Little Twigs, Little Twigs, Let Me In……….

What an embarrassment! Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Well, surely some of you do, once that point has been reached, reached out to touch you that is. As for those who don’t know, trust me, you are more than likely going to find out, and when you do, it is best to make light of such a dark situation. In the shadow of a full moon; as is said, “Where the sun don’t shine.” Such gravity.

Ass-doctors. It’s a thing! What an embarrassment! Indeed. Not much eye contact going on in that waiting room. Nor gerbil jokes either. Nope. One wonders how it is that such doctors got into their specialties? Perhaps life just had a way of fingering them out? That and a whopping paycheque would be my guess. They come in all shapes and sizes you know. Well, mostly sizes. Those darn fingers. Yeah, yeah, I did my time. Christ, I would have done anything to get out of that waiting room. Yup, even that! That first timers club. It is best to make light of such a dark situation, so I asked him; yes him, I was not even lucky enough to get a her, although maybe he identified as a her, I never asked, but I did ask him/her afterwards, “If you use another finger, does that count as a second opinion?” I could see my ass-doctor’s smile beam right through his dystopian COVID mask covering. Yeah, it is best to make light of such a dark situation.

Yes, COVID mask. They were mandatory. No mask – no how do you do? Hey, a COVID resistor like Yours Fingertip Taker Truly will put on a COVID mask for one reason and one reason only! Let’s just say I found that reason. So I go on. Okay, okay, almost a mask. A blue bandana anyways. It covered my genocidal mouth and nostrils to zero affect, just like any other Globalist face covering. That first timers club, it’s all downhill from there. Alright, maybe it is still always upwind from there. It is best to make light of such a dark situation. That gravity never goes away.

Anyways, A follow up visit was needed quite a bit after the COVID dystopian atmosphere had pretty much leached from the overly Globalist saturated minds society over. Oh man, to my surprise a face covering was still needed in order to see the doctor. Good thing Yours Fingertip Taker Truly had pocketed his blue bandana in anticipation of such an elevated geographical location situation. So I folded that bandana into a triangle, tied it bank-robber style around my head and face, then proceeded up to the reception desk where the two receptionists were sitting, and as calmly and cooly as I could, I looked them right in the eyes as I said, “This is not a hold up, but I am pretty sure that the doctor is going to turn it into a stick up!” Trust me, in the land of the ass-doctor such a joke is the pointer finger of pointer fingers, and the receptionists reaction enveloped in all out surrounding cheer.

So yes, it is only fitting that ENDPOLITICIANS.COM transitions from one’s asshole straight into all-out pieces of shit. Hey, you asked for it, without specifically asking for it. Remember, Yours Deviated Septum Truly is but a contagious leper railroaded onto a distant sinking isle of which absolutely zero unpolished brass bigwig with little twig words break such a feeble barrier, but when Yours Alphabet Mangler Truly tries to run his alphabetical vehicle into the ground, the begging by bigwig with little twig underling proxies fill the atmosphere. Oh how they fill the atmosphere. Yup, you peoples always want more. More, more, more, yet no words in return. Hmm, kinds of seems unfair to me. Suppose when it is all over there will be a million plus unadulterated and unvarnished words of truth, void of lie via omission awaiting Yours Punctuation Butcher Truly. Yeah, that will be the day. Probably the day I die.

Moving on. Years ago I came up with a psychological test. Don’t worry, you would probably all fail. Yup, every last one of you. But the good part is that I cannot actually give you the test, I can only explain how said test works, so then every one of you can brag about how you already knew about the test, and in no way were synaptically infiltrated by a permeated Globalist infection of which one was not consciously aware, let alone think how something so simple never even entered into the sitting round table of world domination power. Iron Maiden titled an album and wrote a song of the same name which may be very well applicable to such a syndrome: Powerslave.

Actually, I could give you all the test, but the fact that nobody will sit down and have a single word with me means that administering the short and simple test on a one on one basis with the echelons of mighty brave new world building power seems about as good of odds as that of Yours Powerslave Infiltrated Test Creator Truly picking a slimy booger from my hair trimmed nostril, flicking it, having said booger fly halfway round the world and land on my intended target of that European bitch King Charles the Turd during a public appearance, of which his special security detail will take such a booger as being the usual monarchial semen glob, unwittingly leaving his official “royal” second hand semen swallower forced to unleash his two-foot long reptilian tongue in a public location to finally, like in a David Attenborough narrated nature documentary have such a mystifying natural “royal” act be broadcast to the world for the first time, with slow motion capture so the world could bare witness to what a privileged few have known for going on too long. That bloke King Chuck loves the Cock and its creamy filling! It’s a “royal” thing. Down the hatch!

That’s right, above I said ENDPOLITICIANS.COM is transitioning from one’s asshole to all out pieces of shit…then something about those unpolished brass bigwigs with little twigs all in the same paragraph. Whoa, whoa, hold your hissy fit hoarse cock swallowing maws! Are you insinuating that I was insinuating that you bigwigs with little twigs were the all out pieces of shit? What a guilty conscience you have, and perhaps an anomalous mirror reflection to match. Don’t worry, the all out pieces of shit have yet to be factored into my Powerslave Syndrome outing technique, but hey, if you bigwigs with little twigs want to self-identify as all out pieces of shit, it is okay in my books.

I bet the biggest wig with the littlest twig would be outed with my Powerslave Syndrome diagnostic test. I also did just bet a MacKenzie King, at fifteen to one odds that the Vancouver Canucks would win the Stanley Cup this year. That’s right, seven Robert Borden’s and a MacKenzie King payoff if the Nucks pull it off. Or is it seven displays of medical innovation and one CCGS Amundsen Research Icebreaker? Well, that depends on how big of a Powerslave Syndrome suffering sleepwalker one ends up being. There are three degrees of Powerslave Syndrome diagnosis you know. Yessir, a third degree Powerslave Syndrome sufferer would just be raking in seven hundred’s and a fifty, after the enumerating finger tally shuffle.

How far down the rabbit hole have you delved? Or has the still closeted mind truly just stumbled and been lost within a mole hole of deception? Did you swallow the red pill or the blue pill, or have you just been swallowing endless suppositories and loving the taste? I bet the anticipation is killing you, like a first time ass-doctor waiting room visit. What will come to light, how bad does one suffer, what will be the diagnosis? Gripped with fear, how cold will be the fingering? Third degree Powerslave and first rate captive? Can I draw this out any longer before unveiling the secret to my Powerslave Infiltrated Test Creator success, or shall Yours Booger Flinger Truly, as my temple friend Steve-O says, get on with it, by and large, by admitting, one cannot beat-off a dead horse?

It was a behavioural recognition played out again and again before my eyes. A veritable rerun, of their shattered will. A Powerslave display engrained so deep it was known not to exist. Decades in the observatory making, a payday thing. Those hideously beady little eyes, staring at me unconvincingly. Metaphorically, right on par with a strangers finger up one’s backside – a violation, though strictly no benefit to myself of course, those hideously beady eyes that is. Down for the count they were. Those currency bills and the bank tellers laying them out before me in a culturally indoctrinated manner, face up, Canadian Globalist portraits assaulting my senses.

Over the years and up to this day, Yours Under The Mattress Truly has enjoyed cashing a good portion of his paycheque so as to afford some of the limited privacy this ever heightening seat-sniffing world has transmogrified into. And yes, a lot of bank tellers seem to go out of their way to count the currency with the Globalist Powerslave masters staring up at me, as if they were mocking me, rubbing it in my goddamn face as that cold, cold, metaphorical finger went up my backside in violative nature. So naturally, I had to fight the power. But how, you may ask? Such a good question, with a simple answer.

Whenever presented with a wad of cash the first thing I do if not already done is to get all of the bills facing in the same direction on the same side and always with the portraits faced down and the scene on the other side looking back at me. Then after such is complete, the money is placed in my wallet so that when I reach in and take it out, the face is always down and the scene always faces up. Now that is dedication! Dedication to deprogram oneself from falling to one’s culturally indoctrinated knees and being indifferent to a plethora of Globalist Fuck-Faces thinking it is okay to permeate my senses with their filth. Without question, it is okay to temporarily flip the bills over and stare into those hideously beady eyes as one draws the necessitative swastika or Hitler moustache on that Hell dwelling, Lucifer fellating troglodyte bitch Queen Elizabeth the Second.

Right, wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of Powerslave Syndrome dispensing test or something? Quite simple really. And a great many of you obedient, cold fingertip loving, articulated at the waist tapestry weaves would have undoubtedly failed it If I was not to have divulged the answer. Quite simple really, that Powerslave Syndrome delineating test: when one pays for something in cash where multiple bills are needed, arrange the bills with the non-portrait side facing up and hand the stack to the cashier or whoever is accepting the money, and if they turn the stack over to count it so those horrendously beady little eyes are staring back at them, you know damn-well that you are in the presence of a Powerslave.

Question is, how many Powerslaves have been privy in creating this supposedly coming brave new world? And can a conglomerative  Powerslave braintrust create an environment other than a camouflaged Powerslave environment for the masses to dwell? History seems to dictate no. But hey, maybe this time will be different? Well, maybe if enough enlightenment was injected into the substrate.

You know, that enlightenment is one hell of a rare universal commodity. It always has been. Priceless really.

Oh right, I almost forgot. Everyone passed the Powerslave Syndrome Test with flying colours, right?

So don’t forget, when counting those Revolutionary Spoils – face down, ass up, then wait for that cold, cold, non-diagnostic fingertip.

Ah, who am I kidding, y’all are probably dedicated Interac & digital Powerslaves of a different sort. The Uber Powerslave – forget about the cold, cold, fingertip, bring on the icy, icy double fisting!

And to you Yankee Powerslaves, do not think that a Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, Franklin or any other are some sort of exception to the Powerslave Syndrome diagnostic test.

After all, it is the philosophy and not the philosopher is it not?