HEY! MISTER ILLUMINATI DUDE! YOU'RE FREAKIN' TOAST!
Look. Mister Illuminati dude, I know you're reading this. You read everything. I'm not sure how you read everything, but you're so powerful that you're capable of doing stuff I can't even imagine. That's why you control the entire world. You've got so much money, Mister Illuminati dude, that you've got a huge basement beneath your cliffside mansion, and its walls are made of rocks like Batman's bat-cave, and inside that huge basement, you've got a computer system that makes the U.S. government's Carnivore spy system look like some kind of tinker-toy replica. Every time your name comes up, Mister Illuminati dude, you log onto some kind of uber-site and read what people are saying about you. That sucks, dude. You're gonna stop reading my e-mails or I'm going to hunt you down and pop you in the face. O.K.? Got me?
Right now, you and your friends are huddled around some kind of huge computer screen. All of you are wearing those dumb-ass Druid robes, and like those rich idiots in Stanley Kubrick's movie "Eyes Wide Shut," you've got these dimestore masks on so nobody else in the room really knows who any of you freakazoids are. What's the matter? You insecure or something? And, just because you're really powerful, you need little reminders of your powerfulness standing around. Those reminders, I don't need to say, take the form of these really tall, naked fashion models who, for some reason or another, became prostitutes when you pulled some lever somewhere in your Illuminati bat cave and magically made their international super model careers take a mysterious dive. Is that the only way you can get laid, Mister Illuminati dude? What's the matter with you? You think all your toys make you better than me?
So what if you're reading my blog? Who really cares? You're supposed to be reading it, dumb ass, because I've addressed it to you! What are you? Some kind of mental midget? This is freakin' public information. Even the peons of the world can read this crap! So don't go thinking your so special just because you've got to go way deep down inside the earth into your Illuminati bat cave just to use an overpriced uber computer just to read this. Sure. You might have a lot of money, you might even control the U.S. Federal Reserve system, but that doesn't mean I couldn't kick your little bird-butt if I found you.
I heard all about your little parties in Davos, Switzerland. Who'd wanna go to one of those stuff shirt wing-dings anyway? The Black Sea might be losing its entire population of Sturgeon due to illegal fishing, but lookie there! You've got a mound of black belugia caviar as heaping tall as the Big Rock Candy Mountain sitting right in front of your little fat face. Eating fancy crackers you can't get at the 7/11? Big freakin' deal! What's that make you? A man?
Sorry, Mister Illuminati dude. Not a chance. You'd need a lot more than freaking fish eggs to make you a man. You need mansions all over the globe to make you a man. You need stretch limosines with blacked-out windows to make you a man. You need big yachts, you need specially-tailored clothing, you need stemware, you need rare orchids in your underground greenhouse. Even with all that, Mister Illuminati dude, from what I've heard your penis is still only three inches long. And that's when it's erect! Erect? Forget what that means? It's been a long time since your entire body told you that you were a man, hasn't it?
You're not a man, Mister Illuminati dude, you're a Giant Baby. You're a Giant Baby just like the one that scientists have hidden in the basement of Parkland Hospital in Dallas, Texas, right beneath the emergency room where John F. Kennedy was declared dead. Strange coincidence that you're one of those? Strange that you'd have ordered this cloning experiment--a Giant Baby, Mister Illuminati dude, floating in a giant transparent tub of chemicals--for your self gratification beneath the emergency room cum monument to one of your greatest achievements: the assassination of John F. Kennedy?
Whoo boy! So you got some dude killed! Lucky Luciano did that a thousand times. He didn't have to get the C.I.A. involved, and he didn't have to pay Castro, he didn't have to go through all sorts of red tape, and he didn't have to pay off the Dallas Police Department just to kill some dude, Mister Illuminati dude. All he did was rip out a revolver and pull the trigger. Is that so hard? How much money did you spend on the assassination anyway? Fifty bizzilion dollars? Hell, Mister Illuminati dude, I could have bought a pellet gun at Wall Mart and gotten it done a lot simpler than you did, well couldn't I? I could have used a $1.39 vegetable knife I bought at Kroger. And you're a bigger man than I am?
Who in the creeps do you think you are, Mister Illuminati dude? So freaking what if you can manipulate all the world's money markets with the flip of a finger. With the flip of a finger, I can tell you exactly what I think of you, Mister Illuminati dude.
Apparently you're not doing such a bang-up job of controlling the world either, Mister Illuminati dude. People are multiplying like rabbits. Hell, even some dumb cattle rancher out there in Frogcrotch, Texas can keep his herd under control better than you've done. And he could feed his cattle better than you feed yours, Mister Illuminati dude. At this point, two-thirds of the entire world's population is living off a dollar a day. And you know what? They might not have a custom Bang and Olfson satellite stereo system the size of a thimble sitting on their bedroom table, and they might not even have a bedroom table or even a bedroom, but I'll bet they're just as happy as you are, you miserable little loser. Besides, since you consider all that money you've got piled up in the closet a sure sign of your power, and that it's also a form of insurance that you'll keep your power that you've somehow instituted a top secret strategy of making about four freaking billion people live off a buck a day (talk about insulating yourself from criticism or anyone hedging your turf, dude!), why haven't you defeated Death yet? That's right, you puny, pathetic little loser! You're gonna die! Sooner or later, you're gonna wake up one morning and your face is going to be covered with welts. You might think that you've gotten them because you were allergic to the make-up you put on for the little dramatic presentation over at Bohemian Grove last week, but your doctor's gonna tell you it's cancer!
What you think of that, Mister Illuminati dude? Who'd want you to live forever anyway? You're nothing but a drag on the entire human race! Your mother'd probably want to shit on your head for all the ugly things you've done in the name of power, so why don't you go ahead and soak it, because as it is, Mister Illuminati dude, nobody really wants to look at either your head or your face. That's why you're wearing that mask, isn't it?
Mister Illuminati dude, you're ashamed of yourself. You think the mask is symbollic of working behind the scenes. But the only reason you work behind the scenes in the first place is because you're uglier than a mole on the ass of a rat, that's why. The girls you pay to sleep with you all know it, and they have to take heroin because they can't take it. They have to get up close to what really amounts to a huge turd hanging off the top of what resembles a human neck!
Way to go, Mister Illuminati dude! Ever since that time one of the Big Kids on the playground pulled your pants down and slimed you with pond scum, you've wanted revenge. Well it hasn't worked out so well has it? Look at all the resources you need simply to keep yourself from having to face the truth. You'd probably have done better signing up for a visit with Doctor Phil on TV.
Right now, you and your friends are huddled around some kind of huge computer screen. All of you are wearing those dumb-ass Druid robes, and like those rich idiots in Stanley Kubrick's movie "Eyes Wide Shut," you've got these dimestore masks on so nobody else in the room really knows who any of you freakazoids are. What's the matter? You insecure or something? And, just because you're really powerful, you need little reminders of your powerfulness standing around. Those reminders, I don't need to say, take the form of these really tall, naked fashion models who, for some reason or another, became prostitutes when you pulled some lever somewhere in your Illuminati bat cave and magically made their international super model careers take a mysterious dive. Is that the only way you can get laid, Mister Illuminati dude? What's the matter with you? You think all your toys make you better than me?
So what if you're reading my blog? Who really cares? You're supposed to be reading it, dumb ass, because I've addressed it to you! What are you? Some kind of mental midget? This is freakin' public information. Even the peons of the world can read this crap! So don't go thinking your so special just because you've got to go way deep down inside the earth into your Illuminati bat cave just to use an overpriced uber computer just to read this. Sure. You might have a lot of money, you might even control the U.S. Federal Reserve system, but that doesn't mean I couldn't kick your little bird-butt if I found you.
I heard all about your little parties in Davos, Switzerland. Who'd wanna go to one of those stuff shirt wing-dings anyway? The Black Sea might be losing its entire population of Sturgeon due to illegal fishing, but lookie there! You've got a mound of black belugia caviar as heaping tall as the Big Rock Candy Mountain sitting right in front of your little fat face. Eating fancy crackers you can't get at the 7/11? Big freakin' deal! What's that make you? A man?
Sorry, Mister Illuminati dude. Not a chance. You'd need a lot more than freaking fish eggs to make you a man. You need mansions all over the globe to make you a man. You need stretch limosines with blacked-out windows to make you a man. You need big yachts, you need specially-tailored clothing, you need stemware, you need rare orchids in your underground greenhouse. Even with all that, Mister Illuminati dude, from what I've heard your penis is still only three inches long. And that's when it's erect! Erect? Forget what that means? It's been a long time since your entire body told you that you were a man, hasn't it?
You're not a man, Mister Illuminati dude, you're a Giant Baby. You're a Giant Baby just like the one that scientists have hidden in the basement of Parkland Hospital in Dallas, Texas, right beneath the emergency room where John F. Kennedy was declared dead. Strange coincidence that you're one of those? Strange that you'd have ordered this cloning experiment--a Giant Baby, Mister Illuminati dude, floating in a giant transparent tub of chemicals--for your self gratification beneath the emergency room cum monument to one of your greatest achievements: the assassination of John F. Kennedy?
Whoo boy! So you got some dude killed! Lucky Luciano did that a thousand times. He didn't have to get the C.I.A. involved, and he didn't have to pay Castro, he didn't have to go through all sorts of red tape, and he didn't have to pay off the Dallas Police Department just to kill some dude, Mister Illuminati dude. All he did was rip out a revolver and pull the trigger. Is that so hard? How much money did you spend on the assassination anyway? Fifty bizzilion dollars? Hell, Mister Illuminati dude, I could have bought a pellet gun at Wall Mart and gotten it done a lot simpler than you did, well couldn't I? I could have used a $1.39 vegetable knife I bought at Kroger. And you're a bigger man than I am?
Who in the creeps do you think you are, Mister Illuminati dude? So freaking what if you can manipulate all the world's money markets with the flip of a finger. With the flip of a finger, I can tell you exactly what I think of you, Mister Illuminati dude.
Apparently you're not doing such a bang-up job of controlling the world either, Mister Illuminati dude. People are multiplying like rabbits. Hell, even some dumb cattle rancher out there in Frogcrotch, Texas can keep his herd under control better than you've done. And he could feed his cattle better than you feed yours, Mister Illuminati dude. At this point, two-thirds of the entire world's population is living off a dollar a day. And you know what? They might not have a custom Bang and Olfson satellite stereo system the size of a thimble sitting on their bedroom table, and they might not even have a bedroom table or even a bedroom, but I'll bet they're just as happy as you are, you miserable little loser. Besides, since you consider all that money you've got piled up in the closet a sure sign of your power, and that it's also a form of insurance that you'll keep your power that you've somehow instituted a top secret strategy of making about four freaking billion people live off a buck a day (talk about insulating yourself from criticism or anyone hedging your turf, dude!), why haven't you defeated Death yet? That's right, you puny, pathetic little loser! You're gonna die! Sooner or later, you're gonna wake up one morning and your face is going to be covered with welts. You might think that you've gotten them because you were allergic to the make-up you put on for the little dramatic presentation over at Bohemian Grove last week, but your doctor's gonna tell you it's cancer!
What you think of that, Mister Illuminati dude? Who'd want you to live forever anyway? You're nothing but a drag on the entire human race! Your mother'd probably want to shit on your head for all the ugly things you've done in the name of power, so why don't you go ahead and soak it, because as it is, Mister Illuminati dude, nobody really wants to look at either your head or your face. That's why you're wearing that mask, isn't it?
Mister Illuminati dude, you're ashamed of yourself. You think the mask is symbollic of working behind the scenes. But the only reason you work behind the scenes in the first place is because you're uglier than a mole on the ass of a rat, that's why. The girls you pay to sleep with you all know it, and they have to take heroin because they can't take it. They have to get up close to what really amounts to a huge turd hanging off the top of what resembles a human neck!
Way to go, Mister Illuminati dude! Ever since that time one of the Big Kids on the playground pulled your pants down and slimed you with pond scum, you've wanted revenge. Well it hasn't worked out so well has it? Look at all the resources you need simply to keep yourself from having to face the truth. You'd probably have done better signing up for a visit with Doctor Phil on TV.
posted by Faceshaker at 9:30 AM
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