an underage honey-trap that had me by my minuscule pollinators. Truth be told, it was worth pitching in to the Kill Jeffrey Epstein Globalist’s GoFundMe campaign. #EpsteinSuicide!
I suppose, anyways, that is the price one pays for hooking up with an amateur. Nobody can beat that centuries old “royal” chomo ring extraordinaire. It is Jimmy Saville wonderful, in sacrificial scapegoat misleadings. Now those “royals” sure know how to do it. Oh, heil King Charles the Turd! Us and our pure Aryan blood.
Wait until the world hears about my next planet saving invention: Lobotomy in a Box. It has already done so well in black market testing in the poorest regions of India and Africa, where we offer $100 USD and a large bowl of rice teeming with blowfly maggots. Who could resist such a deal? All they have to do is take the helmet out of the box, place it on their head, then press the button at the end of the wire; voila temporal lobe perforation in one second flat. Welcome to the Gates’ paradise. The best part will be when my pal Klaus Schwab’s puppeted minions sitting in Globallist political chambers deem the product an essential service and necessity to collect the universal basic income, then buy them by the billions with government money stolen from the tax-milked parasitic subjects of the camouflaged Crown.
Sweet dreams, let me count my ever heaping pile of “philanthropy” as I nod off into genocidal dreams and godly wishes.
I love you Billy GOAT!
One Giant Steppe
Wow, I crushed up those 3 Xanax pills like a champ, blended them with a compliment of amphetamines and commandingly laid out the longest line of accomplishment of my entire life yet, to date. Substance tolerance, like me, is a bitch, so our load grows ever larger. Impressive indeed, the full length of my double-wide clothes dresser, where at the end, on the floor, I premeditatively laid, then pre-trampled a substantive pile of hay and brand new pillow.
Step zero, I have been here for years – end of the line and it is lights out, time to hit the hay! The hay is new, but the pillow placement, old. Surely it must’ve been a sign to cry out for help when I woke up last Sunday evening, after a Friday snorting, covered in copious amounts of my own feces, head to hoof. Goodbye carpet, hello laminate flooring indeed. If only the rest of the world knew how hard it is to be a useless deputy prime minister, a joke of a finance minister, Klaus Schwab double fisting Globalist swine, all-round deviant witch, pathological liar, moral prostitute, Nazi enthusiast, intellectually empty, and so immeasurably self-loathing with barnyard sensibilities. The hell with step one, besides, as Zelensky says, “One giant steppe for BlackRock kind.” And those corrupt UKraine pharmacists hooked me up with a 3 year pill supply on my last “political” trip. I just cannot stop feeding my addictions; drugs, misery, and Globalist sweet nothing ear candy.
I cannot believe that Just-him Truedope and I got called out for bringing a UKrainian Nazi SS soldier from WWII into the Canadian parliament and praising him with a standing ovation, where Zelensky heiled him with a literal Nazi salute. And who dare have enough basic common knowledge to mistakenly think that Nazi’s are to be shunned or scorned; how dare they! Don’t they know who my grandpa was!? Dear grandpapa Michael Chomiak was an ardent UKro-Nazi in WWII, and I am beyond proud to carry on with his genocidal traditions. Last Sunday, after semi recovering from my comatose stupor, the first thing I did was clean enough of my shit off of the Nazi Frau uniform dear grandpapa gave me from his closet full of Third Reich apparel, so that I was able to take it to a dry cleaner. Halloween nears after all.
The vision is oh so clear in my head. World Economic Forum offices across every city of the world, with my statues gracing every single front entry of Canadian headquarters, gloriously lighted up at night with a complimenting Nazi salute hologram feature so that the tax-milked factory workers returning from their 36 hour shift, in the 15 minute or less city, from the insect production facilities will be forced to heil my likeness as their cattle car transportation slows down to pay tribute to my Ten Thousand-Line Reich of snorting and grunting likeness. No heil, no pay! I will be a god in the digital serfdom of Crown dystopia. Klaus keeps telling me so, as I flaccidly beat off he and Larry Fink with my treasonous hands.
I can hardly wait for Moscow to become UKrainian territory.
(PBJ) Peanut Butter & Jake
It rubs the lotion on its skin, it does this whenever it’s told. It rubs its lotion on the skin, or else gets the hose again! Really, I never get tired of looking down upon people, from my elevated exuberance in my subterranean dungeon dwelling of megalomaniac godlike contemplative assuredness. I suppose an entire upbringing of being forced to eat whole wheat bread with crust would make any kid go bad and start collecting human souls, no? It is a good thing that I have all those dolts in the White House, America, and the entirety of humanity fooled with my suave and debonair manner that accompanies my model like GQ handsomeness. Once I catch a woman’s attention, there is no letting it go; shovel skills not withstanding.
It is such a delight and honour to have been recognized as a treasonous deviant of “royal” worthiness and have been initiated into the Oxford school of Globalist training, then consumingly versed in world raping techniques. Cecil Rhodes was one of the greatest Crown brown-nosers of recorded history, and it could not be a greater honour than to be a Rhodes Scholar. My quest to become sycophant of the century keeps me awake at night quite often. Treason may seem easy, but the scheming is endless. It sure is swell to have European aristocracy, and especially British “royals” at my fingertips anytime I so please, and never do they refrain from endlessly telling me how to act as National Security Advisor.
I do not know what I would have done If I had not clenched the deal with my dear wife. And to think, she was just a few minutes away from the old: “Hey look, what’s that,” chloroform routine that has worked so well for me over the years now. Then she hit me, straight in the heart, with the greatest words any woman could ever say to a man: “My favourite sandwich is peanut butter and grape jelly on the whitest damn bread known to trailer park kind, with the crust so far removed that half of the loaf ends up going to waste. Jake, I want to make white bread with no crust love to you for all eternity!” And so we do everyday, except when overseas Globalist pillage duty calls, in which case it is FaceTime face-stuff time. It sure is nice to have someone to feed my pets too while I am gone: “It puts the peanut butter and jelly on its skin, it does this whenever it’s told. It rubs the peanut butter and jelly on the skin, or else gets the crust again!”
Surely history will remember me as one of the greatest geopolitical tacticians to have ever lived. It will be grandiose to fully consolidate the entirety of the USA back into the familial fiddling hands of those graciously handsome and competent Teutonic genocidal “royal” masters. My own personal fiefdom as a reward; I will be the Duke of DC. Man. I bet the White House basement could incorporate at least 67 human storage silos/white crust sustenance depositories.
Oh, how I love myself, Jake ‘White Bread With no Crust’ Sullivan more every damn day! Though not as much as the Crown.
And there you have it folks. I can already sense more ‘Dear Diary’ exclusives in the future.