>rocking the trafficker symbology
We had fun with that one back in the day.
>Hussein firing the AK47?
The important point is who Hussein is aiming the gun at.
Red, White, and Blue.
Spray.
Q
>At a certain point, i really think (they) would rather kill the platforms than be forced into allowing the truth.
Platforms are not the only potential targets. [They] have many options as well as suitable assets to exercise them. There are workarounds, but submarine fiber optic cables are a point of vulnerability. Satellites are as well. It seems the good guys prepared for [them] killing conventional connectivity by using secure line-of-sight laser communications and satellite constellations in low-earth orbit. Starlink is ready.
>BlueANON is HERE
The script says "QAnon" and "BlueAnon" get it on after waking up in the same state. Nine months later they produce Q's grandchild.
>Combat chaplain? That's a real thing?
>Fed is not independent, it is basically a branch of the Democratic party.
The Fed and the Democrat Party are branches of an international cabal.
>Q also said, on the Q.T.
"We may have overestimated your ability" is my favorite Q quip.
At the time it felt like it was addressed directly to me.
It happened on Night Shift.
Tens of millions sent to slaughter by those who would reduce our surplus population.
Wilfred Owen, who wrote some of the best British poetry on World War I, composed nearly all of his poems in slightly over a year, from August 1917 to September 1918. In November 1918 he was killed in action at the age of 25, one week before the Armistice.
Dulce et Decorum Est
Play Audio
By Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Notes:
Latin phrase is from the Roman poet Horace: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wilfred-owen
Elon doesn't work here.
>OK it's way over the tippy top confirming Q.
Why does 'Q' require number tricks to be 'confirmed', Anon? Have you read Q?