QAnon (“Q”)

If you are unfamiliar with the most infamous larp in imageboard history, “Q” is said to mean a “Q level” security clearance. 

Let’s say that “larp” is slang for role play and that “imageboards” are the chans: 4chan, 8chan, etc. If you are just interested in Q then it is simpler to read one of the archives of Q’s posts such as

The reader is supposed to suspend their disbelief and trust the individual(s) posting as Q because they supposedly have access to classified information and the President himself has given Q his blessing to leak it. That’s the basis of its claims of credibility.

Conveniently, you can’t review this hypothetical classified information to call Q out on their bullshit and neither can anyone with most traditional security clearances.

Anyone with a Q clearance has a National Security Critical or Sensitive position and I couldn’t think of a more criminally irresponsible person to fill one of those roles with than someone who gets on some forum like 4chan to blab about their sensitive role or their access privileges — let alone divulges any of the information they have access to. 

But you’re being asked to believe that this is exactly what’s going on. 

Once you’ve moved on from the origination story and accept Q’s ongoing claims you are lulled into a seductive (but false) sense that justice will be served. 

That it will be swift and that things are under control. The bad guys will get what’s coming and good will prevail.

It’s just a gram of soma. You don’t have to take any action or do anything, keep walking in your sleep.

Trump and his administration are the heroes of Q’s story so you have a faction of his supporters who totally lap this shit up. As long as they’re under Q’s spell they won’t be making any fuss or writing any letters or preparing to burn shit because the indictments aren’t happening yet.

(You’re not allowed to call Q-tards stupid if you’re still holding your breath for the outcome of the Mueller investigation.)

Q is either the best larp 4chan has ever seen or it is a psyop. 

Posted at at June 28, 2018 on Thursday, June 28, 2018 by |   | Filed under:


I felt nothing driving down I-275. The water wasn’t sparking or as colorful as I remember it. I stuck my middle finger up at Tampa (and possibly Jeremy Gloff) as I passed. 

The year was 2006 and Freddie had just broken up with me and I was a disaster. Jeremy trapped me in his Oldsmobile and did this Clockwork Orange thing with me where he wouldn’t let me out of the car until I listened to Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance Floor as we drove across the ... what is it called, the sunshine skyway or something like that? He was like “Before you get out of my car you will be gay and you will like Madonna.”  I didn’t know what to do with myself. I grieved, I drove. And I drove. And I drove. And I never really stopped driving after that.

Stupidest imaginable time of year to go to Key West. I’m sunburnt, I’m drenched in pouring sweat, and my hair is a mess.

I parked my car across the street from the dumpsters where there used to be a magnolia tree infested with Gypsy Chickens. A rooster shit on my head there one night when I was washing the dumpsters and it cackled at me — I swear that fucker laughed — until I took the hose to it. It freaked out and flew across the street and smacked straight into a two story building that is no longer standing, has since been paved, and is now a public parking lot.

I'm trying to do the math in my head about that, and at 100% occupancy that lot probably makes $12,000 a month which is a hell of a lot more than that run down old building could have leased for.

Back to the story:

It was my turn to laugh at him. The next night his whole harem of hens had left his tree.

I had been vegetarian for I dunno, twelve years up until then but I marched right into the Conch Reserve for lunch and asked if the chicken was local. I took my sandwich back to work and made eye contact with the fucker as I ate his cousin.

Now shush, I know the Gypsy Chicken is a protected species and that their meat is too tough and sinewy to make a good sandwich out of but I am telling you a story here, just roll with it.

I wish I could say I had a good time sweltering in the sun and listening to train wreck karaoke spilling out of every other door.

Jimmy Buffett is a legendary asshole by all local accounts but it’s impolite to roll your eyes when tourists ask about him. I have no opinion one way or the other, he gets all sorts of boomer cucks to come down to Key West and spend money.

So this guy’s singing “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw.”

I’m out there on Duval making up my own lyrics: “So bartender, bring a pistol. Chamber up a round or two. Honey why don’t we play Russian Ru-“

I stumbled a few doors down. Some hawker yells “I’ve got TITTIES upstairs!” and I told him the last time I went up there I had bigger tits than the performer did. 

Now if I was working the door and you’d said some shit like that to me I would have jokingly offered you a job.

I stop at the bar I used to work at. Inevitably I'll chat up a drag queen I don't recognize and ask her how long she's been working at the 801. And every time this happens they try to lie and tell me they're local as hell and they've been in the cabaret for 10 or 20 years. And every time this happens I look them dead in the eye and tell them that I know I look young, but I've worked at this bar twice in the last twenty years, I stripped at Numbers by the Sea twenty years ago before they tore that shit down, and I worked at the Barracks in Daytona before they shut that shit down for its little "cocaine and bathroom sex" problems. I know all of the staff and all of the girls here, but I do not recognize you. I asked you for your story, not your "story," honey.

Where are you really from, 'cause you seem nice and I'm genuinely interested.

You sound like you're from.... Maryland or some shit like that?

I thought maybe I’d go on a sunset sail or a glass bottom boat tour or maybe just visit the Bahia Honda State Park and wade around in the water and pray that I don’t get a case of flesh eating bacteria.

(Or just go home.)

Here you go. Some stupid fucking palm plants. I’ll take a picture of a trailer or an alligator if I see one before I go.

Posted at at June 25, 2018 on Monday, June 25, 2018 by |   | Filed under:

Hoo, hoo!

Posted at at June 25, 2018 on by |   | Filed under:

Dark Night

I stayed up all night as the black sky had brightened 
No reason to sleep, there was nothing worth waking for
The look on my face half serene and half frightened 
No reason to dream there was nothing worth dreaming for
I took life in stride and said I’d never give in
For ever failure dealt me I laid down a win
But this day I realized there was no end in sight
I would live alone, die alone, sleep alone at night 
All life was about was some sick god’s game
The end game was sorrow, loss and pain
Just when things get better it’s fucked again 
It’s really no wonder I’m all fucked in the brain.

Posted at at June 20, 2018 on Wednesday, June 20, 2018 by |   | Filed under:


Posted at at June 17, 2018 on Sunday, June 17, 2018 by |   | Filed under: ,