The topics I write begin as rough drafts several days to sometimes, weeks in advance before I ejaculate them into your thoughts—Ah, yes, MindMaxxing

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

The device I periodically use rarely connects to the internet but has the deceptive backdoor implement dipshits can access without an active wifi connection—fuck you, satellites!

When I write, it usually regards events unfolding or about to become history. I'm not always aware of what I type, though. I don't fully understand how this works but I am aware of over 8 billion minds are processing thoughts, staging reactions, and conspiring for objectives—a massive catacomb of cerebra.

A recent example specifically regarding the following thread:

Solo success, partnership companions, loner survivor—wolves fucking wolves

Ah, yesterday the medical industry drew blood with the ones they vowed never to trust. Tomorrow, will a doctor viciously turn on an hospital adminastrator? Maybe a nurse goes ER? Perhaps, a pharmacist might go wacky-Jacky. Ah, yes, they are paying the price dearly for what they so cleverly...

looksmax.org

I tapped the rough on 12/17. I released it on 12/20. But on 12/18, Gov Dumbo of California attempted and failed tremendously in pushing a pandemic. Minutes afterward, DC laughed so hard, a few of them pissed their pants. He triggered an epidemic of chuckles, sighs, and comments like, "What a dipshit." A few folks pondered if all of them are retarded like him. And one feller mused, "Does the people know he's a homosexual?" Ah, yes, that must be his side-twink.

Anyway, after the governor catered to his special needed group of richtards, I polished the topic and appealed to the collective consciousness realm if I could release it, and thus, snitch like a bitch. There was no reply at all.



Ugh.

Yesterday, they finally responded with, "Do it." And do it, I did. However, I had no idea THIS would happen at that moment in time:

At Least 5 Dead, More Than 200 Injured In German Christmas Market Attack

The violence shocked Germany and the city, bringing its mayor to the verge of tears and marring a festive event that’s part of a centuries-old German tradition.

www.huffpost.com

And who is Doctor Wacky Jacky? A shrink, of course.

I dare you! Ha ha ha, but you got no grit.

Whoever is laughing within that statement, or whatever the fuck that was is not me! As I said, I compose from the collective—like a snoop. I do not find violence whatsoever the solution or appropriate action to tyranny or, 'you-gotta-do-what-you-gotta-do' mentality. Fuck you! No one needs to commit violence to achieve anything. There are always better options. However, when the Vikings ended their tyranny and offered peace, England later stabbed them in their backs. As a pernicious retribution, the first Viking king (Cnut) of England was the poetic justice. Meaning, America must make Trump, king! This will inspire him to stab them all in their fucking backs. Ah, yes, don't just bite the hands that fed you, rip those motherfuckers off like a pit bull!

 

[Gaygymmaxx]

Mogged by @Nazi Germany this is unreadable

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

Mogged by @Nazi Germany this is unreadable

 

[not__cel]

“ejaculate into your thought” hey man not nice jfl

 

[not__cel]

do you speculate it’ll be a war or an outbreak?
It seems like war is more likely now hmmm

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

“ejaculate into your thought” hey man not nice jfl

I prefer to use ejaculate when it comes to writers publishing their garbage.

do you speculate it’ll be a war or an outbreak?
It seems like war is more likely now hmmm

Why not, both? Ah, yes, as a world war brews, Deep State further frightens the sheep with, "The damn Chinese is attacking us with biological weapons! FACE MASKS! STAY INSIDE! MARTIAL LAW! May god help us all."

 

[not__cel]

I prefer to use ejaculate when it comes to writers publishing their garbage.


Why not, both? Ah, yes, as a world war brews, Deep State further frightens the sheep with, "The damn Chinese is attacking us with biological weapons! FACE MASKS! STAY INSIDE! MARTIAL LAW! May god help us all."

If that happens I’ll enjoy streaking with my morning coffee, nothing can stop me. Do you believe in the idea we’re in a simulation?

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

If that happens I’ll enjoy streaking with my morning coffee, nothing can stop me. Do you believe in the idea we’re in a simulation?

Our reality raises too many questions. The glitches or as some call miracles too lead to many more questions.

But the sun is the place to start answering those questions.

 

[Nazi Germany]

The device I periodically use rarely connects to the internet but has the deceptive backdoor implement dipshits can access without an active wifi connection—fuck you, satellites!

When I write, it usually regards events unfolding or about to become history. I'm not always aware of what I type, though. I don't fully understand how this works but I am aware of over 8 billion minds are processing thoughts, staging reactions, and conspiring for objectives—a massive catacomb of cerebra.

A recent example specifically regarding the following thread:

Solo success, partnership companions, loner survivor—wolves fucking wolves

Ah, yesterday the medical industry drew blood with the ones they vowed never to trust. Tomorrow, will a doctor viciously turn on an hospital adminastrator? Maybe a nurse goes ER? Perhaps, a pharmacist might go wacky-Jacky. Ah, yes, they are paying the price dearly for what they so cleverly...

looksmax.org

I tapped the rough on 12/17. I released it on 12/20. But on 12/18, Gov Dumbo of California attempted and failed tremendously in pushing a pandemic. Minutes afterward, DC laughed so hard, a few of them pissed their pants. He triggered an epidemic of chuckles, sighs, and comments like, "What a dipshit." A few folks pondered if all of them are retarded like him. And one feller mused, "Does the people know he's a homosexual?" Ah, yes, that must be his side-twink.

Anyway, after the governor catered to his special needed group of richtards, I polished the topic and appealed to the collective consciousness realm if I could release it, and thus, snitch like a bitch. There was no reply at all.



Ugh.

Yesterday, they finally responded with, "Do it." And do it, I did. However, I had no idea THIS would happen at that moment in time:

At Least 5 Dead, More Than 200 Injured In German Christmas Market Attack

The violence shocked Germany and the city, bringing its mayor to the verge of tears and marring a festive event that’s part of a centuries-old German tradition.

www.huffpost.com

And who is Doctor Wacky Jacky? A shrink, of course.

I dare you! Ha ha ha, but you got no grit.

Whoever is laughing within that statement, or whatever the fuck that was is not me! As I said, I compose from the collective—like a snoop. I do not find violence whatsoever the solution or appropriate action to tyranny or, 'you-gotta-do-what-you-gotta-do' mentality. Fuck you! No one needs to commit violence to achieve anything. There are always better options. However, when the Vikings ended their tyranny and offered peace, England later stabbed them in their backs. As a pernicious retribution, the first Viking king (Cnut) of England was the poetic justice. Meaning, America must make Trump, king! This will inspire him to stab them all in their fucking backs. Ah, yes, don't just bite the hands that fed you, rip those motherfuckers off like a pit bull!

Whispers. Brick dust. Cobblestone echoes. The Commissar's canary. Always yellow. Never sings. Only watches. Through the frosted pane. A thousand eyes. Stitching shadows. Into the damp earth. Potatoes rot. Under floorboards. Secrets fester. Like uncollected debts. The babushka knits. A shroud. For the radio static. It speaks in tongues. Of numbered files. And phantom parades. Iron filings cling. To the damp air. A metallic taste. Of forgotten slogans. The wind howls. Through broken windows. A symphony of surveillance. Each gust a listening post. The tram lines hum. A discordant lullaby. To the sleeping city. Where dreams are rationed. And silence is a weapon. The tailor measures. With trembling hands. For uniforms. That never fit. The pigeons coo. On the crumbling ledge. Spies in feathered disguise. Their droppings mark. The path of dissent. A single flickering bulb. Illuminates the interrogation room. Where truth is a malleable thing. Bent and broken. Like a rusty cog. The samovar steams. A silent witness. To whispered confessions. And the scraping of chairs. Across the cold floor. Footsteps fade. Into the labyrinthine corridors. Of the Ministry of Unseen. Where paperwork multiplies. Like rabbits in the dark. The clock tower chimes. A distorted melody. Counting down. To an unknown event. The river flows. Black and oily. Carrying secrets downstream. To the sea of forgotten names. A child draws. On the dusty wall. A picture of a bird. With too many eyes. The snow falls. Silently covering. The tracks of the disappeared. The moon hangs. Like a sickle in the sky. A reminder of harvests. That never came. The train whistles. In the distance. Carrying souls. To destinations unknown. The key turns. In the rusty lock. Another door opens. Into the endless night. Always watching. Always listening. The canary. Yellow. Silent. Forever.
."First, the socks of Stalin," she shrieked, tossing in a pair of moldy wool socks that reeked of tyranny and foot fungus. "May they be cleansed of the stench of five-year plans and Siberian labor camps!" Next came Lenin's underwear, stained with the ideological drippings of failed revolutions and the phantom pains of a mummified corpse. "May his soiled briefs be purified in the fiery broth of beetroot justice!" Then, a mountain of children's toys, confiscated from dissidents and deemed "ideologically impure." Teddy bears with one eye missing, dolls with their limbs ripped off, a plastic tractor with a broken wheel – all tossed into the churning abyss of borscht. The babushka cackled again, her dentures rattling like skeletal dice. "Wash away the taint of Western decadence! Cleanse the world with the purifying power of borscht!" Suddenly, the washing machine shuddered violently, spewing forth a geyser of crimson foam. From the depths of the borscht emerged a monstrous creature – a half-bear, half-washing machine hybrid, fueled by the souls of the damned and the forgotten lyrics of Soviet propaganda songs. "The cycle is complete!" the babushka shrieked, her face contorted in a mask of ecstatic horror. "The world has been cleansed! Now, let the borscht-fueled nightmare begin!" The creature roared, a sound that shattered windows and curdled milk for miles around. It lumbered forth, leaving a trail of borscht and broken dreams in its wake. The babushka watched, a satisfied smirk on her wrinkled face. Laundry day was over. The reign of borscht had begun.

 

[not__cel]

Whispers. Brick dust. Cobblestone echoes. The Commissar's canary. Always yellow. Never sings. Only watches. Through the frosted pane. A thousand eyes. Stitching shadows. Into the damp earth. Potatoes rot. Under floorboards. Secrets fester. Like uncollected debts. The babushka knits. A shroud. For the radio static. It speaks in tongues. Of numbered files. And phantom parades. Iron filings cling. To the damp air. A metallic taste. Of forgotten slogans. The wind howls. Through broken windows. A symphony of surveillance. Each gust a listening post. The tram lines hum. A discordant lullaby. To the sleeping city. Where dreams are rationed. And silence is a weapon. The tailor measures. With trembling hands. For uniforms. That never fit. The pigeons coo. On the crumbling ledge. Spies in feathered disguise. Their droppings mark. The path of dissent. A single flickering bulb. Illuminates the interrogation room. Where truth is a malleable thing. Bent and broken. Like a rusty cog. The samovar steams. A silent witness. To whispered confessions. And the scraping of chairs. Across the cold floor. Footsteps fade. Into the labyrinthine corridors. Of the Ministry of Unseen. Where paperwork multiplies. Like rabbits in the dark. The clock tower chimes. A distorted melody. Counting down. To an unknown event. The river flows. Black and oily. Carrying secrets downstream. To the sea of forgotten names. A child draws. On the dusty wall. A picture of a bird. With too many eyes. The snow falls. Silently covering. The tracks of the disappeared. The moon hangs. Like a sickle in the sky. A reminder of harvests. That never came. The train whistles. In the distance. Carrying souls. To destinations unknown. The key turns. In the rusty lock. Another door opens. Into the endless night. Always watching. Always listening. The canary. Yellow. Silent. Forever.
."First, the socks of Stalin," she shrieked, tossing in a pair of moldy wool socks that reeked of tyranny and foot fungus. "May they be cleansed of the stench of five-year plans and Siberian labor camps!" Next came Lenin's underwear, stained with the ideological drippings of failed revolutions and the phantom pains of a mummified corpse. "May his soiled briefs be purified in the fiery broth of beetroot justice!" Then, a mountain of children's toys, confiscated from dissidents and deemed "ideologically impure." Teddy bears with one eye missing, dolls with their limbs ripped off, a plastic tractor with a broken wheel – all tossed into the churning abyss of borscht. The babushka cackled again, her dentures rattling like skeletal dice. "Wash away the taint of Western decadence! Cleanse the world with the purifying power of borscht!" Suddenly, the washing machine shuddered violently, spewing forth a geyser of crimson foam. From the depths of the borscht emerged a monstrous creature – a half-bear, half-washing machine hybrid, fueled by the souls of the damned and the forgotten lyrics of Soviet propaganda songs. "The cycle is complete!" the babushka shrieked, her face contorted in a mask of ecstatic horror. "The world has been cleansed! Now, let the borscht-fueled nightmare begin!" The creature roared, a sound that shattered windows and curdled milk for miles around. It lumbered forth, leaving a trail of borscht and broken dreams in its wake. The babushka watched, a satisfied smirk on her wrinkled face. Laundry day was over. The reign of borscht had begun.

?

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

Whispers. Brick dust. Cobblestone echoes. The Commissar's canary. Always yellow. Never sings. Only watches. Through the frosted pane. A thousand eyes. Stitching shadows. Into the damp earth. Potatoes rot. Under floorboards. Secrets fester. Like uncollected debts. The babushka knits. A shroud. For the radio static. It speaks in tongues. Of numbered files. And phantom parades. Iron filings cling. To the damp air. A metallic taste. Of forgotten slogans. The wind howls. Through broken windows. A symphony of surveillance. Each gust a listening post. The tram lines hum. A discordant lullaby. To the sleeping city. Where dreams are rationed. And silence is a weapon. The tailor measures. With trembling hands. For uniforms. That never fit. The pigeons coo. On the crumbling ledge. Spies in feathered disguise. Their droppings mark. The path of dissent. A single flickering bulb. Illuminates the interrogation room. Where truth is a malleable thing. Bent and broken. Like a rusty cog. The samovar steams. A silent witness. To whispered confessions. And the scraping of chairs. Across the cold floor. Footsteps fade. Into the labyrinthine corridors. Of the Ministry of Unseen. Where paperwork multiplies. Like rabbits in the dark. The clock tower chimes. A distorted melody. Counting down. To an unknown event. The river flows. Black and oily. Carrying secrets downstream. To the sea of forgotten names. A child draws. On the dusty wall. A picture of a bird. With too many eyes. The snow falls. Silently covering. The tracks of the disappeared. The moon hangs. Like a sickle in the sky. A reminder of harvests. That never came. The train whistles. In the distance. Carrying souls. To destinations unknown. The key turns. In the rusty lock. Another door opens. Into the endless night. Always watching. Always listening. The canary. Yellow. Silent. Forever.
."First, the socks of Stalin," she shrieked, tossing in a pair of moldy wool socks that reeked of tyranny and foot fungus. "May they be cleansed of the stench of five-year plans and Siberian labor camps!" Next came Lenin's underwear, stained with the ideological drippings of failed revolutions and the phantom pains of a mummified corpse. "May his soiled briefs be purified in the fiery broth of beetroot justice!" Then, a mountain of children's toys, confiscated from dissidents and deemed "ideologically impure." Teddy bears with one eye missing, dolls with their limbs ripped off, a plastic tractor with a broken wheel – all tossed into the churning abyss of borscht. The babushka cackled again, her dentures rattling like skeletal dice. "Wash away the taint of Western decadence! Cleanse the world with the purifying power of borscht!" Suddenly, the washing machine shuddered violently, spewing forth a geyser of crimson foam. From the depths of the borscht emerged a monstrous creature – a half-bear, half-washing machine hybrid, fueled by the souls of the damned and the forgotten lyrics of Soviet propaganda songs. "The cycle is complete!" the babushka shrieked, her face contorted in a mask of ecstatic horror. "The world has been cleansed! Now, let the borscht-fueled nightmare begin!" The creature roared, a sound that shattered windows and curdled milk for miles around. It lumbered forth, leaving a trail of borscht and broken dreams in its wake. The babushka watched, a satisfied smirk on her wrinkled face. Laundry day was over. The reign of borscht had begun.

The fuck would I read anything that begins with, "Whispers. Brick dust. Cobblestone echoes. The Commissar's canary. Always yellow. Never sings. Only watches."