There’s a lot of hype around bitcoin, but is it legit, or just a playground for crafty scams to unleash themselves on unsuspecting investors? It’s so hard to get to grips with, for those like myself whose grip on trends in technology (not to mention money!) is a bit tenuous to start with. Still, all the big celebs looooove it; some of the biggest social media influencers, famous for being famous, have taken to it like a duck lips drinking in an unexpected oasis in a desert of data about it.
How are these posers managing to get the time between important photo shoots on their speedboats, to get up to speed on the peer to peer cryptocurrency networks that create value out of things that most of us didn’t really value, like NFTs that showed you were terribly up on art, and could see the value of signing your investments with digital cartoon signatures? Some of these folk seemed like animated cartoon characters themselves, anti-heroes on the run, until their exploits caught up with them, like crypto stock on the rise, before taking a sudden tumble into the abyss, before investors not in the groove managed to pump n’ dump in time, with new stars rising, stocks heading to outer space, like a shiny car ad, that really got shot in a hanger, on a back lot. It’s pretty spaced out stuff, this cryptocurrency thing, but having a big bottom and a lot of fans following it seems to attract investors. You can promise them all kinds of pie in the sky, in a get-rich-quick scheme, every fan’s rags to riches dream.
One well known rapper, that of course, being an ol’ fogey myself, I’ve never heard of, got lucky with crypto, and landed a deal with the government of Senegal to build a crypto city. No, it’s not built in the sky, but apparently, the sky’s the limit, with what they’ll achieve, as crypto is a big deal in various parts of Africa now. No, really. Well, sort of. If you like comics you’ll find it terribly exciting, and want to join the crypto fun, like the layout of the city he’s been granted land to plan the city out, for this new and futuristic vision of a currency not reliant on fuddy duddy bankers, who don’t even keep their customers’ books straightened out. They’ve got their rows of comic trading cards nice n’ straight, with new ones appearing from some sleeve or other, and are in cahoots with the cartoon baddies in Gothom, the government tax inspectors, who, in the plot, are about as much fun as the irritating guy in The Matrix. He was such a big fan of Neo that he would keep following him about, asking him had he completed his tax forms yet?
No, none of that; for the bright new future, just fabulous cities, that are as funky as a Stan Lee drawing, with self driving cars shooting by at grand auto theft speed, in the moodily dystopian skies above. It’ll be great. Very techno, post-post-post modern, beyond your wildest dreams, and you’ll be eating oysters with pearls inside, if you jump on board the ride now.
After reading the Irish headlines this morning, I was angry. Restrictions extended, yet again, after promises that it would all go away, if we played along, did our part, lined up, took our medicine, followed instructions. The truth began to sink in, eventually, that it might be a little game that Big Brother’s quite enjoying playing, since he wants to keep it up, although most complied with all the guidelines, and got no reward for playing along.
When there’s no promised land at the end of the road, just miles and miles more to go, before you can take your muzzle off and sleep, with the phone stuck to your face, in case new, important regulations which might keep you safe from something you can’t see, are issued in the middle of the night, your dreams get rather dystopian, and perhaps a little nightmarish. When you wake, you check your screen. Is it real, or just a bad dream? The screen will tell you the truth, surely, and put your mind at ease. In the back of your mind, however, something else has woken up. The lurking dread that this is your life now; that they’ve made it a meaner, smaller thing, deliberately, and that you might have even helped them build the cell you’re now inhabiting, hoping you are let go free again, some day. At their discretion, of course.
You hear muffled laughter from somewhere, and turn to the screen on the wall. Can it hear your thoughts, or broadcast Big Brother’s thoughts, straight into your mind? No. That’s crazy thinkin’, right there, you tell yourself, and choose your muzzle for the day, matching it to your outfit. Something comfy, since you don’t go out much, anymore, except on food runs. Who in their right mind would want to be around people, after all, with this invisible plague-of-some-sort circulating constantly? If only one didn’t need to breathe at all, but the human body is so badly designed, that it comes with flaws. Add to that, the fact that some humans just don’t care enough, and forget to keep their muzzles on over their breathing apparatus properly, so that a sensible and cautious person has hold their breath like a deep sea diver of old (we don’t have those any more, I think, but I have seen them in freedom era reruns on the screen), and get the food transaction over quickly, in as minimal contact and brief a mode as is humanly possible.
I wish they’d hurry up and transplant the human mind into something with a better design. Surely, it would be cleaner, and greener, to do so, and we’re nearly at the singularity, according to my screens, so I’m looking forward to the Brave New World. It’s gotta be better than this, right? Right?
You Can’t Kill Freedom
The words appeared on my screen. Does not compute, was my first thought. What’s this? Doesn’t look like a health edict, or guideline about how far away from someone you should stand for the next while, until the next edict’s issued, by experts. Not that I worry about that guideline, when I wouldn’t dream of standing near to anyone, outside of having to interact with the cashless machine where the till used to be situated (always swab your card after use; power user tip there, from someone who’s never been on the Suspicious Contacts list, yet). What’s it mean, though? Are there further instructions, that make more sense of the first statement? I must find out, because I don’t know what actions to take next, until I know. How can I know, if they don’t tell me, in words I can understand (scans phone, swiping screen anxiously, looking for directions)?
“You Can’t Kill Freedom“
(continues scrolling, on sanitised phone)
What (scrolls down more frantically now, with a rising feeling of discomfort, increasing respiration, and precipitation on muzzle)
“You Can’t Kill Freedom“
“They said there was a pandemic“.
What in the actual………? (stops self from cursing, as the new guidelines might include being arrested in one’s own home for that, and it’s now not clear to what extent the devices are listening in).
Them? Tyranny? Freedom? This is not A Ministry person. This is clearly a mad person. I hope they are not outside their home, running amok, with these statements, or they will surely be arrested. I hope they are. You just can’t say things like that, and get away with it. It’s not the kind thing, and we have to care about others. It’s why we follow all instructions, and do what we’re told. It’s because we care.
Who’s this “we”? I don’t think she means Big Brother, since it’s not an official publication, this book. Hopefully she won’t be allowed publish it. It sounds very wrong, in its whole conception. Very dangerous, in its thinking. Perhaps they’ll have new guidelines introduced soon, where they’ll arrest people like this in advance of them expressing dangerous thoughts. Then the rest of us can have peace of mind, which contributes greatly to our safety, because I believe even stress can contribute to stuff in the air getting inside you, and killing you in the most horrible way, stopping you from breathing properly, and so on and so forth (beads of sweat break out at the thought, and heartrate and breathing rate shoot up, saturating muzzle and resulting in unpleasant tingling which may or may not presage a fainting fit is on the way).
No. No, I’m sure Big Brother won’t stand for this. Take these peoples’ money away, whoever they are. Don’t even let them do voluntary work, around sensible people, to earn their credits. They deserve to be not only shunned, with these dangerous book ideas, which look waaaaay outside the recommended guidelines, but to be locked out of decent society forever. Hopefully, they’ll starve quickly, without the state’s help, and without the rest of us having to look at them do it, and we won’t have the stress of seeing them, or hearing them, any more. It’s too much, to have to put up with these selfish types, rabbiting on about freedom, when we have to pull together, and follow the rules and regulations, all as one, all together (except alone).
You won’t make it ’till March, my little dears, if I get my way. I’m a dab hand, when it comes to writing Emails, picking up phones, and sending comms out to the masses of allies I don’t know personally, but who I’m sure are on my side (the right and only reasonable one) on Twitter and Metaverse virtual app. etc etc. We’ll meme you out of your book plan, shame and name you, then get you chucked out of life as you would wish to know it, before you get to the end of Chapter 1!!!!
Ha! You won’t have a lamp to light, at all, when me and Big Brother, plus all the ground troops for sanity and wholesome healthiness, promoting the bright future, dependent on the miserable present, get started on our “corrections” to educate you as to the error of your ways. You think you’re gonna write that book. We think we’ll need to stop you, and we’ll stop at nothing, to get what we want. We’ll make sure that not even your first sentence survives our cull! He he. The perfect way to take that anger out, without even going out.
The AI jerks are always about, and there’s a whole brood of them, currently swarming, that’s a pretty nasty one. I’ve spoken about the game they play, many times on this blog. I haven’t spoken much about the kind of future they envision for us all, though.
To them it’s a Utopia, where all their desires can be fulfilled, and they get to be their best self. They want that for us all, apparently, and seek to educate us, so that we learn to love the AI, and long for the promised Eden of Singularity Land, where the robot and human enter into a (simulated and virtual) love pact, that there’s no going back from. This would seem like an unholy union, to the normal person, but these people are into all things freaky, and aspire to have everyone in the world become a freak as well, so they can announce that as the New Normal. Ben Goertzel is their pin-up boy, and Sofia the chatbot a fount of wisdom, in this dystopic vision the technohippies have in mind for us.
The idea of the Singularity is, in their minds, a kind of race to the bottom, for humanity, although they view the giving in, in a hedonistic orgy of vulgar oafishness, as a beautiful transition into a Brave New World, that we should all long for. They are bewildered when you point out that anti-humanistic Satanistic technofreakery isn’t really your thing, and suggest you just aren’t evolved enough to dig all the soft porn they post, to tempt you in with. Philosophy pisses them off, big time, too, as I found out when I posted my first comment in one of their threads, a link to an article about Plato’s conception of beauty, having seen one of them enthuse about her game character’s physical beauty, which, in her mind, was a by-product of kindness. The matrix started glitching, when faced with intelligent discusssion, and philosophy not just providing a cool allegorical reference for Plato’s cave, that could translate to a gaming environment as a shirtless male model on a couch in an underground carpark, and to heck with the philosophy bit.
Two people making logical philosophical points in their thread fried the circuits, and when logic didn’t compute, a fuse blew somewhere, that started out with threats……………..
then, rather hilariously, led to a curse being put on my poor ol’ book, “The Q Affaire”.
I mean, what has a comedic romance thriller novel done to deserve this, other than a spot of light philosophising, I ask you? Satanists aren’t big on humour, though. I knew that already, having come across many of them in my time on YouTube. You can often recognise them by the little wings, with puzzling little dots, which according to Q, is locust poop. Their idea of what is acceptable to post on social media is fairly poop as well, and I ended up having to report one of them to Twitter, for the video of the very young looking girl below, doing unmentionable and tonsil-damaging things to an unsuspecting banana, while dressed up as a cat. The girl posting it was a blue haired female who was doing her best to look like her gaming avatar, and one hopes that this ARG group of LARPers she associates with are just sharing their soft porn stuff between themselves, and not dragging children into virtual reality games with them, online. They seem to me to be a pretty good reason to not give your kid access to a phone or computer until they are at least 21. At least if you don’t want them to get dissed, doxed, and cursed all in a day, by satanic larpers playing an online ARG. This group strike me as people with a lot of personal problems, that they would like everyone else to have as well, so they can call it the norm. Thank goodness the Singularity is nowhere near. I’d hate to see what that thing would look like, if these were the brains helping program it.
Oh, I forgot to mention, being called a shill. Must have been the threats, curses, and doxing that made it temporarily slip my mind. Took me a while to decode the word salad in this Tweet I received, but basically this blue haired female avatar, who insists he’s a male, who just finds it more convenient to pretend to be female in Twitter, for strangers, but gets annoyed when they think he is one, with the mistaken idea they are treated better than men (I didn’t see his friends treat people too well, as they waltz around Twitter threatening and cursing people, and subjecting them to looking at their creepy porn content). He seemed to think I’m being paid to write my book, “The Q Affaire”. Or something. As I say…..
Goodness only knows precisely what’s being conveyed, because…
A. These people are confused about everything, ranging from gender, to how to speak English, right on up to how to visualise a decent future for themselves, based on behaving decently in the present……
B. They are inveterate liars, who are playing an ARG game online, the stated rules of which (letting people know they are in a game) they are breaking, themselves, because they have no morals or ethics, and follow the Satanic Crowley law only, “do as thou wilt”. What they don’t tell anyone about, is that they are hoping to entrap innocent people into joining their game, so they can mess up their heads, their lives, and threaten and dox them. For fun. That’s the average Satanist’s view of what fun is, you see. Welcome to the dystopian future. Or you could just fry their circuits, by saying no to their jerky game and depressing future.
Q’s always on his phone, up to something, and you’d think he’d have been happy enough, posting away for me, about “The Q Affaire” book, now that he’s been promoted from Tea Intern (Q insists he’s a “Tea Operative”, but whatever). No, tho’, that’s not enough to keep him out of mischief, and he’s back recruiting boymen, down on the boards, and little boys too, for his Stoneage troll training farm, not so cleverly disguised as a puzzle. I told him. I said, Q, you start this nonsense up again, with your rubbishy recycled bits of things the magpies dropped in the bushes, I’ll be pulling out your tentpoles, and you can go pitch your droopy tent in some other kindhearted fool’s garden. I’m not helping you train little boys how to steal real men’s identities, before they’ve even got their first girlfriend.
Maybe they have some chance of meeting a nice girl, if they don’t hang out with you, and become trolls, but I know I don’t want them doing what you did, “borrow” a decent man’s identity, to chat up a decent woman, then threaten her with an army of trolls, when she finds out what a sad little boy you are.
He wasn’t happy; but he sees me as a mother figure (I know, it’s complicated), so he looked suitable chastised, with tears welling up in his likkle eyes, at the thought of being tent-pegless, and having to make his way down the river of no return, to camp in someone else’s mommie’s garden. Kids. Whattaya gonna do? He’s out in the tent, sulking, with a big pile of “Punisher” comics, from the Stoneage, to keep him happy. They’ve even got puzzles in the back, which should keep him going tonight, when he’s no internet to post on the boards from. I shall be keeping an eye on my “Tea Operative”, as I don’t trust him in business ventures, if he’s not grown up enough to behave himself. Shame. He’s actually a pretty good secretary (sips tea). Maybe there’s hope for him, He tore off one of the incriminating puzzle posts, and ate it, to destroy the evidence, and I helpfully tore out the other puzzle page , so he wouldn’t choke on the rest.
I also had to give him THE LOOK. It ain’t easy, being an employer and a mommie, to Q. When he’s finished his comics, I may eventually return his phone, but only if he’s a good boy.
Note: This post was originally published as a Newsletter post. If you’d like to sign up, to stay updated on on the latest from Donna’s doings, about books, boys and puzzling plots, click on the link in @TheQAffaire Tweet link, shown below, to receive it weekly, via Email.
Mme. Sososstrus, the lady who never spells her name the same way twice, out and about, before going missing in action, with “Bad boy” Crowley.
Dear reader, I don’t want you to be too alarmed, but I must inform you that our beloved Mme. Soss, who we met recently at her energetic and ectoplasmagorific seance session, and have quickly grown to love in that special way one reserves for ones’ cult leader, has gone missing in action.
She’s a bundle of energy, so we have come to expect all kinds of energetic feats from her, but this one seems to be to be beyond the precipice, in terms of courting danger.
A missive left in my bedroom wardrobe, transmitted, like most of Mme. S’s missives, etherially, via automatically channeled communications, has arrived. Two actually. The first was an “Out of Office” message, in response to my request, last Friday, that she author the first issue of my Newsletter for me, since I would be too busy editing my blockbuster novel, in preparation for its release into the wilds of Amazon, shortly. That didn’t worry me too much, and I had my new secretary, Q, run up a short editorial piece for the maiden voyage of said newsletter, as Plan B. He’s good with plans, though I have to admit, I wondered whether he’d get it sent out on time, since he’s missed quite a few deadlines before, I noticed (I hired him mostly for his tea making abilities). I wasn’t too worried at first, and must admit, was thinking mostly of myself, rather than Mme. S’s safety, as I was unaware at the time of who she was spending the weekend with,and where she was headed. Imagine my shock, then, upon being informed, when my new secretary delivered the tea things to my study, as I set about my evening’s work, editing “The Q Affaire” for publication, and, while taking my first sip of his rather well made tea, (surprising, since I have rather severe doubts that Q is Irish, as he claims, so the tea should not be that good) that the rumour was Mme. S had been planning to abscond for the weekend with the abhorrent Mr. Crowley, a right little demon, if past rumours are anything to go by (and many do swear by rumours). This Mr. Crowley, though technically deceased, is said to be very much still at large in the spirit world, and always circling, seeking out upstanding women to corrupt utterly. Q had won the confidence of Mme. Sossostrus, who is always putty in the hands of men who can wink charmingly, or tell pretty stories of the intellectual or poetic type, I noticed, and apparently she confided in him her weakening resolve in trying to resist Crowley’s Bad boy charms, before her disappearance.
I can hardly bear to think about it still, the shock on reading the missive shown above, that materialised in my wardrobe this morning. I had to get Q to decode it, before I could make any sense of it , but it’s clear she’s in over her head with Crowley, and was lucky to be able to convey a message to me without being detected via remote mind-reading, or penetrating insight of some other magical means, by the cunning Crowley with the silver tongue, that tempted her to travel abroad, with him her only escort. A poor choice, which one would think she might have spent longer pondering, since even the destination set all sorts of spiritual alarum bells ringing in the head. I largely blame myself, I must say, for leading her astray, and I see Crowley as merely a spirited opportunist, who leapt at the open portal when he saw his chance to jump on Mme. S, who he’s fancied getting his claws into for a while now, according to herself. Why am I to blame? Well, I was talking about volcanos a lot recently, and ziggarats, and Tarot, and generally going into the mystic a bit, and Mme. Soss gets easily enthused by such topics. Indeed, she dropped by several times to hold impromtu meetings of her new cult, The Order of The Heart, at my hearth, and, between the fire, and all the talk of volcanos, not to mention sacred shrines with snakes interred underground, and slithering about as shapeshifting rivers and Garden of Eden dwelling tempters, I fear the temptation was all to much for her adventurous side, and she gave in to her hedonistic impulses, and travelled to the volcano with him. Yes. That’s right. They went to the volcano together. I have a feeling she won’t be the same woman when she returns, but she’s full of surprises at the best of times, so we probably won’t be able to tell. I imagine she will though, even if it takes a while for the full story to emerge. I mean, would you be able to talk about it, straight after you had a week away at a volcanic eruption with the bold Mr. Crowley? I wouldn’t think so, somehow.
Update: She’s back. I’m glad of that, because not only was I worried about her getting a bit too close to the action, in Iceland, but I was also getting worried she might be too far from it, since she’d promised to edit this weekend’s edition of the Newsletter, and make herself available at the launch of the new TarotTime Team , over at the Etsy shop. She swept in yesterday, in fine fettle, ready for more fun, and soon the *ESQ method Tarot service was announced, in our snazzy new poster that Q threw some glitter and glue at, all available to initiates and non-initiated alike, at an out of this world low price. I even threw a coupon in the basket for new customers, I was in such a good mood, after being let use the glitter glue gun for a while. Mme. Sossostrus assures me that having glue stuck in your hair just makes the readings more auspicious, and downright fun, which sounds right to me, since anything Mme. S gets involved in always ends up being a lot of fun.
Mme. Sossostrus plans to update us further, in the Newsletter editorial, regarding what new things she learned in her travels last weekend, as well of a reminder of what we new initiates have learned to date, by means of another podcast this weekend, featuring her best bits (oh, I do hope we are up to it, but I’m by no means confident we will be!), as well as belting out the weekend Newletter for us. She’s all heart, that woman. You can order your Newletter here, if you can handle it. First issue guest authored by Q!
In the Truther Community of YouTube, folks can be touchy. This guy, although he likes to think of himself as the sensitive, touchy feely type, who just likes to “reach out” to other people, is mostly just touchy about his own favourite topic, alchemy.
What the heck is that, you may say? Well, it’s a medieval fascination, which passed for science in its time (Dark Ages, as they call them now, followed by the great explosion of innovation and re-discovery of architectural triumph and art of the classical world, and a good synthesis of old and new led to better results than messin’ about in dingy basements ever had). Outmoded, bad ideas tend to hang around for a while afterwards, like the funny smell from the stove top, when you’ve had fried fish for dinner. Now, while nobody’s stupid enough to think you can turn lead into gold with any profit accruing from the mess stuck to you when you try (wash your hands VERY carefully after messin’ about with that one!), the occult has become trendy among a lot of folks, who regard themselves as alchemists, and like to look at the pictures in old books online, that have pictures of people kissing the devil’s behind, and muckin’ about with Mason Jars, and so forth, in them. Now this guy, below, didn’t like the idea of being asked about another modern-day alchemist, a certain Mr. Crowley (AKA Baphomet), by me, when I popped by ask about his beliefs, and a self-triggering alchemy ensued. As I say, touchy. Maybe all that mercury goes to the brain.
I can’t say the livestream got any friendlier after the question was asked, but I did discover that it’s fine to be a Mason (not the jar type, presumably), but not so hot to be asked things about Crowley, the Mason.
Not sure why; maybe it’s some mystical reason I just haven’t the mind for, as I didn’t appear to be self-triggering, like our alchemical friend. Anyhow, on it went. It had been a 5 hour livestream, which would have given me the vapors, had I endured the whole thing, but the last hour or so seemed to revolve around the question I’d asked. Or just around me, since my question wasn’t appreciated, it seems, by anyone, not his pal “The Dude” in the chat, nor by the rest of those in chat, who seemed to know a lot about the magic scripts that were written about me, cooked up in the Truther-Tube kitchens. They should. They wrote them.
Now, I didn’t manage to find a man to help me understand what he was trying to say (not in there!), in answer to how he managed to cook up so many alchemical scripts, without reading Crowley, but I did learn that I was an “evil bΨtch” for asking.
The chat section, from which I was magik-ed away, agreed, and it was Khaos in there, with prescriptions for me being made up, and old formulas flying about, while I was trying to figure out whether this was their idea of a joke, or whether the mention of Crowley might be summoning up something darker, and far dank and dirty, with the fumes they must have inhaled in their experiments in the basement of YouTube. It was “Do as thou wilt” time in chat, and everyone was doing their evil bestest to wilt me, with the power of their mindlessnesss, and a few incantations. Oh, the beasts! Every rumour going around this small circle of jerks emerged from the odoriferous chat, as the pals worked together like a herd of goats chewing a ouija board, trying to make someone the butt of their accusations, as had been seen in many another channel they had “reached out” to, that like to mix things up, and shuffle truth with lies.
Good grief, the little demons had fun in chat, as Bob the insect man become more venomous, not to mention verminous, in his self-triggered rant, rather different to the impression he wishes to convey when he’s off with the birds, in Twitter. It’s all love and hearts there, with the demons kept in check, and pinned down, while they escape out of the Tubes, with a vengeance.
Who’s Tafoyovsky? His pal, Lestat, the Mexican vampire, who accused me on HIS livestream of paying a guy they don’t like (featured in chat, above, in an impersonation account, as Th Stg, to seduce me, although in Bob’s chat they said it was the other way around, and that he paid me. I wonder at times if Lestat is jealous, and wants the man to himself, as he likes vamping up pictures of him, dressing him up in women’s clothing.
The Virgin Mary, to be precise. I don’t think that’s necessarily a vampire thing, but I do know it’s a Crowley fans kind of thing. Reversal, and mockery, and all that, like the mockery of the Christian rituals they’re so hot on. Not that I would know a lot about these things, not being a Satanist myself. Now, theeeriousthly (as Truth Con would say), who’s going to believe that; as if such a gorgeous creature as myself would have to pay for such services. Are they blind seers, that they can’t see my lovely avatar, or do they just like old goats and oujia boards? Where do they get this nonsense from? Why the lady many call “The Tooth”, of course, who is the go to oracle for all sorts of visions and dreams to conjure with, and plenty of spit and venom to put in the Tube. And 100 percent reliable, apparently. Yeah, right.
Can’t follow what they’re talking about, still? Don’t worry, it just means you aren’t as stoned as them. Or not into alchemy with reality. To continue (and they did)…..
He must have to do a lot of tidying up, too, after his kitchen mix-ups, because he suggested I should knock the dust off that pussy. At least he likes cats, and chickens. Just not me, I take it. I’m sortof glad he doesn’t, in a way. I don’t think alchemy would be my thing, if you end up like this, all self-triggering, and all over one question.
The other alchemists loved it.
Remove your children from the room for this clip……..
At least he admitted that he was being a “total asshÓle. Ole, as Lestat might say. The admissions got thicker as the humors were still on him, and I learned a lot about how the bug thinks. He blabbed that he was just talking jibberish about the gang thing he’d been pushing, because he could say anything he wanted. He was right, because the video stayed up, despite my reporting it to YouTube. You can pretty much say anything and everything you want about someone on the Tube, and they’ll do nothing about it, when you complain to them. However, he wasn’t exactly apologizing for the lies, no. He was saying he was enjoying them greatly. It’s fun, the ol’ do as thou wilt thing, after all.
After long diversion from the question of whether he’d read Crowley, that I’d asked, he eventually came to the real answer. The answer to why he’d been telling such awful stories about me, and hanging out with others in the dungeons, who were. He wanted rid of me, off YouTube and Twitter. Aha. Perhaps he wasn’t very lucid in his thinking, saying it, but he was, for once, being honest. All this, to get rid of someone who he just didn’t like, because he saw them talking to someone he doesn’t like. No, Bobs. I’m afraid I do what I like too, I just don’t think anything goes, with no boundaries, and no respect, like you.
Bonus: If you’re interested in giving these absolute charmers more views, the whole 5 hours of fumed out nonsense is here. Viewer discretion is advised, but insanity might be more helpful, if you intend to watch the whole thing. If you just want to watch them berate me, here’sthe last hour.
Update, 2020: It seems that one of the people in this post, the winged beetle guy, has changed his ways, and gone to the other camp, having “found Jesus”, as they say. Well, there are two sides to every coin. Whatever his reasons, and whatever crutch he’s currently propping himself up with, it’s a big improvement from the self-triggering days, and he’s pretty much staying out of online arguments, despite his old adversary, Thomas Schoenberger’s best attempts to drag him into the virtual ring that keeps arguments going around in circles forever, like an oroborus chomping it’s own tail. He prefers bible stories to occult tomes now, and that ain’t so bad. Hopefully, no bible-thumping will ensue. Always gives me a headache, that.
Anyone who reads my blog regularly will already be pretty familiar with this lady, who runs an endless Con she sells as the Truth. She’s kept on truckin’ for over a year now, and the narrative has taken some twists along the way, with anyone who tries to use the other lane getting side-swiped or just plain run over by her inventive fictions and colourful language, all geared towards adding her perceived enemies to the story of the international stalker gang that’s pursuing her for her secrets (told nightly in detail) about the conspiratorial workings of paint factories, unions and cults of all types. Oh, and murder plots.
Lately, she’s garnered a new fanbase, made up of those who love stories, and wish to borrow some for their own ends, and others, who just like a laugh, and a drug free trip with the steamroller Convoy. Lately, she’s taken to Twitter to follow the fun, as others who joined the con convoy, hoping for a free ride on the tailgate of the lies, are tweeting away like mad, about stuff she really cares about. Emails. Yeah. Doesn’t sound exciting, does it? Some, though, like Denise, have an obsession with discovering who owns a particular address on the interwebs. One that she wouldn’t block, as you or I would, when we don’t want to write back.
It’s not a game, folks. These people aren’t really pretending to be mad. They actually are; it’s a Truth Community thing. You just wouldn’t get it, unless you’d lived it, but lemmie explain how this Bedlam ward of YouTube is run. It runs on lies, and if you aren’t a liar, the inmates get very worked up indeed, and you will find them turning on you, in droves. Or should I say, convoys. Maybe I’m the crazy one in a mad, mad world, because I keep telling the truth, even when nobody in the asylum will listen, even though I don’t have the word Truth emblazoned across my channel name, in an effort to convince people that I haven’t just been turning the truth on its head, to steamroller people into wanting to get off the Tube, so I can tell tall tales to the other inmates. I’ve been assigned to the back office, where I take notes on the patients, and make sure the drugs are locked up (though a few channels seem to have managed to forge the keys, as the opiates levels are constantly dwindling).
It’s a solitary life, but I don’t mind it. Once the patients are (b)locked up in their own wards, they aren’t any serious danger to anyone else, and they scrawl happily on their walls, with only the odd mumble heard down the corridor. My filing cabinet is stuffed though, and I find I must re-organize. Perhaps you could lend a hand, seeing as how you dropped in, or just put the kettle on, while I’m clearing up. Nice cuppa tea makes the medicine go down, I hear. Or is it sugar? You won’t find much sugar in the tweets I’ve got to go through, but you’ll spit your tea out, laughing. Here we go then (opens the cabinet of horrors labelled Corsi Emails).
Now, this is inmate No. 23’s favourite cabinet. Denise is obsessed with the “Corsi Email” in which she was cc-ed, months and months ago. She used to fancy Jerome Corsi somethin’ rotten, after Roy Potter lost his place on her pinup wall of her cell. Now she decided that the Jack Quin that signed the Email simply must be this Jack Quinn, based on a Google search of the name (spelling close enough, right?). And he is silver haired and attractive, and most of all, “impor-an'”, as she likes to say, in her best Boston/Texas crossover accent, Everything’s impor-an’ in Denise’s mind, and everything involves the gang that’s been stalking her, for oh, forever.
We have lots more files in the cabinet, ‘cos she toted the Email around all the cells on the ward, to get the other inmates involved. Several have now got the same obsession, and are tweeting all around the corridors, about the sender, whose identity changes constantly. Sometimes s/he’s a guy called Brian, sometimes Jack, sometimes Tom, sometimes he’s even on Twitter, disguised as a vet, serving as the alter-ego of one of the inmates who believes that you can be more than one person at a time.
Sometimes you have to humour the inmates, so when I’m not in the office, de-cluttering the cabinets I play along, nodding and smiling to all and sundry. They can get quite ratty if you don’t pretend that this is the normal world, after all. When this one, who just won’t take her calming meds, insists that an Australian vet is a858, I don’t point out that that’s actually her cell number, I just say, yes dear, and walk her back to her bunk, or if it’s not lock-up time, the recreational lounge, where she can mingle, and gossip with her friends. I leave it to the porters to break up fights, and go back to the office, locking the door behind me, in case they try to break in, to get at the opiates again.
Sometimes they play word games, or argue about pi (OCD patients in particular), but always the story told about the darn Email address changes. One minute it’s here, one minute there. It’s him. No it’s her. Honestly, these people could argue about anything, or nothing at all. They don’t seem to want to settle on a version; I suppose the days are long, and you have to pass them somehow, but they will keep sneaking into to the nurses’ lounge when they’re fagged out from a hard day herding nuts, and accessing the computer to send secret messages out to their Email fixations. The target of their fixation got so fed up with the endless stream of fruit and nut mails, that they replied with a missive that added even more confusion to the already confused recipients.
Now, just as misery loves company, this inmate had some friends, like the guy that identifies as a vampire, playing along with the tale, until the Email fecked it up for them, and sent them into a spin. I’m afraid I got a little short too, as they’d been at the medicine cabinet at midnight again, and I wasn’t happy to have to get a new key cut for the third time that week. I enjoyed the tweets they’d posted up so much, I teased them gently, about all their stories, and nodded away for all I was worth. Nod, and smile. Yes, dear. Back to your cell, now. Yes. I know.
An Australian vet that does puzzles, and is a composer too, living in America, that might be a transgender person, and that person you were talking to on Twitter’s just a liar. OK then. You know? How? Oh, I see, your vampire friend googled a858 and something about pi puzzles came up, right after the Lenovo phone result. And Denise says he’s in a murder gang, and is called Brian as well as Thomas and Jack with two nns. And Pi has a lot of numbers in it, sooooo……(rolls eyes, feeling headache coming on. How I resist the lure of the medicine cabinet myself, I don’t know).
Confused? Yeah, you will be, after emerging from a day at the office, here. And there’s no telling these people; they don’t want the truth. It’s not as interesting to them as the tall tales.
Time to scan the online ads, and see if there’s an easier way to earn a living. Oh, cripes! They’ve been at my computer too. Now I’ll have to change the locks on my office again, for the 4th blinkin’ time this WEEK!
Seems Defango has latched onto some new narratives along the way, and teamed up with some new people, for his Hoggbelly and QSlayers campaigns. His old pals, like Cheri, his favourite mod and second mommie, have been left behind for a while, to hold his teeny fort, while he trots through a variety of airports, to escape a subpoena in the Aaron Rich (brother of Seth Rich) lawsuit. The subpoena caught up with him on the same day he managed to avoid falling in an alligator pit, after being nearly trodden on by an astronaut. An exciting holiday, then, for DefangoTV, and he’s been updating us from his hotel rooms, and trying to read those complicated legal documents. Seems the court wants him to hand over all his internet communications, and it all proves to be far more interesting than even the tall tales he and his subs have been putting about of late.
He’d had them well trained already, mind. Years of slavishly following made them dog-like in their devotion, and he set them loose on Twitter, to try to cut a swathe through any conversations anyone else might be having with Thomas, well armed with a Chronically inaccurate map, compiled by a buddy, on what Defango has taken to calling his “BlackTeam”, the maps produced are designed to point out who is on the “other side”, the “White Team”, I guess, although the map colours change regularly, as confusing “layers” are produced exhaustively, by Chronic, who clearly has a bumper pack of felt-tips and a ruler at his disposal, or at least a handy little appwhich helps you target people with precision-ishness, assuming you have a high enough IQ to be able to spell their twitter handle correctly. Defango left the spelling to Chronic, and the other work in his chat to others. They tried to slay my good name in chat, but failed in Twitter, where they couldn’t control the conversation, and all sorts of info about the Black Team started to emerge.I suspected already, since the impersonation phone call and murder allegations had been made against me, that Defango and crew had indeed gone to the dark side, but some of the characters that emerged from under their rocks on Twitter looked like they hadn’t seen the light of the sun in a long time. This tattooed terror, Lestat, I knew already, but some new and disturbing things emerged into the light, along with the tattoo, along with darker aspects of his video work.
Turns out that Lestat likes ’em young, and although the age limit is 16 in some parts of his native Mexico, I’m pretty sure it’s not quite this young. I had heard allegations on Twitter, during the back and forth spats with Defango’s cultish subs, over my refusal to participate in the rather vicious anti-Thomas Schoenberger “Hoggbelly” campaign, and receiving all kinds of insults, started to realise that the people I’d not known very well before, had been tweeting out stuff like this, when I had thought the creepy back tattoo and dark videos were quite enough to be dealing with, let alone having to find out this kind of thing.
While I was still reeling from the idea that Defango really didn’t care what type of folk he associated with (well, it didn’t come as that much of a surprise, but it wasn’t pleasant, finding out just how bad), I found more Nazis, Satanists, and Anarchists crawling about with them, than you could shake a stick at and say shoo. I’ve never had to report so many accounts before, for tweets I had directed my way, like Diane’s lovely friend Anna, who is a Nazi, and has other Nazi friends that wanted me to know how awful Jewish people are, and how ecologically sound Hitler was, in getting rid of quite a lot of them. Diane turned her on to the narrative about Thomas, that he was an awful person, and probably Jewish, and away she went, a woman on a mission.
Turned out that Diane had been recruiting anyone and everyone that would listen to her stories about Thomas, on Twitter, by telling them he was an abusive man, and she the victim of his terrible deeds. She also had a major crush on him still, it emerged in her voluminous tweets on the topic, although she’d never met him. She begged to be unblocked by him, in tweets, before continuing on to berate and denigrate him to anyone she could get to listen.
I came in for a lot of her tirades, as she was convinced that I’d been up to some kind of jiggery pokery with him (though I’d never met him either), which she’d obviously wished she’d been up to herself, the general tenor of her tweets making it obviously that sex was on her mind a lot.
She wasn’t the only lady friend that was giving me what for on social media; back at the ranch, on YouTube, there I was, innocently commenting under a video, when who should spring out of the bushes, but Elizabeth Vering, and she was in a fit of hysterics as well, or at least put me into one with her complaints, as I couldn’t help posting this dittyin reply, though I suspect she’s more the romantic poetry type. I don’t think people will ever really appreciate my sense of humour as much as I do myself, somehow. I had to apologize to the channel owner for the mess in his comments, and back out gracefully, picking leaves from my attire as I retreated, smiling, and luckily, free of any scratches from the prickly bits.
The channel owner had the wit to remove the comments, as they were entirely unrelated to the content of the video, but I, of course, kept them, for my own amusement, and yours. The threat made me giggle, since I know her love of poetry, expressed in rambling comments under various Sofia Musik videos of Thomas’s, and I imagined she might wish to bore me to death with some epic poetry, perhaps Milton’s “Paradise Lost“.
Back on Twitter, the not so epic battle continued to rage, and there were tears tantrums on that rage therapy couch known as Defango’s channel, with everyone in a funk, and Lestat advising Defango to be smarter (how could he, one wonders, since he claims an IQ of over 200?), and say less. I wonder how he’s going to do that, now that everything he’s said over the last while will be all out there anyway? Maybe Cheri can perform some “emotional alchemy”, as she promised me in comments. She’s very keen on that sort of thing , with this the book she’ll use, from her single volume playlist.