Will it make a difference in your economic situation?
Will it make a difference in how much you love or are loved?
Will it make a difference with respect to war/peace?
Would either of these candidates stood up for you or are you projecting something on to them that is not there?
Do you need to waste your time/emotion on it? Should you at this point?
If someone were going to “take your guns” who would have an easier time of it?
If someone were going to do nothing about uncontrolled immigration (remember the Bush years and Trump’s first presidency, I remember the containerized-Chinese)?
Will they waste any money or diesel rounding you up, either of them?
Do you know WHERE the FEMA CAMP is?
Do you know what time it is? Place? – It’s April 1945, Berlin.
Did I pick a good month to do my manifesto?
Unlike the COVID, the “election” season is mostly low stakes bullshit. So you probably don’t have to wreck your connections with people over this nonsense unless you are mentally unstable … which is most of you RON PAUL GUY FAWKES MASK WEARING DIP SHITS.
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.
I see you out there, sitting in your underwear, eating chili from a can.
It’s been a long time bro, and many of the gumpton-folk are asking me: “Dan, when the FUCK are you going to publish YOUR MANIFESTO?” Cuz everyone is doing it, it will be bigger than BLOGS by the time this wave hits. For each soul and self, from the mind of fecal swamp spirit healing and circling back to the END of bygone turnip warriors, we will LURCH. We will brag and hag. We will write up a SPEC and send our inner sect the project plan for SCRUM STYLE Rambo-teams. YOUR VOICE WILL BE HEARD, when the great WAVE of manifestos crests, and you lurch and lurch onward, toward the cave … with the light at the end, coming at us fast.
We won’t walk or talk or jog or run …
We’re not here to have fun hun. We’re here to bring the FORCE of ancient juices and other forms of oceanic protein to the kind and gentle folk of sectors 34 and 89.7 on the FM dial. We will lurch and perch, our cider tomboys will sell canister chowder to the customers at Denny’s. Our MEME MASTERS will fashion darker visions, dwelling in the folds of your fatty pilot, sitting in your dingy bone-cave, called YOUR head. Now go to bed, and rest on that.
How many chapters will my manifesto have? – AS MANY AS I FUCKING WANT.
How many followers will I have? – billions … 50 of which will be human.
How many more nights of waking up with chills and spills of near emptied vodka bottles breaking on the floor … my whore girlfriend Tessie, getting messy in the shower because she just got done watching LAW and ORDER?
We lurch because it is a known thing, we lurch and glare because our enemies are hidden from us until they see weakness and pain and the gentle falling of old spirit branches.
Our lurching annoys our masters, so this is a bonus too …
We will lurch to our seats on the BUS, downtown – catching one of the shitty cans to REDMOND to crank out AZURE SCRIPT and rip a bong gong song as the clarinet playing TEAM SCOUT has a bout of gout and spits out that “great idea” about using “Python instead of Power Shell” … and now your help is complete, and this is why you glare and lurch too.
GREAT TIDINGS BESPOKE THIS ERA!
It will signal the coming of a new arrival of beginnings …
Your guide master has been born.
Your willing noggle-mind is ungloved.
In time the LAST of the MOGAMBO FREAKS will REIGN in a REALM of dusky street-sloths and slutty bar maidens. Our SCOB-GARDENS will feed the untapped populous, as the masses of scuzz-urchins devour protein souffle and the discarded roadkill left for us by the ancient demon gods. There will be NO REDEMPTION for the SPACE CADETS and other liars and purveyors of MOON PIE MADNESS!
Your bile duct fantasies are UNSCREWED and TAPPED, making a way for those tired old grandpas living in Fresno.
WE ARE THE SCRUMBO! Living in economic limbo under the overpass near ROUTE 71. We muddle and fuddle and griddle our road apple FEAST and on BUNKTON DAY we celebrate the mite and barley worm stew.
UPON BUNKTON DAY, OUR DAY OF TOTALISTIC REVENGE AND LIBERATION, a day that hasn’t happened yet … but February is boring, so maybe it will happen in February? Listen up, on that special day we will WAKE to a BEAR MUFFIN scent breakfast, and greet each other with smiles and piles of empty whiskey bottles … and say these words to each other, that BUNKTON DAY morning: “Good morning, fuck you, I love you!”
These are the conceived of chapters as of this wake’y bake’y morning …
BOBLIMPTOCK and the BOY’S LIFE HOVERCRAFT
FUCKING with PEOPLE: a primer on military psychological warfare, how to pickup girls at bars, hypnotism and MIND CONTROL (you are lonely)
SOVIETOLOGY: seeing THROUGH the TRAUMA MONKEYS
WHITE TRASH and HYPER RACISM: the PAUL HARVEY EFFECT
Transcend the SCRUMBO mentality: WHAT IS A GRINKEN MAN? or WOAH-MAN? SCRUM style RAMBO is SCRUMBO!
SEXUAL STYLE LOVE SCIENCE and managing lust dragons: ungunjoolating YOUR WOAH-MAN so SHE can reach PEAK SEXUAL MOVIE BUTTER PRODUCTION LEVELS
The Battle of Bunkton Day: of BANKERS and ANGLER FISH AND women will be seeking/leaking after my precious FLAME POTION and will dry it out and snort it on Bunkton Day … some time in February … when the good guys win
Directing Mind Fire and other TOTALISTIC superpowers: EZ payment plan
HOOKTOGGENFOOK: the new KUNG FU
DANARCHY/DANARCHISM: We’re NOT SCIENTOLOGY, we’re a GROOVEMENT (the FIVE TRILLION YEAR HOA and the JOHN LURCH SOCIETY, fuck you pay me)
GREYHOUND: A pilgrimage to Grinken Town, rock hard and cock sure PAIN GARDENS and FUCK PTSD …
BUILDING the GLIDE PLANE: what color is your COMPOUND?
SOUL GLUE and Spiritual Gold: SEA-FLOW, ENERGY DRINKS, how YOU gonna PAY ME? (turn YOU into Nutella? – no tella)
COMMS and TECH and GAMER GALS
CANDLE BLASTERS and our CROOKED MASTERS
Economics: DESTRUCTO FORCE, Reverso-Bastiat and MOON BONDS
YOUR MOUNTAIN of GOLD: what does it mean to be wealthy?
UNIFORMS: Robot Hugo Boss and our dilemma …
The DANISH PROBLEM … (Kris Kringle and Hamlet)
BOBLIMPTOCKTEERS or BOBLIMPNAUTS, fuck, SPACE and BOBLIMPTOCKONAUTS: that NASA Pioneer probe placard …
Prolegomena to all future LURCHING: how to survive?
And maybe we’ll have some other chapters and some other subjects, so don’t be too focused on this pedantic nonsense … or as my old pimp friend would say: don’t pole vault over gnat shit.
It’s gonna be between 15,000 and 25,000 words – all dependent upon how lazy or drunk or distracted I get. I could also get bored. I read Mein Kampf once … I read the Communist Manifesto … I read Kaczynski and so many others over the years … fucking Ayn Rand … fuck … and they are all boring. If I get boring or BORED or BOTH, I will abandon this manifesto and move on to my dream of becoming a geriatric porn star (it’s a growing concern). It must be in the spirit of Bukowski and Channon’s FIRST EARTH BATTALION MANUAL.
The SKY CHARMERS will fear us. They spread the rancid thought-wax of a waning empire. Their mind spiders connect to the ALL BOX and out of that box comes RANDY COCKS, British 70’s porn star. They will harass us, they will bite at our heels, but we will persevere. We are the GROUND CLIMBERS, our mountains are made of pain.
The health insurance companies will DREAD US, as our helpful hints about self-surgery and vodka and 5 pound test fishing line, modeling knives and super glue, mirrors and other devices for doing those necessary self-care chores that keep the body safely from the grave.
The POPE will send his armies, so will Oprah and various Asian gangs … but our movement will be unafraid before that hairy assemblage.
We know the “Southern Poverty Law Center” is ironically named, and this will lead to MORE ATTACKS and MORE ARTICLES published on Zero Hedge … because no one else will touch us, and Zero Hedge thrives on being number 2.
It is OUR JOB to clean up the cities. Don’t show no pity as you roll your HEEMEYER style command vehicle to the town square. YOU ARE THE MAYOR of your OWN JOURNEY SELF. You own the sky-pilot drooling and your cooling brain will gain the DAY, as you slay the various socialites living HIGH on the HOG at Borlaug’s chemical bakery and food fakery.
SO STAND IN THAT SANDBOX BATHROOM, BEFORE THE LOOKING GLASS …
SPEAK THESE WORDS WITH FIERY GLEE, and if you are drunk it might help …
Ahem …
“WE ARE THE LAST OF THE HUMANS, WE CARRY THE CANDLE OF FROLICKING FEAR. WE WILL GET OUR ASSES INTO GEAR TO STAND FAST AND LAST THE WAY OUR BUBBLY WOMAN LIKES. OUR HIKES WILL BE FURIOUSLY HARD AS WE SCALE THE SHIT MOUNTAINS OF FLORIDA. OUR BREATH WILL BE LIKE STALE BEER AND CIGARETTE ASHTRAYS, STARING OUT FROM THE ABYSS. NO ONE WILL STOP US, NO WAY. WE WILL BE THE VICTORY BRINGERS AND BUSTY AND SCANTILY CLAD WOMEN WILL BRING US FRUIT. ALL HAIL THE NEW HUMAN. GOOD MORNING. FUCK YOU. I LOVE YOU.”
Think about the drama of assassination attempts, and what this did/does to build on Trump’s Cult of Personality.
Consider the state of the US economy and the world. Trump buys this broken neo-Stalinist hellhole another 6 months, maybe 12.
Ask yourself: can the US sustain multiple wars at this point, and what would it look like to partially disengage. Who could disengage empire, even if briefly?
Who will be the conductor when the train derails?
Who would be best at collecting guns?
Who would put ENOUGH Americans to sleep?
Who continues the narrative of our “free press”, as bludgeoned as it has been?
Who is mostly likely to keep the Deep State alive?
Who would most easily sell a war with IRAN to America?
Living the “good life”, and already I could see some really broken shit coming up ahead – but not the head space to dig too deeply.
That movie was a major mind fuck, and I should have seen it – but instead, like the “ROCKY MOVIE DRUG” or like some MUSE VIDEO, I got suckered.
And now I see these fucks wearing these masks and wonder WHY THE FUCK are you celebrating a guy who wanted Jesuits to burn women alive for being midwives?
She is voting for MEGA-HAIRY-BALLS because she does not want AMERICA going back to the AMERICA that used to be AMERICA. She also wants to shove a probe up your butt to search for aliens. She talks to ELVIS while on the toilet, but she’s okay, she’s gonna be fine.
My grandma says she doesn’t want it to GO BACK To the way it used to be, when she had to rinse out her boovula with diesel fuel and broken glass …
Her boovula is filled with potato bugs, her eyes are jaundiced from liver failure.
CAN YOU CARE ENOUGH BRAH?
Care …
MY GRANDMA? – she had to get 40 abortions from a DUDE named KYLE, and he used dynamite and rebar and mineral spirits and sulfuric acid. It was HORRIBLY MONSTROUS and NOBODY CARED and DONALD TRUMP would film it and sell the movies to Warren Buffet. Do you care BRAH?
BECAUSE OF EVIL MEN, my grandma was kept on an ISLAND in the South Sea, she was traded among the elite and used for her sexual prowess. Frank Sinatra and JFK shared her once, giving her a WYOMING COWBOY RIDE, but she wasn’t ready for it. It hurt her, and nobody cared. WE WANT TO GO BACK TO THAT BROH?
Do you care about my grandma?
MY GRANDMA had to eat sand-mice for dinner and the water she drank was brown and fetid. Random men would come along and kick her in her groin, as random women tossed bricks at her and chased her down the street. Children threw gasoline bombs at my grandma, and mocked her as she rolled on the ground to put out the flames. And you are VOTING for BLUMP to send us back to that? You hate my grandma?
I’ll kill you.
My grandma once had sex with 200 Mexican farm workers. HUGO CHAVEZ had been fumigating her “attic”, while my grandpa was getting drunk at Denny’s and masturbating to GAY PORN. AFTER GRANDPA JIZZED on his GRAND SLAM, he went back home and found 80 dicks stuck in his wife and this drove him cocaine crazy mad. He got out his chainsaw and began chopping up them Mexicans, Mexicans that were sent to his home by Donald Trump and Ray Charles.
If you vote for TRUMP, we are going back to this.
The last few years have been hard on my grandma. MAGA-PUNKS down the STREET stole her French bulldog and turned it into taco meat, selling the meat back to my grandma – it was a good deal, prices, amirite?
THESE YOUNG FUCKING PUNKS chase my grandma, and chant MAGA THEMES and beat her with sticks and chains. This was LIFE under Donald Trump, for my grandma … do you even fucking care?
We can’t let it go back.
Under TRUMP, my grandma would be severely abused by the VA hospital. They had her undergoing surgeries she didn’t need, and the doctors would sew dead squirrels into her open wounds. Some of them laughed as the nurses pee’d on her, and nobody cared, cuz TRUMP was PREZ.
We can’t let it go back bro.
My poor grandma …
MY POOR FUCKING GRANDMA had to WORK in the kitten factories when she was 12 years old. 16 hour shifts, two days off every 6 months. HER JOB was to pry the kittens out of the molds, and if they were deformed? – she had to dump the kittens in the drowning pool out back.
And the TRUMP family OWNED that terrible place.
And if you VOTE for TRUMP? – we’re going back to that and WORSE you FUCK!
MY GRANDMA had to travel 5 minutes to find an abortion clinic a few weeks ago. She’d been having 7 way FRIDAY NIGHTS with the BINGO CREW and it turned out she had an egg or two in storage … well … she didn’t want a kid at her age, so she had to drive FIVE MINUTES to find the 24 hour Planned Parenthood Abortion Clinic and Strip Club …
So dangerous … so inconvenient.
This could have ruined her life.
Don’t let TRUMP do this …
MY POOR FUCKING MISERABLE GRANDMA was eating at the TWIN COW BUFFET off of Boston Street, when JERGIZ, the THROAT MUFFIN, started punching my grandma and demanding monies. He says she owed him for the CRACK and METH and KROKODIL he sold her, but my sweet grandma? – WTAF.
We had to slay that fuck, and dump him and the truck out by Collin’s Farm.
And this is what happens if TRUMP is president.
Can’t go back, won’t go back.
My poor grandma didn’t get proper medical attention. When she was sick when TRUMP was president her doctors gave her a bunch of pills and stuck needles in her and cut off her legs and arms.
If Trump gets back in, what will grams do?
DAMN THAT PAPA BLUMP!
(taking away abortions from my grandma)
My GRANDMA was CHASED by devil-pirates and she fought off the NAZIS during WW2. SHE’S STILL a SILVER HAIRED SHARK-MAIDEN, out on the great blue looking out for me and you. HER CURVE-SOUL STREAM was the GLEAM that shocked the cocaine world and led her to BANGER NIGHTS in Manhattan.
If Trump gets elected he will hunt her down and strap her to a large wooden frame. He will brutally ravage my grandma, thereby giving himself incurable genital crabs. Within 4 weeks Trump is DEAD and JD Vance (seen DEADZONE) takes over and launches nukes at the jerks who made fun of him as a kid.
We can’t go back to that, can we, my puppy fodder friends?
IF TRUMP WINS …
OH BY GOSH the entire SEA of HORDE MONKEYS will crawl out of our toilets and take our grandmas feminine hygiene products and perfume and makeup and adult diapers. Our GRANDMAS will be NAKED before the TRIBUNALS. Hunted and filled with harlotry, they will flaunt their GRANDMA beach bodies as they dance the 7 veils for cocktails and kidney-rice. It would be NICE if you sent her a CHRISTMAS CARD this year, put down that beer and give her a call. OH DEAR – are you little Mr. Rotten Cakes?
THIS IS MY GRANDMA … fighting off MAGA-PUNKS in SECTOR-9-TANGO. She’s a BALL when that big haul comes in and all the FLYNN MERCHANTS are out of shell-spice and plankton-soap. TRUMP will tear her apart, setting her homes on fire and using piano wire to strangle her poor little FRENCH BULLDOG. THERE IS NO SAFE SPACE for a woman of her grace and charm, and great harm will come to grandma if we don’t stop TRUMP and his MAGA TARD SCROG FORCES under the command of JD VANCE! Someone’s got to do SOME DAMN THING about BLUMP!
LORGEN-FLOR, the thirst-griever of King Temblass, hid a faerie dust trail from our old GRANDMAS. They might have ESCAPED this JUNGLE HELL, and made it, scantily clad, to an island of bliss and busty women and group showers. BUT NO, TRUMP stopped it because he can’t handle powerful women with untreated herpes!
And now my GRANDMA doesn’t have healthcare and she’s all alone in her condo in Hawaii, ungunjoolating herself while she watches the surfers get eaten by squid.
All because TRUMP got elected or will get elected … maybe he won’t.
I find it ironic that people talk about TRUMP “rolling back the clock 400 years to slavery” on a day when we’re forced to fuck with our own biological clock so fuck-tards can play more golf.
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.
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.
