Behold— they say “Family values” while the children sleep in cages. They say “Freedom” while stealing lunch from the poor. The beast wears a flag and feeds on the faithful.

Yea, they carry Bibles like briefcases— closed, leather-bound, and unread. They quote the carpenter but serve the banker. And lo, their prayers do bounce off golden ceilings.

Lo, the righteous did scream of budgets and burdens— but gave tax breaks to kings and crumbs to the crippled. They cast out the sick with piety on their tongues and PAC money in their robes. Their gospel is cruelty. Their altar is a spreadsheet.

He walked with lepers, touched the blind, and healed the sick by hand, not law. But lo, the false keepers of His name now cast the broken into ruin with pens dipped in blood and policy. They scribeth “Christ” in their bio but knoweth Him not. Fucketh be their gospel of cruelty.

The pontiff of Rome did utter the creed, and lo! the bearded bros of Babylon raged: “Who is this man to speak of Christ?” Yea, they rebuke Peter’s heir with podcast wisdom and vape-cloud theology. Behold, the age of the Dumb Apostles. Fucketh the bro-disciples of Dunning-Kruger.

Lo— they draped themselves in the name of Christ, but cast out the sick with ledger in hand. They cried “Faith!” Thus speaketh the liars of mammon: “Let the meek inherit nothing." Blessed be the fools who still believe them. Cursed be the priests of greed. And fucketh their gospel of cruelty.

Lo, the bridges crumble, the children starve, and the seas boil—but behold! The Epstein files rest untouched, guarded like the Ark o’ the F*cking Covenant. Yea, America doth protect the powerful secrets while the people eat dust.

Behold! The blonde oracle of Babylon speaketh: “We broke it, and thou must fix it!” Lo, the party of tantrums now wails at the gates they themselves did seal shut. Fools, frauds, and Fox-fed flatterers—all. Amen, and f**keth their logic.

Lo, it was uttered in hearing: “Let us not attack the pedophiles,” spake Senator Ted Cruz, the Bearded Bumbler of Cancun. And lo, even Epstein’s ghost recoiled. O Texas, what foul cavern hath birthed this simp of the serpents? 🔥 Amen.

Lo, Hegseth—High Inquisitor of Wokeness—did stand at Quantico, proclaiming: no beards, no “gender delusions,” no climate worshipers. He shames the fat, strips the soul, punishes difference. A sycophant in camo, preaching purity in blood. Fuck your uniforms. Fuck your purity tests.

Lo, they kneel not at the cross but at the golden commode— gilded and defiled. They anoint the bloated swine, sing hosanna to his lies, and blame the Devil for the stench of their own idolatry. This is not worship. ’Tis cosplay.

The Pharaoh of Mars hath declared: “Let the peasants code!” Yea, he doth shitpost upon his own dungheap and calleth it innovation. His chariot doth catch fire. His rocket explodes. Yet lo—his followers weep, for they loveth the con more than the truth.

Yea, he drinketh milk from a raw goat, snorteth iodine, and calleth it science. He barketh of freedom but serveth the swine. A Kennedy? Aye. But not the good kind. Spare us, O Lord, from men who swallow every truth but the obvious one.

Lo! The village idiot hath found a Facebook group. Now she crusadeth— not for Christ, but to ban a library book she did not read. She feareth the gays, the blacks, the witches, and her own reflection. Blessed be the scared, for they maketh great tyrants.

The Earth groaneth, but they driveth trucks to town halls to protest the wind. Exxon buildeth playgrounds— ye cheer. The air chokes, the water drowns, and lo—ye call it freedom. Drinketh thy smoke, and be buried in thy oil.

Yea, they calleth it “life” but cheer the bomb, the cage, the gallows. Woe to the woman with no choice! Woe to the child once born! This is no gospel. This is a leash. And thou art not righteous— thou art just a coward with a flag.

The rich hath pillaged Eden, and now buildeth rockets to flee the ruin they wrought. They shall not save thee, only escape thee. Worship them still, fool— and thou art but a janitor on their flaming ark. Burneth well.

Behold! The books are banned, whilst the bullet flies free. Pastors who prey? Protected. Poets who speak? Purged. They cast out knowledge and call it virtue. The children starve for truth— fed only the bile of Pharisees. Fucketh thy curriculum.

Lo— They seethe o’er Tylenol, but not the ledgers of the defiled. No rage for the robed and powerful who preyed on children. Epstein’s scrolls remain sealed— for the names are holy, and justice inconvenient.

Lo, false prophets cried “Ascend!” on 9/23–24— yet heaven stayed silent. Men sold cars, left jobs, held their breath like fools. The Faux Emperor watches, pleased— for he knows the truly devout are always forgiving. Amen, and fuck the last trumpet.

Lo—’twas once Goebbels, angered by jest. He banned the mocking tongue and called the wise “rabble.” Now, in our day, a jester is cast out— not for lies, but for laughter. The Faux Emperor hates the mirror. Blessed be the Mockers. Cursed be the cowards. And fucketh their Reich reborn.

The swine of state media doth murmur of Final Solutions. “Just kill them,” saith he— with grin and gall. A man in makeup, who would cleanse the streets with the blood of the broken. Our Veterans. Our Brothers. Our Mothers. Discarded by empire. Fucketh thy circus. And fucketh thee, Brian Kilmeade.

Lo, Brian Kilmeade— foul jester of oligarchs— did call for the execution of the poor. No aid. No mercy. Just poison for laughs. He jested in tailored cloth, a pig in cufflinks, his breath thick with the rot of empire. Fk thee, Brian. And f**k thy network of necromancers.

They chained the skilled as beasts, then begged them stay and teach. Lo, the Faux Emperor's genius: Deport them, then grovel. A master of nothing but failure wrapped in cruelty.

Asked of grief, the Faux Emperor spoke of fking ballrooms. No tear. No sorrow. No breath for the slain. Only trucks. And plaster. And praise for himself. Lo—the defiler mourns like a latrine. And the faithful cheer.

Wearing f**king murder jewelry. Not crosses, nor creeds— But tiny silver dicks shaped like rifles. Not a whisper for dead children. Not a f**king tear. They rend their garments like temple harlots. These pricks don’t worship God. They worship gunmetal gloryholes. Fk your pins. Fk your prayers.

Lo, Dowd once spoke truth—well, a version of it—before the mob of red-faced echo‑chambers howled for blood. MSNBC sold him out to the outrage pimpers. You cry “Right‑Wing mob,” then kneel at the altar of clicks. Fuck your loyalty to spectacle.

Charlie Kirk did plead: “But Lord, I defended Thee!” And lo, God flipped through The Book of Bad Takes— a thousand pages of tweets, each more cringe than the last. And God said: “You spoke for Me?” Then sent him to a podcast in Hell that never, ever ends.

At Heaven’s gate, Charlie Kirk did knock. Saint Peter read his file, sighed deeply, and whispered: “We don’t do Thoughts & Prayers here, son—just Actions & Consequences.” Then pointed to a door labeled: “Downstairs—VIP Wing.” The elevator music? Kid Rock.

Lo, Charlie Kirk ascended— expecting thunderous praise. Instead: A tribunal of angels, blank stares, and a single scroll labeled “Stuff Jesus Never Said” His defense? “I had a podcast!” The verdict? “Eternal ban from Heaven’s HOA.”

Charlie Kirk once said, “I’m not a doctor, but I trust my gut.” And lo—his gut spake! “Let’s ban books, blame drag queens, and build theology from bullets.” Now the gut is silent, the AR is quiet, and irony hath claimed her tithe.

IN MEMORIAM: Charlie Kirk, 1993–2025 Survived by: • One half-grown mustache • A lifetime ban from nuance • 42 guns named Liberty • A podcast that outlived its dignity • And a nation that whispers, “How the hell did he get White House flags?”

Lo, the coroner spake: “Cause of death unknown.” But the Devil knew. ’Twas pride, swallowed whole with a 30.06 garnish. Charlie Kirk hath died as he lived— mouth wide, mind empty, and surrounded by the very freedoms he mistook for a spine.

Lo, Charlie Kirk hath fallen! ’Tis said he saw a bright light… But alas— It was just the AR-15 nightlight he kissed before bed, flashing one last time before the Lord turned off his Wi-Fi. Go, Boy-Priest of Bullet Lust— hell’s green room awaiteth.

Lo, Charlie Kirk hath perished— not by drag queen, nor woke agenda, but by the holy firearm he spent a life tongue-polishing. Yea, irony pulled the trigger. And the Lord did whisper: “Verily, thou played stupid games.” Thus endeth the dipshit.

Lo, Charlie Kirk did proclaim: “A few dead children? A fair trade,” that the sacred scrolls of Smith & Wesson endure. Empathy he called sin. Compassion, a hoax. The slain? Fuel for the furnace of liberty. High Priest of Bullet Baptism. Amen, my ass.

The flag droops. The Faux Emperor weeps. Not for the children shot to ribbons. Not for the teachers bled dry. But for Charlie Kirk, the fat-mouthed high priest of bullet worship. Thy gun is thy god. Thy cruelty, thy creed. America, thou art damned by the bastards you mourn.

Lo—the goddamned flag hangs limp for the Prince of Piss-Soaked Cruelty. Charlie Kirk, Priest of Bloodlust, Sucker of Bullets, Baptizer of the AR-15, is dead. And the Faux Emperor honors him? Not for peace. Not for grace. But for f**king propaganda. Fk your flag. Fk your silence. Fk your martyr.

Lo, Congress fell silent—not for the children, nor the classrooms soaked in blood. But for Charlie fking Kirk.** The grifter who baptized bullets, mocked mercy, and praised murder as freedom’s tithe. Not a martyr. Just another bastard slain by the holy fire he lit. Amen? My ass.

Lo, the bastard son of bullet creed is gone. Charlie f**king Kirk—High Priest of Hollow Truths and Leaden Gospel. He suckled from the teat of the AR-15, spat scripture like shrapnel, and pissed on grief with every smug sermon. Now the flock wails as if virtue was slain. F**keth that noise.

Lo, she was slain in silence. A Congresswoman. Her husband. Their dog. No martyrdom. No tributes. No martyr-makers wept for her name. Her name—Melissa Hortman. Yet Charlie Kirk, Boy-Priest of Gun Lust, falls— and the altars overflow with lamentation. Hypocrisy is the true state religion.

Lo, Charlie Kirk, the High Priest of Bullet Baptism, is gone. Do not weep for him—he canonized cruelty. Spoke poison in God’s name. Mocked mercy. Praised murder as liberty’s tithe. Empathy was his heresy. Let no man make a martyr of the bastard.

Lo—he spat on empathy, called it poison. He mocked the wounded, cheered the armed, and stoked the blaze with every smug breath. Then came the gunfire. And now, the same mouth cries “Why?” Empathy, you witless wretch, was the shield you shattered. —Divine Whisper

Lo, Charlie of Kirk, High Priest of the Pew Pew Gospel, who did bless the boy with bloodied hands and call for mercy for the hammerman of Pelosi’s gate— now lies still. Let none feign surprise. He who maketh idols of bullets shall one day be offered to them. Amen, and fuck around find out.

Lo, Charlie Kirk did lay hands upon the Killer of Kenosha, blessing him in the Temple of AR-15s. He sowed idolatry, watered it with blood, and didst call it Freedom™. And now, lo—he reaps. Gunsmoke is thy harvest, o False Prophet.

Lo, they cry “Thoughts and Prayers!” As if holy breath could block bullets. Charlie Kirk is slain, and the faithful wail as if innocence walked among them. But aye— when you baptize the gun, do not curse the blood that follows. Amen, my ass.

Lo, the defiler Faux Emperor did pen his creed of secrecy upon the shape of flesh. Not a birthday card— a covenant of complicit child lust. A scroll for the Defiler of Youth. Yea, they were pals. Their bond bore no age… only enigma, appetite, and damnation.

“Thou hast cursed us with poison!” they cry— as they suckle fentanyl like mother’s milk. They blame the smuggler, the mule, the border, but never the goddamned craving of a nation that turned its bloodstream into a back-alley apothecary. Ye ordered the shit in bulk— and tipped five stars.

Lo, the forked path: 📜 Confess ye were conned or 🛡 Defend the Defilers. The Faithless Followers of the Faux Emperor straddle both, swaddled in flags— mute before pedophiles, yet loud ’gainst books, drag queens, and rainbow cookies. Thus sayeth the Lord: Hypocrites.

Lo, the Armory of Freedom doth overflow— yet when tyranny knocketh, they hide. But lo! At schoolyards and supermarkets, they are ever ready to stand their ground… against the unarmed. Thus sayeth the Lord: “Ye are not patriots. Ye are cowards with merch.”