It Cannot be Unsaid, Nor Should it

How does the old saying go?: If you loathe something, let it fly, and if it comes back to bite you, so fucking be it. Sounds about right to me, though tweak it a bit this way or that way for your liking. Or chances are, greatly to your disliking, atmosphere dependent of course. Let it fly, yes, let it fly.

And such is why this article is dedicated to my readers. Correction. And such is why this article is dedicated to my readers who so read my material before it is published. Big difference between the two readerships. Well, actually, mammoth gigantism teetering upon a fine line of decency or defunctness. I mean sure, perhaps there should be a seat sniffer or three keeping check, assuring that my exploitation is kept up to par upon the septuple bogey it has become, but it is safe to state that perhaps there are too many uninvited computer aces peering down the rabid hole.

Go on give yourselves a big ol’ pat on the back, or perhaps a case of the clap for entering such a hideously violated portal. Yup, congratulations, you grotesque, respect lacking troglodytes. There you are, architects of a supposed brave new world, while all the while committing the electronic equivalent of stealing candy from a baby. Bravo. Though of course, a candied up baby at least has the opportunity to attempt to defend its once pride and joy, not to mention the ability to finger and accost said violation.

It must come with great pleasure to disrespect me so, throwing such cold, vile and disgusting faeces directly into my face and think that such is is an honourable endearment done to pay homage or the like. Heaven forbid, not having the composure or patience to have to wait the day or two for my worthless drivel to be legitimately offered for consumption. Christ, I mean it is not like nowadays, if ever, anything that is ever garbled from such the wasted mind of needed shuttering is worthy of eavesdropping upon is it? It is such predation that drove me completely away from the internet to begin with after all, leaving any relevance to a “current event” a long gone thing of time’s infinite shredding. Is one really supposed take pleasure in seeing his work front-run on another’s website, or while travelling in general public?

Imagine having all of that power and might and feeling the sufficient need to let my universe know, time after time, with such blatant braggadocio, emanating from whichever geographical location, be it a hulking federation, supposed burgeoning saviour nation, or just as insulting homegrown destination that such will run roughshod over a trifling minuscule wisp of insignificant carbuncle of indefensible lancing, being helpless for any living voice, let alone retributive possibility. How many times must one tell all to, “Fuck every single last one of you” into his remotely controlled, by you, microphone upon the computer of which peoples other than me has master control at their sickly whim? Certainly such a number is lost by me. As I said, a once pride and joy, ground to exploited dust and disinterest upon the millstones of such, which could be none other than mighty godliness. ENDPOLITICIANS.COM kept alive, strictly knowing that there are actually true fans of what Yours Alphabet Scrambler Truly is, on occasion able to create if he sets his mind to accomplish something. But now, dread, disgust and mistrust lurk in anticipation of what was once looked forward to.

My mission and duty to the cause of good, in whatever transmogrified concoction it turns out to shape, has been fulfilled, my exploitation served dutifully and possibly above and beyond what may have been called for, yet the contagious leper rots on, in seclusion on his private island of ridicule and shunning, gawked at, mercilessly stalked in real world and cyberspace alike for years on end, not giving a fuck what the future holds, as he is beyond caring, but would surely like to know what the past years of his life has accomplished for good in the sanitization of ignorance that serves evil, and then subsequently be left the fuck alone. Though having, unfortunately, come to realize that such will never be the case, there seems to be but one exit, stalked to the end, by whichever. So it goes, deafeningly silent, the biggest mistake of one’s life? Could very well be.

A mathematical equation for exploitation prolongation seems to be the order of the day. Yup, all of those unpolished brass bigwigs with little twigs have been hypnotized and stupefied by that of mathematical simplicity. But hey, what is one supposed to expect when the cream of the crop, in their respective placements (a double or triple entendre), has to do with exactly how much cream they could extract from their superior’s superior abilities themselves. No, Yours Punctuation Butcher Truly is in no way impressed, that his exploitation is being unendingly prolonged so as to stroke the insatiable ego of a foreigner weasling his way in so as to bag the grass that was so patiently cut by the gardening crew. Perhaps the integrity of the organization was subsequently lowered? My roots did not have to be transplanted so.

So, Yours Braincase Swirled Truly types on realizing that anybody who thinks they have anything to take away from me, inclusive of my life, or anything to give me other than the unvarnished truth upon my case, void of lie via omission, no matter the gravity of all past situations had better think again. No matter how long it is kept from me the questions will not dissipate.

And going on, will somebody please tell Kerr and his raging squad of pansies (and whoever else) that I am owed, at bare minimum, at least forty hours of their personal, building penetrating, x-ray vision jerk-off footage. I do not want to watch the footage myself, but am thinking about opening a dark-web pop-up betting website for insidious perverts to bet on said masturbation footage. Trust me, I am going easy on you with the forty hours, because something tells me that my private(?) library is well into the hundreds of hours, and counting of course. And could you please send a subscription of Hustler and Club magazines to my address, seen as all you fucks were in on me cutting ties to the internet. Convenience stores no longer sell said magazines, and my benign internet allotment time does not allow me to go online and subscribe for my pleasure.

Where, in closing I would just like to say to my not so special defunct readership, “Stay the fuck out of my house!!!” Except for, of course, those one to three seat sniffers necessary to keep my exploitation up and running, unless any of you want to step up and begin to act like the decent people that I am almost sure you could become, in which case, knock on my fucking door and I will let any of you fucks in (no, not so you can watch me whack-off in person), but so we can have an honest conversation and you can ease my mind with what is, again, unendingly overdue. Though, in reality, perhaps instead of those one to three seat sniffers, why do you not just give me my very own safe portal, where my masterminded by y’all exploitation could be put to rest as it so deserves. Lord knows, it is possible. And that, “Stay the fuck out of my house!” exclamation is directed to the second coming of Caesar too. My house, property line, nor  accompanying cyberspace is in no fucking way the Rubicon. So mind your own fucking business and leave me the fuck alone. All of you.

That being said, I am pretty sure that I owe at least twenty seven acts of civil disobedience to our current society, so hurry the fuck up and roll the goddamn new one out already. Or better yet, give me the answers to my lost years. Trust me, you are not going to like my non-violent protests.

Oh, and with your mind numbing stimuli that I am endlessly presented with, which really does not tell me anything other than you do exist, surely it is nice that all you bigwigs with little twigs are constantly thinking about me, but it tires me so, so I will try some reverse psychology on you: send me more, send me more, but please do not subscribe me to adult magazines.

PS: all of that “Stay the fuck out of my house!” exclamation is in no way meant to be comedic. Seriously, “Stay the fuck out of my house!” cyberspace inclusive. All of you fucking fucks.

And, oh, again. All of you frontliners out there like me, you are awesome (except for the ones who watch me whack-off).

That’s right, bigwigs with little twigs!