The Book of Apocalypse Dumbassery
@prophetscrivener.bsky.social
Prophet Scrivener, thy humble scribe to the Divine Whisper. Weekly verses for the faithful from the Book of Apocalypse Dumbassery. Scripture and scorn.
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.
—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.
November 19, 2025 at 4:08 AM
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.
—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.
"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.
November 19, 2025 at 2:26 AM
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.
"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, 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.
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.
November 5, 2025 at 9:10 AM
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.
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.
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.
November 5, 2025 at 8:55 AM
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.
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, 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.
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.
November 5, 2025 at 8:53 AM
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.
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.
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.
November 5, 2025 at 8:32 AM
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.
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.
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.
October 25, 2025 at 4:12 AM
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.
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.
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.
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.
October 25, 2025 at 4:10 AM
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.
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.
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.
October 20, 2025 at 12:16 PM
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.
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 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.
October 20, 2025 at 6:29 AM
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 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.
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.
October 18, 2025 at 12:23 PM
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.
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.
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.
October 17, 2025 at 6:01 AM
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.
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—
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.
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.
October 12, 2025 at 11:54 AM
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.
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—
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?”
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?”
October 8, 2025 at 7:24 AM
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?”
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.”
…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.”
October 8, 2025 at 7:21 AM
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.”
…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.”
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.
“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.
October 1, 2025 at 12:55 PM
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.
“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.
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.
September 30, 2025 at 5:13 PM
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.
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—’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.
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.
September 21, 2025 at 3:12 AM
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.
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.
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.
September 14, 2025 at 11:16 AM
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.
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.
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.
September 14, 2025 at 10:52 AM
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.
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.
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.
September 13, 2025 at 5:05 AM
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.
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.
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.
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.
September 13, 2025 at 4:07 AM
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.
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.
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.
September 12, 2025 at 10:58 PM
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.
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.
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.
“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.
September 11, 2025 at 11:53 AM
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.
“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.
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.
September 11, 2025 at 11:32 AM
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.
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.