Category: Boblimptock

I CAN TOSS YOU THROUGH TIME – to the Spring of 1993.

THERE YOU’D SEE a BUILDING with fire-lightning screams and the seams busting open. RED FLANNEL DRESSES and messes on the floor, as ATF FUCK-STRANGLERS joke about “long shots” and “did you see that kid’s head explode when I hit him”, SNIPER TROOP, scooping poop from their own diseased hearts, acting as FLAMING CHEEK GOBLINS, taking turns shoving potatoes up each other’s butts. THERE you could have a FORTRESS with walls stronger than the longest 4 steak sandwich. And YEARNING you will find that your color is RED and YELLOW and BLACK. What color is your compound?

YOU DUG A HOLE in the NATIONAL FOREST, like a VIETCONG CUB SCOUT. You didn’t POUT when your wife left you for your uncle-brother, and your MOTHER’S TEETH got replaced with STEEL, because her diabetes was quite bad and nothing would heal. So you tossed her arms and legs and morning trophies onto the PYRE and LIT THAT FIRE and ghost’ed away to the WOODS. YOUR GREEN MEANIE SCARS show THROUGH and that HOT GOO for Cyndi Lou sticks quite firm as dried mistakes on a blue dress. YOUR COMPOUND is GREEN, and unseen – but the old ones see you, and master your fate.

YOUR COMPOUND is your PARACHUTE and your PARACHUTE is a golden shower. YOUR POWER is derived from living a GUSTO EXISTENCE, both hidden and seen as it pleases you, with anchored triple-strand concertina wire protecting the gardens of your soul.

THESE are the VIBRATIONS of your COMPOUND SELF:

1 – OBSTACLES

YOUR COMPOUND must be EMBITTERED with angry LEGO spirits. You wake up, it’s early, the lights are OFF, and some fucking smartass leaves a LEGO on the ground, and without a SOUND your naked old foot, covered in fungal infections, takes a STEP, you leapt, cuz the pain is so severe and you screamed “FUCK” so loud everyone could hear.

Holes are great, and easy to deploy. Ensure you keep a map of all these holes somewhere tucked deep in your reptile mind. Dig trenches and holes, plant punji sticks at the bottom of deadfalls, pee on the sticks and poop on them, such that your enemy can die as the KOMODO hunts.

You can chop down trees and crosshatch them as you fell them. This makes it hard for the weak minded and the frail. In a rats nest of fallen timber, you can hide the LIMBER SPARK of claymore mines and other such IEDs of the spirit. As they take turns hacking away, you can trigger that explosive and watch them FLY AS HIGH AS EAGLES, and it will look so funny from 500 meters away.

A bridge is KEY TERRAIN, a blown-out or washed-out bridge is a problem.

If you have no need for that bridge, get rid of it, it will not serve you or your cloven wives.

A landslide is a great way to block a passage, and sometimes it’s GREAT to trigger this annoyance with an explosive, burying the first ranks in mud and rock.

Don’t be afraid to use cars to block roads, don’t be afraid to permanently disable the vehicles.

A sunken boat can block an inlet, and makeshift dragon’s teeth below the waves can send many a butt-pirate to their graves.

WHILE SUPPLIES LAST, stock up on CONCERTINA WIRE and BARBED WIRE; know the difference, understand HOW to deploy both. If you live on the 8th floor of some hooker paradise, and you’ve got the SCOOBY SNACKS and CAT LITTER but you want to keep out the FLOW-JOES? – then build a SKEIN of concertina wire and barbed wire in the stairwell – the elevators no longer work.

Construction RIP RAP that will be trucked away can be yours: go to some site and make an offer. Those twisted chunks of concrete and rebar are just the fucking LEGO you’re looking for.

2 – OVERWATCH

YOU CAN’T LIVE if you DON’T SEE.

Even the blind can see, but they do so with their EARS. WHEN picking a compound location, you really want it to be the case that: a) YOU can see people coming and b) THEY can’t see you at all. But it’s good to hear too, ideally your location allows you the ability to HEAR something long before it arrives. These are ideals cartoon soldier.

If you have a community, then you need a security plan; part of that plan is the deployment of forward observers. These folks man outposts on the edge of your NEW WORLD, after the collapse, after the TRUMP WASHING wears off. These observers will have a means to communicate with your HQ, ideally field phones, but simple handheld radios can work.

If you have money, you can buy remote solar powered sensors and cameras – but don’t go too high-tech. Sometimes the BEST signal is cans on a string, and that’s some low tech garbage any hooker can do.

OVERWATCH and CONCEALMENT are at odds, honestly …

The ideal location in terms of camouflage can be the WORST location to observe your enemy from. But, if you can work in teams and have a community, then this problem becomes workable and you CAN have your COMPOUND and see the enemy too.

3 – KEY TERRAIN

THESE LISTS ARE NOT PERFECT …

For you, the GOMBO-FREAK:

• Good land for farming
• Access points for drinkable water
• Main routes of travel (also see: avenues of approach)
• High points for long distance observation
• Fishing/Hunting Grounds
• Nearby gas/electric generation you can take over and run
• Nearby communications/WWW hubs you can take over and run
• Abandoned logistical facilities that contain long-term shelf safe food
• Harbors and inlets
• Small rural airports
• Large open areas to facilitate air-assault and airborne ops (your enemy’s might use, meaning: FEDs)
• Nearby cell phone or mobile towers you can take control of

FOR THE FEDs:

• Nuclear Power Plants
• Natural Gas Electric Plants
• Chemical Plants / Oil Refining
• WWW Hubs (you can make a map)
• Cell Phone Towers and their locations
• Military Bases
• Interstate Highways and bridges/tunnels
• Railroad lines, bridges, tunnels
• Container Offloading Facilities / Ports
• Large rivers
• Underground CIA child abuse dungeons
• Mar a Lago
• Airports
• Harbors
• Nuclear weapons sites
• Black Sites
• Porn Hub Content Servers
• Jew Tunnels

The KEY MESSAGE for KEY TERRAIN: key terrain is any land or fixed structure that the LOSS of IT would cause YOU great harm or give your enemy an advantage.

4 – AVENUES OF APPROACH

An avenue of approach is the land, sea or air based path of approach that is easiest for your ENEMY or anyone headed your direction.

A stream or river or creek can be an avenue of approach: it isn’t rapid, and not for heavy machinery or vehicles, but it provides a natural COVER and the noise of the water can mask the sound of troops moving.

Obviously: some shitty state highway or interstate or county road is an avenue of approach. However, most of these shitty constructions will turn to dust in about 5 years; that’s about how well we build roads, these days. But still, the dirty muddy dusty path that used to be I-5 will be useful for those strange travelers from beyond.

A railroad track path tends to follow the IDEAL slope path, and often has access roads build nearby. Many kinds of military vehicles, tracked armored type vehicles, can use the path created by the railroad tracks as a makeshift road as well. YOUR ENEMY might use trains to move troops and logistical materials, so this is WHY a railroad track is key terrain and WHY sometimes the best idea is to dismantle the tracks completely, blow the bridges.

AIRCRAFT, especially military aircraft, have IDEAL avenues of approach. Helicopters can take advantage of river valleys and canyons, also using the echo effects and ambient noise to mask and misdirect their enemies. Close support aircraft like the A-10 are designed to endure HIGH TURBULENE low altitude flying. There’s not a lot you can do with FUDD TECH against CAS aircraft, but you can string a canyon with steel cable and NOT include the flashing red light – cuz that was BOBLIMPTOCK, and it’s GRINKEN TIME NOW BRAH!

5 – COVER

Logs and mud can be deployed in such a way that they provide both COVER and concealment. But the priority about COVER is protection against: military caliber rifles, crew served weapons, light and heavy machine guns, indirect fires and other explosives. A simple log-house bunker, using rock, sand, dirt, mud, as the “mortar” to fill in the gaps between logs. If your compound color is GREEN, this is a great way to build the split level cabin/underground dwelling space.

COVER is NOT concealment, cover is what stops a bullet or a fragment from a nearby exploding artillery or mortar round.

COVER YOU CAN LIKELY DEPLOY won’t protect against bunker busting bombs or any average attack by the defense forces of Israel (they be bombing at 10,000 tons of TNT per square mile these days).

6 – CONCEALMENT

ARE YOU SPIDER MAN?

Are you invisible?

WHEN YOU IMAGINE THE COLOR OF YOUR COMPOUND do you think CRYSTAL PEPSI?

To be hidden is to be unknown, occult.

To be hidden is to be like night, like the wind, like gravy chariots running down the ice mountain, running from wolves.

To be hidden is to be ignored, and this is CRITICAL.

What if I told you the color of your COMPOUND is brown and green and gray? What if you and your BITCH CLAN of the SEATTLE JUNGLE built a portable set-up from cardboard and tape and garbage bags and parachute cord and love? What if you built a set up that could be packed on the back, and folded out FAST, so that WHEREVER the fuckers of SLEEGIT VILLE SEND YOU, you can move on out quickly and have your new home set up FASTER than BRISKETS. But it has to look bad – your shambles has to look like it’s covered in vomit and fecal matter and dried blood.

THE BEST DISGUISE is THEIR apathy.

IF YOUR COLOR IS “HIDDEN”, then you can avoid those harmful interactions when the homeowner starts going all “Bill Pasquale” because they’ve had the FOR SALE sign UP for 4 months, and no one is stopping by, and you’ve dropped the price 7 times.

CONCEALMENT is NOT cover: so get some ballistic blankets you can toss over your moving hovel, to save you the trouble of burying your street-whore girlfriend.

CONCLUSION:

YOUR WITCH STRENGTH is in KNOWING that there’s a place for you, and your kin, when Grinken Time begins.

NO IDEAL compound exists, ask Hitler …

You can bury yourself 900 feet below the surface of the earth, and drink whiskey and watch old movies. You can have a compact nuclear power source, water and food for 3,000 years. You can make mashed potatoes and gravy and eat this in your dirty underwear while dreaming about Sydney Sweeney – no matter tired old barn cat, you gotta scat and find your comfort valley up in the woods.

If you are driving through UTAH and see a sign that says: “THESE ARE YOUR PUBLIC LANDS”. THEN STOP ON BY and set up your compound on YOUR public lands. Build ramparts and dig wells, take a STAB at drying sheds for VENISON and farming local trout. Your CARROT TOP lovers will SPILL THE CREAM when your stony temple comes into scene.

YOU NEED YOUR HOME.

They want you to burn.

G.M.F.Y.I.L.Y.

Link: https://planetarystatusreport.com/pdf/20161010_dfgtc.pdf

We’re NOT SCIENTOLOGY …

We’re a GROOVEMENT, we INVENTED the FIVE TRILLION YEAR HOA and the JOHN LURCH SOCIETY, D.F.G.T.C., fuck you pay me type love pyramids …

A HUGE GROOVEMENT of HIGH POWER FOR-PROFIT TAX SCHEMES and triple secret vampire-tontine default swaps … our financial backers include Tootle’s Butt Cream and Old Maverick .357 magnum rounds. But it goes deeper, to the ancient deep time of those ages so far back that remembrance of yesterday is an afterthought in the shadow of eternity … yeah.

A danarchist approaches life with a “okay fuck it” kind of attitude. We are not interested in the bland arts and have no desire to cook your food. If we happen to make you breakfast, you will complain, probably get food poisoning, and this is not in alignment with GRINKEN STYLE joy-life KOOLAID energy.

DANARCHISTS NEGATE GANDALF-STYLE INTERRUPTIONS. We equate friendliness with edge-tingling maneuvers (the SOVIETS and NAZIS invading POLAND STYLE SHIT). If some mother fucker shows up at your shed and says “ZED, follow me to get the RINGS!”, grab your .454 CASULL and remind that bearded FUCK that life is hard and the SHIRE is worse. Some fucking princess send you a THREAT CHAIN email? – “help me ZED you’re my only hope”, that kind of sideways bullshit? How many men do you think she FUCKED before she found you? Don’t be a schmuck, tell that whore to beat bricks.

YOU WILL engage with LIFE-POWER on a need basis. Water pooling in the cavern spirit parts of your bowels will release METH BASKET gift cards and holiday spirit spiced coffee scents. DO NOT RELENT when the snow-maiden comes with a dead hare, and the BEAR pygmies begin a great journey to the STRIPPER VILLAGES of Yellowknife and Campbell Lake.

Here are the 5 core elements:

1 – GRINKEN WAVES

Have you ever been to the beach and felt the power of pure wave energy?

A salty wind crystal caress, touching your heart-ravens and messing with inner ear balance and strange feelings of loss. YOU CAN make peace with the self-disconnect, but only in wrestling with the longing sense of breathtaking soul grieving. A foul portent from seagull wanderers provides a witness to what is to come. Don’t have fun pretending that there is an escape, but make your peace with the salty wind and grow.

A DANARCHIST balances the peppermint fantasies. He endures the smoky and broken cowboy hangouts and transcends ordinary meat and sausages. He does not eat FISH or LAMB or SHRIMP, and as pimps go he limps and lurches so that others can sense his pipe-shivers.

THE GRINKEN WAVE paves the way and your surfboard awaits. GREET CHAOS with a FIRECRACKER SMILE and go that extra mile to find pastry-wax for your girlfriends birthday. TINY MARKS are left on your HOLE-SOUL, and the frivolous wanting of yesteryear gives way to multi-level orgasmic love-sex romance.

2 – HARLOT GRAPPLING

YOUR LIBERTY PRIDE is INSIDE the WOAH-MAN of your future. Don’t SUTURE THE WOUND WENCH, but mend the wings of dreams no longer respected. Your PALM ENERGY slides into her cape and the NIP SLIP PANTRY THIEF turns over a new leaf and leaves your grimy October maple tree concerns with Aunt Jiminy and the slime-crawlers from two towns over.

HER NEED BEAM is to have a RING on her finger, YOUR GRINKEN MAN FLAVOR PACK comes from an understanding of colonoscopies and Penicillin panty parties. THE HARLOT LURKS, she don’t LURCH. You can CATCH THE GAIT of some BITCH losing faith in her TIGER-SPIRIT and she LURKS near the liquor store and drinks Mickey’s with “Peaches” and Joe. She’ll never go home again, and you’ll be stuck raising her kid, “Daisy”, and for decades you will barely get by as the SKY HAWK SHAMAN MOCKS YOU.

YOUR ESCAPE is to GRAB that GAPE and make it pay for the words she’d never say.

BUY CHEAP .22LR at the WALMART this week, the HARLOTS are spreading to Tulsa.

3 – YO DUDE

YOU DUDE …

You’ve been rude to your homeroom cadre. Your sister-bits has been upset about the broken NINTENDO and DAD wants you go move out and get a job.

YO, PAL …

I was here when the time-reaper cast your mom into the boiling sea and there was nothing but white muck and pleasure grease and some kind of JOURNEY playing on the radio. Your SADIE MADRE would SAY: “take that garbage to the cub”. But momma, she didn’t want you to drop out and sell crack or smack, momma saw something HUGE’R inside – a kind of demon ORANGE PRIDE.

YOU FRIEND – it’s the END of Mario’s Pizza and Jimmy Stewart soup. The GRAY POOP from grandad’s venison stew was left as a warning to those poor saps stuck in flounder-pounder-grounder morass and your ASS is going to HELL because the bell has rung, and the dung piles high, making your passage to a yellow sky.

4 – SPACE TETHERING

EVERYONE IS CONNECTED to a TETHER.

Every person connects to all other persons and stars and moons with tethers.

Moons and planets and asteroids are tethered to each other, through lines of force: weak/strong nuclear, electromagnetic, gravity, and the SALAMANDER SMILES of turtles and raven children.

Your woman’s boovula is tethered to the sun and to you. She HEATS UP when that sun cooks her power-focus and WOAH-MAN rage-splendor kicks into high gear, near the climax, when the bedsheets get messy and OLD TESSY makes runny Canadian syrup.

A TETHER CONNECT YOU to your family and your dog.

Your cat has a tether that connects her to your friend Kate, and Kate is tethered to your frozen pizza.

YOU CAN’T SEE IT SNOW PETAL, but I am CONNECTED to YOU via a tether – we feel each other’s stomach cramps and intestinal jumbles, we feel when that apple crumble gone bad from the TRAD WIFE SURGERY HYPE and the lost widow spark sprinkles left to TRINKLE near the driveway and Old SCRATCH.

YOUR ENEMIES ARE TETHERED TO YOUR SOUL, your hate for them causes you to FLOAT as they burn like paper Japanese torches, released to the SKY for a GOODBYE KISS.

There are tethers connecting atoms and frogs and Kevin Bacon – all joined by a super universe of tether wellness.

5 – SELF SURGERY

You need 5 pound test fishing line and modeling knives.

You need super glue and GORILLA TAPE and chunks of scrap wood from the abandoned church.

You need VODKA and a mirror and some kind of candle or light in case it is dark …

You need suturing needles and clamps and vices and spreaders from the Oreilly’s Auto Parts, and it’s good stuff too – the same shit they use at hospitals in Moldova.

HAVE YOUR FRIEND knock you over the head with a lead pipe, if he’s performing surgery in the alley – but if it’s YOU doing SELF SURGERY, then just finish off half that vodka bottle and pour the rest in your open wound.

SHOVE INTO THAT CHASM gravel and broken glass and metal shavings and wood chips and diesel fuel and one or two dead squirrels. Sew it up and drink more vodka, as the wound heals and you slowly drift off towards heaven.

CONCLUSION:

You are not safe here, you were never safe here.

So many ways in which your LIFE POWER can SHOWER the world with crimson drops and mops won’t be around to clean up that mess I tells ya.

YOU ARE NOT SAFE at WORK.

That JERK WENDY reported you to HR and said you trapped HER in your car, after tricking her to the bar for a “professional development opportunity”. DICK-SURGE was the MOTION and the lotion flowed but she slapped your CHEEK. THE MEEK will inherit the NETFLIX and the strong will smoke a bong and rap that GOOBER across the face, leaving a mess for the DRAG QUEENS to clean up on Saturday.

SO DROP THE ACT and BREATHE.

LET GO of SLACKER AWARENESS and BREED that SEED to the east and the west.

Leave pale smears everywhere you go …

Prove to your WOAH-MAN that your GRINKEN SPUNK is CHUNKY SURPRISE and it belies a D.B. Cooper in old suede jeans.

G.M.F.Y.I.L.Y.

Imagine a world where time-keeping is private business: not the business of government or the state or the mayor’s office or Karen …

NO daylight savings MK-ULTRA bullshit.

But my fucking business.

As a computer scientist interested in encryption problems? – I can imagine a lot of cool shit in THAT world.

If I become a slave master, I will have some cute but ironic MASTER’S NAME; something like MASTER DANNY or DOCTOR FRECKLES. I will spend weeks trying to come up with that special name, the name that would make me the MASTER …

If I become a slave master, I will build a prison on stilts in the Everglades, Lake Okeechobee. I will house in my pens hundreds of busty and young and attractive women, wearing only bikinis. I will pay some of the women to beat and punish the others, so that everyone could feel good about social contracts … The women will do battle and shower together, the entire complex will be under 24/hour WEBCAM surveillance … and you can stream it, from my ONLY FANS channel. If I become a slave master.

YOU’LL BLOW YOUR LOAD after 10 seconds of streaming my “Bad Girls of Florida” series, and don’t get me started on the spin-chair suspended over the bull shark pool. Many will accuse me of crimes, but the world is changing pal and it’s time to get in on this FAST LANE action.

When my slave-women are bad, I punish them. I treat them as DINGY AND NASTY POND SWALLOWS and banish them to the alligator pens where many a young waifish soul loses her LIFE … nightly … because I’m a BEAST of a slave master. They don’t talk back so much, they make me sandwiches.

AS A SLAVE MASTER I will attain TOTAL POWER when I harness the energies of my slaves to build time machines. We will make and test these machines, I will use my slaves as test subjects. Will many of these dusty and dusky and swarthy men be WASTED in these INSANELY BIZARRE experiments? – one hopes, one just does.

Over time I will carve up my slaves and replace my organs with theirs. I will drink and frolic and abuse my body knowing all too well there are REFRIGERATORS FULL of new hearts, livers, lungs, kidneys, you name it. Eventually my insides will be replaced by machines and robot bullshit and nanites. I will become TRANS HUMAN and will live for HUNDREDS of years, beating and whipping and shipping my slaves across the Atlantic, on a cargo ship named the “Middle Passage”.

I WILL BE FEARED by all the muskrat herders of GRINKEN TOWN, the DUNKEN DONUTS LEAGUE can go fuck itself, really.

If you say “fuck Dan, don’t you think it’s wrong to have slaves?”, I will make YOU my slave now. I own your mind, your doom, your fear pudding. The scope of YOUR EXISTENCE is now limited by the prison I’ve created around your WILL. Soon, you will gather up 10 or 20 busty women between the ages of 28 and 45, and you’ll take them to my SWAMPOUND (swamp-compound) in FLORIDA. YOU THINK IT’S WRONG? WHAT ARE YOU, A CHILD?

My slave women will go to WALMART and buy me water melons and fried chicken and corn starch … fucking okra … WTAF is OKRA?

MY SLAVE WOMEN will be ADMIRED by other HOOMAN-FARMERS in Florida, and so I’ll need to be careful. It’s just so easy for some sly mother fucker to go to WALMART and stalk them young raven-haired seductrons …

YOUR BLACK FEMALE SLAVE is YOUR POWER TROPHY, don’t disrespect her.

AFTER YEARS OF SUPER SEXUAL TRAINING, my slave women will learn to summon the coyote spirit and dance naked with the wolves of tomorrow.

If I become a slave master, I will hunt them for sport. I will put them into some kind of fucked up maze, filled with sharks and scorpions and pitfalls. And the slave will move through this dungeon zone, dodging and swinging on ropes. So many bodies will be dumped, because I will be hunting them with a drone that has a .22LR smg attached to it, and like 3,000 rounds of ammo. And I’m a total dick, and life isn’t fair.

SO …

If I were a slave master, I would be the master of the insane.

And my slaves would find bliss, in the emptiness of commitment and trench-foot dreams.

If I were such.

I’ve been told that if TRUMP WINS he will “turn back the clock” 400 years …

He will dredge up from our DARK PAST those miserable practices of foul and cruel men.

So I’m trying to be optimistic about it, and IMAGINEER a place for myself in this new SLAVE-MERICA!

I SHALL have a plantation in Georgia, near the sea. There’s gonna be a nice shack in back, hole in the ground at the center is where you (the African American slave) get to poop. There is no shower, but the kind rains of the south will wash your dusky physique as you toil in the soil and gather in my cotton for the mill. You won’t be happy here at first, but the hard work in the field as my ONYX SISYPHUS will ensure a good night’s sleep …

You won’t get a lot of sleep though …

The black man can work for days without sleep, he is STRONG and TALL and full of JIZZ-ENERGY. BUT … you have to keep him away from your white women, because his musk TRAPS their gaze and they are AMAZED by the size of his horse-like cock. White busty women will sneak out back to the slave paddock and allow that black buck to tear at them and rip open their boovulas. There are movies about this. Some of them are based on facts.

Look at the picture below …

This is you with your son or brother – does it really matter when it comes to black people? … any who, this is you and your uncle-brother harvesting French bulldogs for me, that I can then take to the China-man’s store off of 4th Street. The CHINKS cherish that fine brown meat, filled with splendor – and, side note, they’ll take a dying slave off your hands too, just don’t eat the pork fried rice for a few weeks.

You will work hard each day, but once every 5 years, on JUNETEENTH, I might give you a day off on the rope anchor – the large anchor that I attach you to, and it ain’t no rope, it’s chains. 200 feet of chain, attached to you, attached to a 10,000 pound ship anchor that I bought on EBay. The anchor is from a ship lost in the Middle Passage … monstrous.

The French bulldog trade is BIGGER than the slave trade, and many Frenchies are lost during shipment across the Atlantic to England and France and Italy. Sometimes a whole shipment of Frenchies get sick, and they are just tossed into the sea, like garbage. But Trump promises tariffs, so that should help.

YOU WILL BE OBEDIENT or FACE THE WHIP. Beatings will be furiously awful and frequent, you might feel like all I ever do is beat you, but come on – that’s just you having a bad day. In time you will call me MASTER DAN, and I will call you Rufus … Rufus number 4 … All my male slaves will be named Rufus. All of my female slaves will be called Susanna. You might see this as degrading, I consider it the necessary prerequisite to further dehumanization.

All of my SUSANA type slaves will be required to patrol my plantation ridding hippos and wearing only bikinis. They will spend half the day wrestling in steam pits and masturbating in the cornfield. They will be experts in KARATE and southern cooking and BBQ and seamanship.

Here is one of my SUSANA’S riding her hippo to WALMART to get me my beer and cigarettes. Mind you, don’t give her your credit card – the large jar of change is good enough for her and her lusty ways …

We will have a large sailing ship, and each year me and all my slaves will go on a junket, crossing the Atlantic … right through the middle of it. The name of the ship is the Callous, and some had thoughts on that as well …

On our annual sailing trip, the slaves will live below deck in inhuman rows, attached to the ship by chains and wire and steel. THIS WILL BE DISAPPOINTING for many, but nothing can be done.

When we get back from our first TRIP, things get messy …

Having plantations and slaves and sailing ships named “Callous” that you then load your “slaves” on to once a year in order to rub their nose in atrocities? – well that gets dangerously sexy …

Upon our third trip abroad, the SUSANA (number 13 I think) organized all the female field hands into rioting gangs of sweaty and scantily clad jungle style warrior bitches. They got some guns and swords and knives, and freed the RUFUS’ES …

THE RUFUS’ES went to the bar to drink and smoke cigarettes …

BUT …

SUSANA, being keen and alert and determined, she chased me through the night. From pasture to swamp to hillside, every time I looked back I could see her torches, I could see her rage.

When they finally caught up to me they took turns, tearing off my clothes, getting my cock hard, and swallowing my cock with their boovulas.

And that’s it.

That’s what’s coming if Trump gets elected on Tuesday.