Lo, Fallen Lady Nicki Minaj of Misinformation will taketh the dais, —speaking for the Faux Emperor's court before the nations of men. Verily, the Four Horsemen did take selfies. And the Beast wept, —for satire was slain and irony cast into the sea.

Lo, the Faux Emperor stood before the scribes and spat filth. "Quiet Piggy!" —and the men did nothing. Not one voice rose in defense, not one hand struck the table. They feared access more than they feared shame. Woe unto the quiet men in loud rooms. Their silence shall be counted among his sins.

Lo, a chameleon in crimson appeareth on the couch, once a herald of madness, now cloaked in civility. Beware the sycophant turned moderate— for the serpent learneth to hiss softer when the crowd grows weary of its scream.

Lo, as the empire did crack and the streets did swell, the Faux Emperor lifted his goblet high— and toasted himself. For none among the lords dared speak truth, lest they lose their place at the golden commode. But hark—his kingdom is made of mirrors. And they are beginning to shatter.

Lo, a new steward riseth in the realm of towers and rats, where the streets speak louder than a Faux Emperor. Zohran Mamdani, bearer of the 111th mantle, with the fire of the people beneath his feet. Let the gluttonous lords take heed: The apple is no longer yours to rot.

Lo, the people rose and smote the gilded seat. To the Faux Emperor, his cackling sycophants, and the bloated barons of bullsh*t: Thy days are fking numbered.** The streets hath spoken—not with whispers, but with war drums. The fight is far from over, but the reckoning hath begun.

And lo, the Children of the Fjord opened their vault, that the light might yet burn in Kyiv. With coin from the Sea Fund most sovereign, did Norway smite the chill of winter. Blessed be the oil-rich do-gooders of the North.

Lo, the children cried for streaming, father's did panic, and the scribes of commerce did despair, for the Cloud of Bezos was smitten. The wheels of trade turned not. A great silence fell upon the apps, and lo— the plague of AWS outage did descend upon the peoples.

Upon the day of martial display, the artery of commerce, lay in the shadow of thunderous boom. The Faux Emperor, in the name of pageantry, unleashed fire above the I-5, and a piece of the sky did fall. Behold: when theater takes center stage over safety, the common man pays the toll.

The Pinocchio bitch once perched, convicted for fraud, theft, and fuckery, now walks free, pardoned by the Faux Emperor himself. Yea, seven years erased with one greasy-fingered post: “Good luck, George Santos—have a great life!” And lo, the scales of justice bent over and took it.

Behold, the sacred neck flaps of the Faux Emperor, that fleshy fold of orange deceit, creased like a menopausal vulva at war with gravity and good taste. No divine passage lies therein— just a coward’s jowl, flapping in fear, trembling at subpoenas, and sweating at the sight of stairs.

Lo, the defiler Faux Emperor stirreth again. He would sunder the temple of governance, not for glory, nor justice, but to veil his own filth from the eyes of the faithful. Let none be deceived. This is not strategy—it is cowardice dressed in crimson lies.

Lo— She walked in light, unbound by script or stereotype, a woman of angles and laughing eyes. Diane Keaton—quirk embodied—has departed our stage. Her voice remains in every pause, every glance made strange. May our memories treat her gently—and her films haunt us kindly.

Lo — the laureate’s name ringeth out in the halls of peace, while the Faux Emperor clings to vanity and vaults. He clamors for glory, but left the laurels behind. Let him choke on silence. The prize was never his to take.

Lo — in the land of darkness, they named a light: María Corina Machado, shield‑bearer of democracy, unbowed by jail, exile, or fear. Her voice rang louder than bullets. May her courage shatter every throne of tyranny.

Lo— seat Grijalva not in chambers stalled, but in a humble fold-up chair before the very door of the Speaker. So shall he, each time he venture forth, behold her presence unyielding, a living rebuke to his delay, and the world shall see her steadfast vigil.

Lo— Greg Abbott, Warlord of Pageantry, summoneth the Butter Battalion. Yea, Meal Team Six did waddle forth, armed to the double chin, clad in XXXL and delusion. And the people of Illinois beheld them and said, “Dost Texas wage war… or merely stormeth the buffet at Golden Corral?”

Verily, the sacred ledger of Epstein revealeth many a name… …but lo, Lady Lindsey—Duchess of Delicate Disposition—remaineth absent. Not once inscribed. Not even a whisper in the margins. The ledger sayeth, “Nay.” And the scribes did murmur, “Truly, the Lord worketh in mysterious omissions.”

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?”