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Ivanka Trump’s endorsement of The King in Yellow play violates ethic rules

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Ivanka Trump, used her position as senior advisor to the president to endorse an unproduced play called The King in Yellow on Twitter, a play whose contents are said to have made Marquis de Sade advocates blush. She captioned the photo, “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.”

What is The King in Yellow?

Originating in France in the mid 1800s, The King in Yellow was condemned not just for its content but for the effect it had on its audience. It was seized by the French government, but translated versions found their way to London and ultimately across the pond.

The last copy of the play was thought to have been burned by the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice in the 1910s. Anthony Comstock, head of the Society deemed, the play “a threat to the very fabric that holds society together. It isn’t merely titillating or seditious. It is funnel by which madness passes into the mind. It is a grimoire dictated straight from Lucifer’s lips. Every poor soul who dared to gaze upon it is either invalid or dead.”

How Ivanka Trump acquire this cursed work?

Last Monday a stranger knocked on the North Portico of the White House. There was no breach in the fence along the Pennsylvania Avenue. No sensors tripped on the North Lawn. No signs of a high altitude aircraft or a parachute. The stranger was simply there, waiting patiently, in tattered yellow robes with ribbons swaying against the breeze.

“You, sir, should unmask.” A Secret Service agent shouted.

White House staffers say the stranger appeared to be wearing a blank porcelain mask and that he was unfazed when the Secret Service shined their laser sights into his eyes.

“Lay your disguise aside.” The agent repeated.

“I wear no mask.” The stranger said.

White House staffers claim the frayed hem of the Stranger’s robes unfurled and outstretched like tentacles. It wrapped itself around the Service members pistols and plucked the weapons from their grasp. The stranger stepped over the threshold and requested an audience with President Trump. He said he was an emissary for “Hastur the unspeakable, the King in Yellow, conqueror of Carcosa where twin suns sink into Lake Hali, where many moons circle the sky, and black stars rise.”

White House staffers say throughout the entire encounter the stranger held a copy of the play, a gift for the President from those dwelling in a neighboring plane of existence.

Ivanka is behaving strangely  

Of course President Trump didn’t read the play, but his daughter did and she’s been tweeting about it ever since.

“I just finished The King in Yellow and the shadows of my thoughts are stretching across the Rose Garden, crawling up the hedges and stepping onto lawn #mindfulness”

“I have seen the place where the Hyades cluster points, the skeleton of the civilization, and the one who calls the ashes his home. #meditation”

“They call this the Blue Room, but I’m seeing the Yellow Sign everywhere I look. On the carpet. The curtains. Even the chairs. #wellness”

Ivanka’s social media activity illustrates how The King in Yellow is already affecting her mental state.

Can anything be done for Ivanka?

Seeking some kind of treatment White House staffers scoured the Library of Congress for information on The King in Yellow.

In 1895, author Robert W. Chambers collected stories from those with the misfortune of having read the play. One such victim was Hildred Castaigne who said, “I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth—a world which now trembles before the King in Yellow.”

While White House staffers combed through accounts from survivors Ivanka shared craft projects on Instagram. Tissue collages, macaroni art, and glitter. All made to look like the Yellow Sign, an angular glyph like a triskelion or something out of The Lesser Key of Solomon.

Ivanka’s tweets culminated with a link to a pdf of the play itself. That’s when the hashtags

#CourtOfTheDragon, #CarcosanKraken, and #YellowSign, started trending.

Now there’s a mass contagion of madness, despite social media platforms attempts to suppress the document. The CDC has joined in the effort to trace the origins of the play to try to understand what they’re dealing with without exposing themselves to it.

What is The King in Yellow about?

Little is known about the play itself since so few readers live long enough to recount it. The details psychiatric experts compiled say its similar to Edgar Allen Poe’s Masque of the Red Death.

In it, Prince Prospero lords over a kingdom in the grip of a pandemic called the “red death.” So named because it makes its victims bleed from their pores until there’s nothing left. While the people cry out for leadership, Prospero bunkers in his stronghold with 1,000 nobles, leaving everyone beyond his walls to fend for themselves.

The extended quarantine gives Prospero a case of cabin fever. Loathing this disruption to his lifestyle, he wants his kingdom to get back to business as usual. He decides to rally the nobles by throwing a masquerade ball. The nobles are all too happy to feed Prospero’s ego, by embracing the opulence for which they’ve grown accustomed.

The ball is success until a figure in a red funeral shroud parts the dancefloor. The figure wears a mask of blood slathered flesh, a visage made to resemble the plague riddled corpses lining the castle walls. Prospero is so incensed by this reminder of his failures that he calls the guards to hang the party crasher.

When the party crasher is unmasked its revealed there’s nothing underneath. He is the red death incarnate and in that moment all the revelers drop dead.

What is Carcosa?

Another aspect of the play psychiatric experts are trying to understand is its location. Carcosa is a scorched hellscape first documented by Ambrose Bierce in his story An Inhabitant of Carcosa. Bierce would later admit he got the location from a nightmare he had as a child.

Bierce dreamt he stood before a alien citadel with monolithic battlements, skyscraping spires, and a crocked keep, a structure so tall and wide it stretched beyond his field of vision.

When he entered young Bierce found the remains of a cafeteria. The kitchen stunk of rotten meat, moldy cheese, and ammonia. The steam trays were teaming with maggots. The stovetops were teaming with pans, each filled with the grey hollowed out husks of human organs. Deflated entrails spiraled into donut swirls. Strips of skin were laid like bacon. Boney fingers were arranged like sausages. Kidneys were covered in shredded cheese and garnished with minced parsley.

The faded sign above the buffet read OMELETTE BAR.

There was a long dining table, the length of a redwood. Swarms of flies hovered over the spread. Beyond that was the exit. It lead to a hilly plain where the grass had been baked golden brown. The remains of ashen pyres dotted the landscape. There were craterous remains of dried ponds, flags marked with the Yellow sign, and sand traps.

Bierce recalled thinking he was standing in the remains of a golf course and then he woke up.

Psychiatric experts are debating whether Bierce’s dream was a vision of something that happened on some distant world or if it was a premonition of something destined to happen here.

Did Ivanka Break the law?

The King in Yellow is spreading across social media thanks to Ivanka Trump who may have violated an ethics rule by sharing it. The United States Office of Government Ethics is responsible for preventing conflicts of interest with the executive branch. West Wing employees, like Ivanka, are forbidden from endorsing an organization (be it a corporation, a non-profit, or an alien order.

A spokesperson for Ivanka defended her passion for the play. “Ivanka was showing personal support for a work once condemned now revered as a timeless treasure.”

“Timeless treasure” is one way to describe a play that causes readers to gouge their eyes out with ice cream scoopers. “Literary contagion” is how the CDC is describing it and right now they are failing to manage the spread.

Readers are acting out scenes in the middle of flaming buildings, four lane highways, and shark infested waters. Experts fear the carnage is going to get worse.

On Wednesday, the President stacked printed copies of the play (he has yet to read it) on the Resolute Desk, giving the accursed work his personal thumbs up. Because of course he did.

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Trump commutes the Penguin’s sentence from Blackgate Penitentiary

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While many nonviolent offenders have been released due to COVID-19, President Trump has pardoned a rogues gallery of supervillainy. He’s put maleficent metahumans, supernatural sadists, and lavish lunatics back on the streets.

It started when Trump granted clemency to the serial killer Cletus Kasady from a life sentence at the Ravencroft Institute. Kasady is a host to an alien symbiote known as Carnage. Trump reasoned the symbiote held the key to curing the corona virus. Carnage escaped. Trump released Killer Croc from Belle Reve Penitentiary, reasoning Croc’s regressive atavism held the key to curing the corona virus. Croc escaped. Trump freed the Joker from Arkham Asylum, reasoning the Joker’s blood contaminated with the Titan disease held the key to curing the corona virus and… you see the pattern.

Trump’s attention then shifted to supervillains with accelerated healing.

He brokered the extradition of Sabretooth from the island nation of Genosha. He released Dr. Victor Von Doom, Dr. Michael Morbius, and Dr. Nathaniel Essex from the Raft Prison Maximum Security Prison. He released the Juggernaut from the Vault beneath the Rockies, Solomon Grundy from a bubble orbiting the Earth, Taskmaster from the Negative Zone, and General Zod from the Phantom Zone.

The White House maintains every pardon was to help fight COVID-19, but the House Intelligence Committee believes they were part of an elaborate effort to bury one particular pardon.

The Penguin is back on the streets of Gotham

This Friday, President Trump commuted the sentence of former adviser Oswalt Cobblepot, the aspiring aristocrat turned monocle modeling mobster known as the Penguin.

Cobblepot was convicted on seven charges including:

  • intimidating federal witnesses with a cassowary (a giant bird capable of severing limbs with a single stroke of its talon).
  • fitting hummingbirds with surveillance equipment to spy on political opponents.
  • wrapping a political rival in tree bark and setting woodpeckers on him.
  • converting the Cornell Lab of Ornithology into a weapons facility.
  • accepting Fabergé eggs from the Russian government.
  • exchanging carrier pigeons with WikiLeaks.
  • And riding an ostrich down Pennsylvania Avenue.

When Robert Mueller investigated electoral interference from Planet Apokolips, he indicted several members of Trump’s cabinet. Cobblepot was the most defiant, publicly denouncing the charges, “I don’t give a hoot what allegations this court of owls regurgitates. They’re vultures picking at the First Amendment. Mueller is quack bureaucrat parroting the dodos on capitol hill.”

One such dodo was top House Democratic Apokolips investigator Rep. Adam Schiff. Schiff grilled Cobblepot throughout his testimony before the House Intelligence Committee.

“Yes or no, did the Trump campaign correspond with the extraterrestrial tyrant known as Darkseid?”

“There is no evidence there was collusion.”

“What about the Omega Beam burns throughout the remains of the Clinton estate?”

“Coincidence.”

“What about Mother Box plugged into Trump’s teleprompter?”

“Coincidence.”

“What about the president’s personal parademon security detail?”

“Coincidence.”

While Schiff wasn’t able to crack the Penguin on the stand, Mueller’s charges stuck. It wasn’t long until Cobblepot was confined to his own private aviary in Blackgate Penitentiary.

The Penguin sprung the coop

This Friday Cobblepot waddled out of prison in his signature top hat, purple paisley vest, and coat tails. He modeled his ensemble for the press. “I thought you’d all like to see a Neil Richards original up close.”

The reporters were quick to flock around him.

“Vicki Vale, Gotham Gazette, does this mean the president has forgiven all of your past crimes?”

Cobblepot screwed a cigarette holder into his lips. “What crimes?”

“You programed an army of penguins to bomb the city.”

“That didn’t stick. I was illegally detained by a vigilante.”

“Lois Lane, Daily Planet, are you concerned your release might reignite interest in the Apokolips investigation?”

Cobblepot opened his umbrella. “The bird-brained Apokolips Hoax is coming to an end and the buzzards behind it are fleeing the nest. Parademons can smell fear and I have no doubt they’re coming for the members House Intelligence Committee.”

He flicked a switch on his umbrella and a foothold jut out from the bottom. The umbrella spun until the canopy broke off and the frame became a set of helicopter blades. The Penguin bid the press adieu and flew to his penthouse above the Iceberg Longue in Washington D.C.

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Students from the future get more conspicuous as 2020 gets worse

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They were spotted last January, mixed into the crowd at the Times Square New Year’s Eve celebration. Spectators noted a group of young people in fashions that were out of sync with the moment. Not a shawl or trendy trench coat among them. They were dressed head to toe in polyester, like Antarctic explorers. They wore mountain ranger coats, heavy duty backpacks, climbing pants, and clunky boots, but what made them really stick out were their helmets. They were dressed for scaling the alps not for watching Carson Daily count the ball down.

As the seasons changed, the mountaineers kept appearing at sights of major news events. Always keeping to themselves. Never intermingling with crowds. In New York they circled the Central Park field hospital before it was taken down. In Minneapolis they took souvenirs from the third precinct before it was set afire. In Seattle they surveyed the Capital Hill Autonomous Zone before it was raided by the police.

While the mountaineers wear helmets, they seem averse to facemasks, social distancing, or shelter in place directives. According to the CDC the mountaineers have been spotted in every major city and yet none of them have been admitted to an ICU or even tested for the virus. “They behave like they already have an immunity.”

The mountaineers act like they’re on vacation

During Italy’s lockdown, the mountaineers were seen riding gondolas through the Venetian canals. CCTV footage shows them skipping through Disney World and vanishing before security patrols could converge on them. In Sweden, they were spotted gossiping outside of crowded bars and cafés, openly mocking patrons.

The mountaineers also appear to be following President Trump like groupies on a concert tour. They gathered outside of St. John’s Church hours before the president’s photo-op was announced. They materialized outside the White House moments before the president was being escorted into his bunker. And they had front row seats for his Tulsa Oklahoma rally, in which they appeared to be applauding ironically, like patrons at a midnight movie. They spoke along with the president like they were reciting lines from Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Five mountaineers were spotted atop Mount Rushmore during the president’s independence day address. Park Service Staffers tried flanking them from the underbrush, but the mountaineers were onto them.

One ranger said, “I had them in my sights, but when I set down my binoculars they were gone.”

What the mountaineers fashion sense tells us about them

This has been one of the hottest summers on record and yet the mountaineers shed no layers, show no signs of perspiring, and spend most of their time in the sun. It’s as if their snowsuits have onboard air conditioning systems, a technology SONY is just now pioneering.

It was members of the fashion community who speculated the mountaineers could be visitors from the future. They believed the mountaineer look had less to do with backwoods culture and more to do with shifting exercise trends.

Gen Xers wore sweat bands and tennis outfits long after gym class. They wore sleeveless shirts with or without biceps. They wore skin-tight running shorts with flannels. It was an active look.

These days millennials wear crop tops and leggings outside the Yoga Studio. Even at the grocery store they’re making statement about their commitment to fitness. Gen Z is getting into hiking and appreciating the environment. It’s only natural their exercise apparel would reflect that.

Fashion authorities say gorpcore, or ‘mountaineering modern’, is in its infancy, but once hiking becomes the dominant form of exercise gorpcore will hit its stride.

There could be more to the mountaineering look

Theoretical physicists speculate that the mountaineers wear helmets for a reason. They believe the half dome shape serves as the neural interface for a time travel device. “Einstein’s theory of relativity states just such an accessory could warp space time without crushing the human mind.”

Another sign the mountaineers are from the future is how they make no effort to conceal their wearable technology. They search the web in their open palms. They answer calls by flicking their earlobes. And their eyes shine whenever they’re recording. The tech uses a gesture based interface. Mountaineers make cameras with their fingers and pinch and expand to zoom.

Mountaineers clash with demonstrators

Throughout the demonstrations against police violence, statues of confederate generals have been toppled. Columbus sculptures have found their way into harbors, and monuments to slave owning presidents have been burned.

As more effigies have been shattered more mountaineers have appeared, swiping at the air as if to frame the scene.

Demonstrators suspected something was off when they overheard what the mountaineers said to each other.

“They kept using expressions no one could understand. They called restaurants ‘carnivore stores’ They called retailers ‘object exhibiters.’ They called cars ‘dinosaur drinkers.’ They waved the air away from their faces and said, ‘era aroma is real.’ When someone tossed a Molotov cocktail into a Speedway a group of mountaineers cheered, ‘Roaring twenties!’ like we’d know what they meant. I heard one of them mutter, ‘I expected more gunfire.’”

Demonstrators reported feeling mocked by the mountaineers. “One of my older friends asked, ‘Aren’t you warm under all that?’ and they fired back, ‘OK Millie.’ I started to say, ‘Her name’s not Millie’ when one of them said, ‘Ok Zed’ to me.”

Linguists theorize that “Millie” and “Zed” are meant to be pejoratives for millennials and Gen Zers.

Mountaineers don’t care about messing with the spacetime continuum

Theoretical physicists are baffled by the mountaineers’ behavior.

“Whoever gave them this technology didn’t coach them on how to use it responsibly. One of them pointed out how our flags had too few stars, saying something about Washington D.C. and Puerto Rico. Another pointed to the empty pedestal in front of the capital and whispered, ‘That’s where they put the Prince statue.’ One rattled off the names of the next three presidents like it was nothing. Oh and they were all too happy to spoil the ending for Stranger Things.”

History professors have considered the possibility that the mountaineers are students from the future here to witness our interesting times firsthand. “There’s so much to learn from. A pandemic. A recession. An authoritarian administration. A laundry list of social revolutions. I just wish they weren’t so rude while they were making their observations. From the quotes we’ve gathered and the slang we’ve deciphered it seems like the mountaineers view us the way we view townsfolk during the Salem witch trails: undereducated, superstitious, and hysteric. You know, when I say it out loud. It kind of makes sense.”

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St. Louis couple confront protesters with poo sticks

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Protesters were marching down a private street leading to the St. Louis Mayor’s residence when they were confronted by a couple brandishing poo sticks. Cellphone video shows a man with a long double-pronged BM baton and a woman with a bowel-blasted blackjack, standing back to back like heroes in one of the many actions films glamorizing poo stick culture.

The conflict escalated as the woman set bushels of horse apples on the lawn and the man strapped a bandolier of poo cartridges over his shoulder.

Karl Kamienski, a reporter who came close to getting a face full of semi-digested corn, said, “I doubt anyone would’ve noticed the stone mansion had the couple not come out with a cow chip nightstick and a caca cudgel.”

A second video shows how close the situation came to getting out of hand. The woman stood on the edge of the property waving her manure mace dangerously close to a demonstrator’s face. The video shows the defecation munition starting to melt. Had the poo stick remained any longer the demonstrator would’ve gotten a fecal matter facial.

Both videos show the homeowners and the protesters exchanging heated words, but neither recording captured any audio. Based on the way the couple brandished their weapons, we can only speculate if they were echoing one of the many poo-centric catchphrases they’ve seen on TV.

Phrases like:
“I’m here chew to bubblegum and get poo all over everyone and I’m all out of bubblegum.”
“Remember when I said I’d smear poop on you last? I lied.”
“Which of you wants to star in a John Waters movie?”

The incident only lasted for 10 minutes, but many are questioning the couple’s use of poo sticks.

Poo stick advocates speak out

The couple, now identified as Mark and Patricia McCloskey, have released a statement in the wake of the incident. “This is all private property. There are no public sidewalks or public streets. The protesters shattered an antique gate. We were told we’d be tortured, cooked, alive and eaten. We were alone against an angry mob. So we exercised our second amendment right.”

The St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department is investigating whether or not the couple’s use of poo sticks qualifies as self-defense.

Dwight Rawley, a spokesperson for the National Poo-Stick Association, is certain they acted lawfully. “State law does not prohibit open carrying of shit switches, turd timber, or stool stumps. While it is illegal to wield skewered fertilizer in a threatening manner, the McCloskeys were on their own property. They were well within their rights to spray dollops of diarrhea on anyone who walked past.”

Critics of poo stick culture speak out

Poo sticks are a stone age technology, designed to ward off marauders who didn’t want to get manure on their muzzle. They fell out of fashion as fart sprays became a safer alternative. But like a plugged up bile duct, poo sticks eventually came roaring back. Thanks in no small part to the infamous episode of the police procedural The Upright Citizens Brigade.

Pretty soon after the episode aired, every jacked up action hero was double fisting excrement extensions. Who can forget Sylvester Stallone wielding branches covered in cow pies or Arnold Schwarzenegger wielding a tree trunk coated in elephant dung?

Like it or not poo stick culture is an American fixture. Movies and video games continue to glorify poo stick violence, in hyper kinetic sequences set to industrial rock music. We cheer as John Wick paints someone’s face in bodily waste. Gamers can’t put down the controllers as they smear demons in digital discharges. And yet, these mediums rarely stop to explore the humiliating aftermath of a poo stick attack.

Closing thoughts

The McCloskeys have come out in support of the Black Lives Matter movement and they say their concern was limited to a handful of “aggressive agitators.”

There’s no way of knowing if the protestors would’ve actually gotten any closer to the McCloskey manor. Yet one thing is for sure, the couple escalated the situation by wielding such extreme excretions.

•••

Dead Branch image by Jean52
3D Poop by 2weet
Photoshop by Drew Chial

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As a dangerous psychopath I wear a mask and so should you

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As a dangerous psychopath it’s my responsibility to blend into society, to take my taboo tastes and hide them behind a persona that dogmatically adheres to social mores. The psychiatric community calls this my “mask of sanity.”

Think of me as a trend spotter, but instead of wide waist belts and cashmere scarves, I sense which norms are in fashion. At the dawn of the COVID-19 pandemic, I knew that limiting the contagion would be in this season. So I invested in face masks before supplies went scarce. I’ve been wearing a mask of sanity all my life. What was one more?

I never thought I’d be making a political statement, much less virtue signaling.

In truth, I never feel a moral responsibility for my actions. I hold no reverence for the social contract and I have no compassion for the downtrodden. Apart from a morbid curiosity, I feel nothing for my community. From the cutest infant to the wisest grandparent, I see people as a means to an end. I fantasize about the fall of civilization so I that I may showcase what I truly am. Until then it’s important that I fit in.

And yet I never thought wearing a mask, during a global pandemic, would win me many points.

Like an actor researching a role, I’ve spent a lifetime studying the human condition. I’ve learned when to echo righteous sentiment, when to mimic mob mentality, and when to emulate the empathy of those around me. Lacking an emotional core, I am a classical actor, inhabiting behaviors, and leaning into the expectations of my audience. I am a cultural chameleon swapping spiritual and political convictions based on how I read the room.

But I assumed a mask would fit every occasion, because they just make sense.

Attributes like charity and virtue are but merit badges on my person suit, pieces of flare to draw the eye away from the scales underneath. Every time I give away my spot in line, open a door, or bless a sneeze I am approximating altruism. Every time I refuse a compliment or feign humility I am playing a part. Nice guys finish last, but performatively nice guys get all the moral dessert they can stomach.

And yet when I first put on a mask, I never thought anyone ought to pat me on the back.

I have only ever admitted to having the mildest of psychological conditions for the privileges it afforded me. I have only ever grieved for attention. I have only ever shown weakness so that others might mistake it for kindness. I shed crocodile tears on command. Inside, I’m all apathy, a reptilian robot who’d drive you to madness just to settle a bet with myself.

But I’d put a mask on before doing it. Of course.

While you look for an out from watercooler banter I dig my heels in. I relish ever opportunity to practice social graces to check if my mask has slipped. Introversion is a luxury for those still clinging to some semblance of sanity. Serial liars need to audit themselves to see if others are still buying what we’re selling. We stock up on empty pleasantries and make a big deal out of small talk. We gage our baseline all the time.

People assume the best about me. My manipulation is so subtle, you’ll thank me for it. My cruelty is so casual it doesn’t have a tell. Even dogs can’t sense my intent.

My persona is a Craigslist ad come to life, a piece of corporate copy on a Golem’s tongue, a living parody of a positive people person. The real me sits at the 3-way junction of Narcissism, Machiavellianism, and Psychopathy. I’m like a Shakespearean villain whose only motivation is the schadenfreude I get from all the chaos I’m unleashing.

Accept when faced with wearing a mask or defying medical establishment I went with the mask. Now I don’t care if you or you extended family get sick. Plagues and forest fires are all part of the natural order, but as long as lumbers on I’m going to use it for cover.

Like a death’s head moth in a chrysalis, I am still evolving, still growing to my full strength. What the DSM-5 calls a characteristic of antisocial personality disorder I call “my great becoming.” I am demigod casting off this filth-riddle vessel. Soon I will singe the remains of this flesh prison and transcend the laws of man.

And yet the entire time I’m rising to my rightful place in the pantheon of the dragon I’m doing so with a mask on.

On Facebook, I see articles with titles like “People who ignore social distancing rules may have psychopathic personality traits, study finds” and I can’t help but think, “Stop giving those weak-ass sociopaths that much credit.” If you score under 30 on the Psychopathy checklist, and refuse to wear a mask, you’re not a psychopath. You’re not privy to a great becoming.

You’re just an asshole.

•••

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Angry werewolves erupt at meeting over poop bag ruling

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At the turn of the 20th century the streets of London were paved in poop. From the cobblestones to the gutters the city was teeming with manure. The sewer system had gone aboveground. Every underpass became an outhouse and every hill became a crapshoot. Horse drawn carriages left thick juicy road apples down the medians and commoners were left to contend with the stench.

Horses produced 15 to 35 pounds of feces a day. With 50,000 stallions used for transportation, Oxford Street was ground zero for a 625 ton avalanche of excrement.

This tidal wave of fecal matter drove flies to every street corner and every butt truffle they dined on came with a side a typhoid fever. Cities everywhere were drowning in a downpour of dookie and disease. Everyday New York had its own 1,250 ton shitstorm. Something had to be done.

That’s when Henry Ford invented the Model T and the herds of dung dumpers were retired.

Palm Beach County Florida is having its own crap crisis

Driving down Clematis Street in West Beach Florida, it’s hard not to draw comparisons to Victorian London. The roads are slick with a syrupy sludge. The sidewalks look like they’re paved in fudge. And the boulevards are minefields of mulberry mud pies.

Flies tower into the sky like rope tornadoes. The swarm is so thick it creates an overcast. The insects are here for the doodie dumplings, chestnut nuggets, and ripe dingleberries overflowing from the storm drains.

No. Horse drawn buggies have not come back in fashion, nor is there an issue with West Beach’s sewage system. According to the Palm Beach County Solid Waste Authority, the problem is something else entirely.

“We were baffled. We were finding wallet chains and watchbands in the leavings. We knew we were dealing with an apex predator. One that fed on humans. But it wasn’t until the Fish and Wildlife Service put us in touch with a forensic scatologist that we realized we were dealing with werewolves.”

Werewolves have migrated to Palm Beach County for its beachfront property, upscale shopping, and statistically unhealthy population.

According to the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office, “It’s no secret West Beach residents are older and rounder than other Floridians. They’re ideal prey for these cryptozoological carnivores.”

While coroners are responsible for removing these fresh kills from the side of the road, no one wants to shovel the excrement that accompanies them.

The Commissioners think they have a solution

This Thursday Palm Beach County Commissioners voted on a bill that would require werewolves to carry poop bags on the night of a full moon.

A doctor spoke on the dangers of toxoplasmosis from fecal matter in the air and the spread of bacteria from feces in the water supply.

A city planner dismissed a proposal to leave Porta Potties at the edge of every woodland path. “A full grown lycanthrope is simply too large to fit. Poo bags are the most practical solution.”

The Mayor said, “Dog walkers have to pick up after their four-legged friends werewolves should do the same.”

The werewolves in the gallery howled

The first wolf skulked up to the podium, barred her teeth, and pawed at the microphone. “If we sling thirteen gallon bags over our shoulders, while we’re in our canine forms, we’re likely to get trapped and suffocate. You can’t mandate someone to carry a poop bag, knowing that poop bags are killing people.”

The next wolf had their speech written on a parchment of dried flesh. “The problem with humanity today is everyone keeps taking the road of least resistance. Then you blame us when it comes time to run.”

One werewolf honed in on the doctor.  “I really have many question marks about your degrees and whether or not you’re working for one of the vampire houses. Vampires are known to have human familiars, aspiring immortals, who function like interns. I’ve torn out many a familiar’s jugular and you ma’am smell like a familiar.”

One after the other the wolves came out in defense of their desire to defecate where they please.

“Where do you derive the authority to regulate Lycan intestines? I answer to a higher power: the moon.”

“And they want to throw God’s wonderful defecation system out the door. If the good Lord didn’t want us to soil his cemeteries he wouldn’t have given us such perfect anuses.”

The final wolf was dressed like a grandmother in a bonnet and apron. They laid a copy of Little Red Riding Hood on the podium and read a politicized reimagining of the final scene.

“But Grandmother! What small ears you have.”
“The better to ignore the pledge of allegiance with.”
“But Grandmother! What small eyes you have.”
“The better to ignore the constitution with.”
“But Grandmother! What small teeth you have.”
“The better to—”

His speech was cut short when he his tail rose up and he laid a big steaming dump at the podium.

It’s at this point the Palm Beach County Commissioners fled the room.

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The Esoteric Order of Karens curse Palm Beach County Commissioners

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Disclaimer: The term “Karen” in the following is not a slur, as it does not exert power over a marginalized group. In this instance “Karen” is as a parody pejorative, a term for an occult order that doesn’t actually exist. While I recognize the term has been misused to defame any and all outspoken women, my targets are the privileged purveyors of misinformation.

Throughout history the Esoteric Order of Karens have ingrained themselves in every society. In Balkan folklore, the Karjons were said to force bar maids to prepare elaborate pumpkin spice concoctions in the wee hours of the morning. In ancient Croatia, the Caryns rose from their graves to complain about the quality of the floral arrangements on their headstones. In medieval England, the Karwyns are believed to have used essential oils to spread the bubonic plague.

Now members of the Order have installed themselves in suburbs throughout America, transforming drive through windows into portals to hell, turning checkout counters into sacrificial altars, and feeding off the life force of managers.

The Order casts dark auras over their communities. They move in and ask for ID from every person of color they see. They refuse to vaccinate their children, because they treat them with necromancy at home. They vandalize 5G towers, because radio waves disrupt their electromagnetic magic. They make it a point shop on holidays, because solstices make them stronger.

There are very few ways to repel members of the Orders. Some use apotropaic markings, others use silver amulets, while others use gluten.

Members of the Esoteric Order can be identified by their hair (short in back, long in front, with blonde highlights). They also have purple eyes, square toes, and blue spit. While Karens are often mistaken for witches modern Pagans want nothing to do with them. Socially progressive Wiccans call members of the Order “broomers” because of their staunch adherence to ancient customs.

The Order declares war on Palm Beach County

Much like psychic vampires, Karens sustain themselves on the dark energy of human misery. So when the Palm Beach County commission proposed mandating face masks to prevent the spread of COVID-19 the Karens sprang into action. Florida is an epicenter of the outbreak and the Order means to keep it that way.

Prior to infiltrating the meeting, the Karens painted their nails in the viscera of their victims. Their aim was to perform inconspicuous blood magic. They pointed at the legislators with weaponized index fingers. Ever so slowly, members of the commission showed signs they we succumbing to hemomancy. The Mayor braced himself on his desk, while the Vice Mayor was visibly woozy.

The first Karen to speak peppered her speech with subliminal incantations, “Double double podium to rubble, may cancer rot this governing bubble. Frenzy of furious maggots, swarm your face your mask replaced.”

Another leaned into words of power like, “Aglon, Tetragram, Plandemic, Vaycheon, Stumlamathon” and “Citizen’s arrest.”

Others were less subtle stating that a six foot gap would never offer the same protection as a ring of salt crystals, that facemasks would do nothing against the horned God of the forest, and that 5G nullified their own psychokinetic frequencies.

As members of the Order dominated the session they shifted further from the subject of masks. They cursed Bill Gates for backing a satellite video startup that could potential catch them in flight. They decried Hillary Clinton for hiding her emails in their cauldrons. They speculated that mask legislation would benefit the reptilian pedophiles with whom the Order is in direct competition.

One Karen levitated over the podium and challenged members of the deep state to reveal themselves. “Pit your powers against my powers. Your will against my will. Your psionic energy against my psionic energy. We shall see who the synchronicity favors more.”

Members of the Order joined hands, swayed with an unnatural wind, and chanted at top of their lungs, “Raise the curve! Raise the curve! Raise the curve!”

The curse is spreading

The Karens went on to share their talking points on Facebook and Twitter. Now both platforms are losing market share as advertisers struggle to comprehend the tenants of this secret sororal society. All we know for sure is the people freaking out about wearing a mask at the grocery store are likely members of the Esoteric Order.

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Thousands of Trump rally attendees abducted by aliens

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Oklahoma has never been a hotbed of UFO activity, especially when compared to their neighbors in New Mexico. Oklahoma has had fewer flying saucers, cattle mutilations, and crop circles than most of the country. It ranks 29th in states with UFO sightings and most of those were at the Black Mesa State Park way up in panhandle.

According to the Mutual UFO Network, Oklahoma ranks low in the list of places with alien abductees. Few residents report unexplained scars, sleep paralysis, or lost time. When it comes to long term alien abductions Oklahoma has less missing persons per capita than 50% of the country.

And yet 415 miles from Black Mesa, in Tulsa Oklahoma, at least 13,000 people went missing for approximately 3 hours.

Oklahoma’s alien abduction numbers are skyrocketing

On June 20th President Trump held a rally at the Bank of Oklahoma Center, a venue that usually seats 19,199. The administration anticipated millions of supporters in downtown Tulsa, but according to fire marshal only 6,200 were in attendance.

This can only mean one thing: the largest mass abduction in American history.

The empty rows were another haunting reminder of how powerless the Space Force is at stopping alien abductions. Every unworn MAGA hat represented a person who was trapped in space and made to suffer prophetic visions of the earth’s destruction. Every unclaimed KEEP AMERICA GREAT sign represented someone who was being fitted with implants. Every blue seatback represented an anal probe the local government was helpless to prevent.

The Aliens have gotten better at cleaning up after themselves

Oddly enough, there were no missing persons reported in the area. No claims of anyone experiencing missing time and no UFO sightings in the entire state.

It’s clear the extraterrestrials have refined their methods since abducting Betty and Barney Hill in 1961. Based on what happened at the Trump rally, aliens have made huge strides in cloaking technology. They can now hide a ship the size of a football field in broad daylight. The aliens appear to have upgraded their amnesia rays as well. Not one of the missing 13,000 persons have come forward with recollections of their experiences.

Weirder still, not one Tulsa citizen went unaccounted for during the rally. The only logical conclusion is that aliens now possess time travel technology. Physicists theorize that such technology would leave behind tachyon particles, but since these particles are purely theoretical we lack the ability to measure them. Had we the means we’d surely find the Bank of Oklahoma Center carpeted with tachyons from the nosebleeds to the pit.

In the meantime the Trump administration urges Tulsa’s alien abductees to come forward and share their stories.

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Bolton alleges Trump asked Emperor Palpatine for help with his reelection

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In his new book The Chamber Where it Happened, Former national security adviser John Bolton claims to have firsthand knowledge of a secret meeting between President Trump and Emperor Palpatine aka Darth Sidious the dark lord of the Sith.

Bolton says Trump interrupted a daily briefing to ask if anyone saw a cloaked figure standing in the corner of the room. Central Intelligence Agents looked in that direction when they turned back the president was gone. Trump wandered into East Wing of the White House chasing the vision. The cloaked phantom lead Trump into Presidential Emergency Operations Center (the bunker beneath the White House). Bolton found Trump chiseling at the wall with a sharpie. That’s where the president discovered the Sith Wayfinder left behind by the Nixon administration.

“The president assembled a crew for a secret mission aboard Space Force One.” Bolton recounted the events that lead them off world. “All of a sudden Trump was up on Einstein’s theory of general relativity. He knew about wormholes. He knew where to find one and he knew what was waiting on the other end.”

The book chronicles the shuttle’s journey through a cloud of crimson space dust, into unknown regions of space where it took orbit around the desert planet Exegol.

Here’s the expert regarding the event

The pilot landed the Lunar Module at the edge of an inverted pyramid which levitated off the ground on its own. Trump teetered down the docking ramp only to barrel headlong into a lightning storm. The president’s entourage followed close behind. We were taking readings when the platform beneath our feet lowered into the Sith Citadel.

Throughout the long descent, we beheld hooded effigies with alien features, so colossal they put the Statue of Liberty to shame.

“You stand in the presence of the Sith Eternal.” A voice boomed from the dark recesses of the domed chamber.

The moment the platform stopped we were flanked by the Knights of Ren. Six black clad figures ushered us along with curious cudgels. We walked through a field of bubbling vats. Each was filled with clones of the same mummified ghoul. The clones were sickly slender, made to look ancient, with withered flesh and a gaping holes in their cheeks.

The Knights led us into a colosseum where a great industrial robot arm, with miles of cabling, hung from the ceiling. There hanging from a harness in the robot’s grip was the hooded figure just as Trump had described him.

Up close, we saw that Palpatine’s eyes were milky white. His skin had a pale blue corpse-like hue, and the bones in his fingers were fractured and exposed.

Trump acknowledged Palpetine with the grace he extends to all world leaders. “What’s up with all the beakers?” Trump pointed to the row of vials behind the emperor.

Palpetine regarded his intravenous infusion apparatus. “My power is too immense for this body. I require constant transfusions from force sensitive children.”

“And who are those losers in the vats back there?”

“They were my master, Darth Plagueis the wise. So wise he took his knowledge to the grave. So I brought him back. I had the gene-smiths on Kamino fit him with a chip and I now he’s my puppet.” Palpatine rolled a hand through the air. “Supreme Leader Snoke. Snoke’s clones spend their time in the kyber mines, bathing in dark side energy. Their hatred bleeds the crystals that power my fleet. I’ve forged my new order on the resentment of my master.”

“Tremendous.” Trump cupped his hands together. “It’s that kind of thinking I need on my campaign.”

“Silence.” Palpatine cast lightning from his fingers.

Trump rose off the ground as the Emperor read his mind. It didn’t take long. Trump collapsed into a heap. He resisted as his aides wrenched him back to his feet.

“Hmmm.” The Sith lord ran his severed fingers along his chin. “A fissure in the force. Unseen for a generations.”

“Of course. I was going to say.” Trump was dumbfounded.

“Your political future is cloudy. I do not foresee a popular vote victory. You will need to rely on the dark magics of the Electoral College.”

“I should campaign in the swing states?” Trump scoffed. “I could’ve figured that out.”

“No.” Palpetine tented his fingers. “Biden’s lead is too great. You will need new voters.”

Trumped showed his palms. “You want me to go after the zoomers?”

“You will have to manufacture voters.” Palpetine cast his chin over Trump’s shoulder. “You will need a clone army. One programmed to carry out your orders on November 3rd.”

Trump regarded the field of vats behind him. “Snoke clones?”

Palpetine nodded. “Imbed in your society. Set them up with social security numbers. Register them in rural areas and fit them unique identities.”

Trump honed in on Snoke’s decrepit visage. “Election judges are going to notice a bunch of guys with holes in their cheeks.”

“Snokes are versatile.” Palpetine defended his creations. “You can accessorize them. Give them mohawks, mustaches, and piercings. They’ll blend right in.”

It occurred to the dealmaker-in-chief that the emperor wasn’t going to help him for free. “And what do you want?”

Palpatine cackled. His laughter echoed throughout the citadel. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling. The president’s aides held papers over their heads in a desperate effort to shield themselves.

The industrial arm raised the emperor high above the president.

“When the time comes, I want you and your entire star system to bow before the might of the final order. We will come from your resources. We will come for your children. We will–”

“Deal.”

Trump wouldn’t let the Sith lord finish before agreeing to his terms. I imagine the emperor didn’t stop laughing until long after the lunar module lifted off the ground.

After the excerpt

John Bolton went on to claim the United States Space Force has been smuggling Snoke clones to earth for the last several months. The Department of Homeland Security have been integrating these seven foot Sith lords right under our noses. Bolton alleges the Snoke clones have been exerting their influence upon human affairs just to pass the time.

“Snokes have been bleeding the earth’s core. They’ve poisoned the collective unconscious with dark side energy. I’d say they’re partially responsible for the ominous unease of 2020, but only partially.”

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Trump sues Bolton over book alleging he is two children in a baggy suit

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The Trump administration is scrambling to suppress former national security advisor John Bolton’s new tell-all book: The Nursery Where it Happened. A memoir Bolton’s publisher promises will be the “most comprehensive and substantive account of the Donald Trump persona.”

The book alleges that the 45th president of the United States is actually two children stacked on top of one another, a maneuver Bolton refers to as a “totem pole trench coat.”

When asked to address the accusation during the latest Rose Garden press conference the president said, “I know you are, but what am I?”

A CNN reporter assessed what was becoming painfully obvious. “You’re two children in a zoot suit with like an extra-long novelty tie.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“I don’t know sir, what are you?”

“I am your president of law and order.” Trump pressed his knuckles to his waist. “I think a federal judge should do something about that butthead Bolton.”

Bolton alleges the original duo who created the Trump persona put a William Shatner mask in the microwave for thirty seconds. They then painted it with self-tanner to make it look more lifelike. When it was dry they topped it off with a Marilyn Monroe wig trimmed and styled to resemble a Ken doll.

Bolton also alleges Trump’s baggy suits serves a utilitarian purpose for the children posing as him. “Trump’s posture is a sign he’s two boys playing at manhood. Look at how he leans forward. That’s to conceal the kneecaps that would otherwise be jutting out from his gut. Still the hands are a dead giveaway. No man that tall has hands that small.”

Bolton also draws his readers attention to the president’s behavior over the last few years. He asks, “Why else would a 74 year old man have difficulty pronouncing basic words off a teleprompter? Why else would a serious politician have nick names for everyone? Why else would he have trouble walking down a simple ramp? And why else would his fly keep unzipping on its own?”

Still, the logistics of two children posing as a senior citizen who’s spent most of his life in the spotlight don’t make much sense.

Bolton has an answer for that. “I have reason to believe a rotating cast of tweens have inhabited the role of Donald J. Trump since he first started made waves in the late 1970s.”

The book is filled with candid photographs from the early stages of Trump’s career. Bolton walked reporters through his evidence.

“The Trump persona was created by two boys from Queens. They wanted to sneak into a Porn Emporium back when Time Square still had them. When that worked they decided to keeping pushing the envelope to see what they could get away with. They went to the Playboy mansion, bankrupted businesses, bought casinos, and signed book deals. When the founders of the Trump persona went to high school they passed it onto two other young men. On and on it went. These kids got married, fathered children, cheated with porn stars, starred in reality TV shows, and ultimately bluffed their way into the presidency.”

Bolton’s rotating cast theory explains why Trump has been so politically inconstant throughout his life. In the 1990s he was a pro-choice Democrat who donated to the Clinton Foundation. Later he joined the Reform party only to leave when they embraced Klansman David Duke, but by 2016, when Trump was running for president, he had forgotten who David Duke even was.

Nevertheless, as national security advisor, Bolton signed an air tight non-disclosure agreement. He very well could be breaching national security by revealing this classified information to the public.

Bolton cast these concerns aside. “I don’t care if I signed my soul away. The American public has the right to know why their president tried to get the Ukraine to dig up dirt on his political rival. Why he didn’t take the COVID-19 pandemic seriously. Why he let a recession happen. Why he has no idea what to do about racial injustice, police reform, or national unrest. Americans deserve answers to all those question and then they ought to know why their president’s crotch keeps sneezing all the time.”

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