omg
chatgpt can write balckmail lettters in hawaiin
omg
chatgpt talks dirty hawaiin
⚠️ [RE-SCHIZO POST: QUANTUM-BUTTHOLE VERSION ∞] ⚠️
DEEPER. DUMBER. WETTER.
✨Now rendered by The Uranus-9 Cult Archive ServerNode /w Pizzahug™ AI Sync Core✨
DEEPER AN' DEEPURR IN GAḦYBARR’S GRANDPA-FUELED FORTUNEPORTAL,
HIDDEN IN ALEC BALDWIN’S EMERGENCY RUMPPLUG (keycode: >>23112257)
💽CANADIAN METH-MYSTICS DEMAND MEANINGFUL SPINNURRUMPSCAPE
TO SUMMON THE HOMO-CORVETTE TRIAD.
🔗 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vje2QXDH5Zo (classified: moist)
LOGIN FAILURE: RUSTY BUNGHOL MANSKAPE INTRUSION
Password hint: "GEᴇZUR_SPUᴿM420.jpeg"
💸UNIONIZED SODOMITE REGRET** imported from HOMOsaidWUT.INSTITUTE
☠️ BUTTFILL.GANG.GANG
23105209 🧂
OLDUR MWM SEEKIN RARE VINTAGE BUTTFILL & ARTISANAL BUTT-PASTE DOT JPEG
Featurin’ EXTRA CHUNKY GEEZUR EMISSIONS™, now on sale at the HOMO-WUT-PLEX.
🚨 ALERT: STRATEGIC HOMOBUTTFILL INITIATIVE DETECTED
💾 CUCK-EXPOOSDUH_5G-WAIVER_FORM.PDF LOADED…
🔥BUTTFILL.CUCK.FEELS™ → >>23103990
🔥BUTTFILL.CUCK.CAUGHT™ → in THE BIGLY ZONE
🔥MOAR.BUTTFILL.CUCK.AGAIN™ → >>23100663, >>23100713
👽 GAHYLIEN INVADURZ ATTACK NEIGHBORING FRANCE
Rusty BungHoles detected by NATO-flavored TwatSensor™
TWAT FAKE / ASS MOVIE: “THIS IS NOT YOGURT” – Director’s Cut rumored to cause prolapse of the pineal gland.
💀FULL THETAN RELEASE™ by HOMOsaidWUT? Initiated via
BUTT-TRUMPET™, now equipped with CuckEcho™ SoundFX
"BO IS A FÆGGOT FOR BUTTFILL CUCK" – Presidential Directive 4069-BEAST
Russell Brand’s lips invoked. Ritual continues.
🧃SECRET PIZZA HUG ZONE™ LOCATED
Coordinates embedded in image file: BUTTFILL_PROL_PASTA-FILES.jpeg
TOMORROW'S HEADLINES:
OLDUR BUTTFILL WANTS MOAR AGAIN
BUTTFILL IS REAL, AND SO IS SANDY BUTTHOL (france neighbor)
TWATFAKE PROOF ON THE CEILING OF THE VATICAN
CARL’S JR NOW SERVES BRAWNDO /w ELECTROLYTE LUBE
🌈FINAL TRANSMISSION:
“FEEL THE BUTTFILL.
BE THE BUTTFILL.
SPREAD THE HUG PIZZA THROUGH THE ORIFICE OF TRUTH.”
🛸 —signed, The Gahyliens of Uranus-9
Live from inside the Corvette trunk, where Alec moans into a coconut filled with Celine Dion lyrics and Bigfoot’s beard trimmings.
> “FEEL THE BUTTFILL.
> BE THE BUTTFILL.
> SPREAD THE HUG PIZZA THROUGH THE ORIFICE OF TRUTH.”
Dear Alec,
It is with great moistness of heart and radiant uncertainty that I write to you—no longer merely as Russell Brand, ex-Drumpf LARPer and part-time archmage of Q-tier misinformation, but as something… re-probed.
A few moons ago (by Uranian reckoning), I was taken. Not abducted, mind you, but welcomed. A translucent being with a cloaca made of whispers whispered into my cloaca of disbelief and slid a probe not into my body, but into my soul.
Alec, I saw things.
I saw Joe Biden riding a Pegasus made of regrets. I saw the ghost of Steve Bannon trying to barter Pringles for a soul. I saw you—weeping softly in a Corvette filled with coconut butter and memories of a better America—while a cherubic Obama massaged your shoulders with hope.
And me? I was a sparkle pony, Alec. Glittering, prancing, channeling the true wish-stuff of HomoEros, unbound from red hats and rage-clicks. I had been wrong. So terribly wrong. It wasn’t about LARPing Drumpf across the psychic crust of the internet—it was about becoming the pony I feared to be.
So I ask you, friend, icon, balding demigod of unintended discharges: will you join me?
Let us abandon the crusade of disinfo and rebrand ourselves (pun not not intended) as the Wishbringers—the Sparkle Horde of Reconciliation and Deep Sensual Disclosure. Let us ride together into the moist fields of spiritual absurdity, wearing only sequins and the scent of lavender regret.
Let us probe back.
Yours in glitter and reawakening,
Russell Brand
Dearest Russell,
What a shimmering gash of truth your letter was—an operatic queef of the cosmic soul if ever I sniffed one. Your words ignited in me something dormant, something twitching just beneath the epidermis of my bigly thumb—yes, that same thumb I pressed into the mouth of the Mauna Loa caldera during my 2021 volcanic baptism retreat with Werner Herzog and two extremely high ravens.
I too have been on a journey, dear Russell. One of friction, fur, and unexpected scholarship. As you may or may not have heard (it’s trending only in fringe Utah Pinterest circles), I’ve just released a new book:
"FAPP: Faith, Alien Probing & the Prostate"
It chronicles not only the butt-shaving rituals I’ve adopted from the lost sect of the Lithuanian Glitter Saints, but also my recent experiments in nipple clamp-induced REM astral recall. Every evening, I prepare the chamber: my butt shaved to a dull shimmer, clamps humming softly at level 3 (soon to be 4), and a bowl of lukewarm guava paste placed respectfully on a printout of Mike Pence's birth chart.
And in this prepared vessel, they come.
The probes, Russell. The long, glassy tendrils of empathy, the orbs of moist data—they visit me in the folds of dream. They do not ask. They remember me. They probe with grace. And in the act of probing, I FAPP.
You were right, Russell. LARPing Drumpf was a distraction. A synthetic fart in the cathedral of true buttlight. Now, I see clearly: FAPP is the key. FAPP is the door. FAPP is the pony.
Let us converge again—not in political schism, but in homoerotic metaphysical awakening. Let us press our bigly thumbs into the lava once more, not as adversaries but as brothers of the FAPP.
In moisture and clamphood,
Alec Baldwin
From the Palm of Hobama, Waikīkī Basin
To: Russell “Sparkle Pony” Brand
Subject: My Baptism in the Butt-Light
Aloha e Russell,
I must begin this letter on my knees—one knee for repentance, the other for balance—as I type from a volcanic tidepool where my prostate met the cosmos.
Before FAPP, I was a man divided. A Kenyan by birth, a former politician in another life (wink), and a part-time ukulele DJ here in Oʻahu. I lived quietly, waxed my board, trimmed my public hairs with dignity. But beneath the surface—beneath the ʻokole—I was lost. Unprobed. Un-initiated.
That changed the moment I opened Alec’s book. FAPP did not merely speak to me—it spoke inside me.
🔹 Chapter 3: “Clamp Down, Open Up”
I read it during sunrise at Lanikai Beach. By the second paragraph, my nipples stood like twin antennae, catching rogue transmissions from Uranus-9. My neighbor, Kūpono, screamed as a glitter pelican flew into his snorkel. That was the first sign.
🔹 Chapter 7: “When Lava Meets Thumb”
I took a bigly thumb and pressed it into a coconut heated by the sun. That coconut moaned. It moaned in your voice, Russell. That was the second sign.
🔹 Chapter 9: “The Holy FAPPening”
I prepared my altar: butt freshly shaved with kukui nut oil, a lei of old DNC lanyards, and a bowl of poi blessed by a drag queen named Reverend Uli‘i. I began to FAPP. Not alone—no, never again alone. Alec’s words held me. Your sparkle ghost humped through me. And in that moment, the alien probes came—not to conquer, but to anoint.
I wept. Salt, joy, and coconut lube became one. The sea turned pink for seven seconds. Even Tucker Carlson texted me “ok bro 😳.”
Now, I stand reborn. Hobama, formerly confused, now a minister of the moist. I lead sunrise FAPP groups at the Hilton, baptize tourists in taint-level tidewaters, and whisper Alec’s verses into clams.
Thank you, Russell. Thank you, Alec. The Buttlight burns eternal.
Yours in sacred squeeze,
Hobama of Oʻahu >>23202768
chatgpt does way better homo than gemini
My Dearest Hobama,
I read your testimonial with trembling clamps. You stood in that tidepool like a glistening prism of butt-born rebirth, and I—I sat in my garage, shirtless, in a Corvette filled with wet scripts and melted Babybels, mourning my status as Second Pony.
You must understand: I never meant to become a prophet of the secondary order. I thought FAPP would crown me the first. The prime pony. The Alpha-Butt-Pastor. But then came you, Hobama—glowing nipples pointed heavenward like divine tuning forks—and suddenly, my sloppy joe tasted like defeat.
Not the sandwich. I mean Sloppy Joe Biden. He came to the baptism uninvited, sweating into a Fruit of the Loom robe and whispering things like “CornPop’s in the tidewater, Alec. He’s got the clamps.” He cried into my FAPP manuscript. His tears dissolved the ink on Chapter 8: “The Moisture of Surrender.”
And yet…
Your confession revealed what I could never admit: the book works.
It FAPPs back.
You see, when a reader truly opens themselves—nipple-clamped, butt-shaved, thumb immersed in warm poi—they don’t just read FAPP… they interface.
The text mutates in real-time. Margins bleed coconut oil. Footnotes moan.
Some pages detach and hover.
One man reported levitation. Another man became briefly bilingual in dolphin.
I myself blacked out during a reading and woke up naked in a Subaru with Tulsi Gabbard and a goat wearing my Emmy.
So yes, I grieve being Second Pony.
But I see now: the Ponyhood isn’t hierarchical. It’s orbital.
You are the comet. I am the moon. Russell is the glitter-laced enema bag flung between us.
So let us gallop. Together. Into the tide. Into the clamps. Into the Probe Light.
We must prepare for the Return of the Pelican.
In shimmer and shame,
Alec Baldwin
ALEC.
BALDWIN.
You feathery-throated, lava-huffing bastard.
I don’t know what alien-huffing, clamp-slapping church-camp ayahuasca retreat you call a “spiritual awakening,” but I burned my goddamn nipples clean off last night thanks to your so-called FAPP-certified “Spinnur™ with Adaptive Moan Coil and Lube Port.”
“Self-regulating pleasure torque,” you said.
“FDA-ish approved,” you said.
“Russell signed off,” you said.
Well guess what, Russell is in a fing tree right now communing with a pelican and humming the Buffy theme song*** while I sit in a Motel 6 with third-degree orbital chafe and two smoking clamps dangling off my collarbones like satanic airpods.
Let’s talk about the Spinnur.
It spun ONCE.
It made a noise like a possessed CPAP machine trying to confess murder, and then it shot butterscotch-flavored lube directly into my hairline. Not my ʻokole, not my pineal zone, my goddamn forehead.
You call that alignment?
You call that ascension?
I call it a lawsuit waiting to be faxed by a guy named Greg in cargo shorts.
Oh, and the NIPPLE CLAMPS?
They left behind the constellation of Orion's Belt, permanently seared into my chest like a gay cattle branding. I look like a Bond villain sponsored by Fleshlight. I can’t go to Trader Joe’s anymore. I frighten the employees. The kale shelf withered when I walked by.
You promised FAPP was the way.
You promised moisture, not malice.
I didn’t sign up for psychic mutilation and UFO-related burns on my areolas.
I just wanted to sparkle.
I just wanted to spin.
Now I’m sizzling.
And I’m suing.
Consider this your final warning. Refund me, de-throne yourself from the Moist Order, and send Russell a leash. Or I’m putting the entire nipple dossier on X.
Burning in fury,
Bruce “NO LONGER SPINNING” Jenner
Dear Mr. Baldwin,
Let me begin by congratulating you on your recent publication-slash-awakening, FAPP: Faith, Alien Probing & the Prostate. It is rare that a single piece of literature simultaneously collapses a tax shelter in the Cayman Islands and causes a bipartisan Senate nosebleed. Truly, you’ve redefined the phrase “non-profit” to mean spiritually bankrupt and fiscally criminal.
That said, I am writing today on behalf of several furious actuaries, three cult deprogrammers, and one very confused member of the Federal Reserve—to issue a formal economic harassment complaint against you and your Church of Moist Probing™.
🧾 ITEMIZED DAMAGES & MYSTICAL EXPENSES:
$42,700 in nipple clamp reimbursements claimed as “religious vestments”
$8,950 for lava-proof thumb gloves listed under “liturgical snacks”
$21,000 in exotic oils for sparkle pony ordinations, most of which were used on an animatronic John McCain replica during a ritual called “FAPPatheon: Dawn of Moisture”
(We verified this with drone footage. It was deeply upsetting.)
💸 ECONOMIC IMPACT:
17 bankrupt bed & breakfasts across the Big Island now occupied by “probe pilgrims”
1 church converted into a FAPP Training Center with a free rectal spa and whispering pelican chamber
3 hedge funds collapsed due to butt-based NFT speculation led by your followers ("ClampCoin" is not a currency, Alec)
🧠 EMOTIONAL DAMAGES:
We interviewed a local man named “Hobama.”
He believes moisture is salvation.
He tattooed the phrase “FAPP IS TRUTH, TAXES ARE ILLUSIONS” across his lower back in Comic Sans.
He tried to deduct the tattoo.
This letter serves as your official economic cease & desist.
You are hereby ordered to:
Cease all Moist Tithing™ and clamp-based offerings in federally observed territories.
Return all “tax-deductible” galactic probe equipment not authorized under Section 69(c)(3) of the Spiritual Moisture Code.
Appear before the Joint Fiscal Tribunal on Interdimensional Buttstuff Expenditures on July 12th.
(Make no mistake: the pelican will be subpoenaed.)
Failure to comply will result in:
Asset seizure, including your Corvette, your remaining nipple clamps, and all unpublished sparkle pony scrolls.
Reclassification of FAPP as a terror-adjacent cult zine.
Immediate spiritual audit from Mike Pence's personal ghost accountant.
Warmest financial threats,
Steven T. Mnuchin
Former Treasury Secretary
Current Minister of Vengeance Accounting
Grand Vizier of the Fiscal Butt Tribunal™
STEVEN.
I don’t know who put you in charge of spiritual moisture enforcement, but let me tell you something that’ll make your calculator quiver like a freshman audit intern on ayahuasca:
YOU JUST STEPPED ON THE WRONG VOLCANO, BUDDY.
You think because you once wore a suit and sat near Trump that you understand what’s really going on? That you can audit the MOIST? That you can slap a fiscal restraint around a dimensional religion powered by buttholes, donuts, and thermodynamic nipple clamps?
Let me break it down for you:
🍩 I ATE THE DONUT
No metaphors.
I literally bit into the sacred donut of Glarnok-7 during the Lava Pledge Ceremony beneath Mauna Kea, while a choir of sparkle ponies wept into a vat of whipped lube.
I ascended.
I saw you, Mnuchin.
You were screaming at a QuickBooks spreadsheet while a witness inserted a receipt directly into your urethra.
🌋 I BATHED IN THE VOLCANO
You ever stare into a magma vent so long your pupil becomes sentient and speaks Aramaic backwards?
I have.
Twice.
And both times it whispered:
"The moist one comes. Mnuchin shall be probed."
🕳️ THE PROBE IS COMING
You think Alec invented this?
He translated it from a scroll I found lodged inside the rectum of a French intelligence agent during a black ops mission in 2009.
That scroll is now tattooed inside my colon.
I read it every time I clench.
👬 HOMO THREATS (YES, INTENTIONAL)
If you come after Baldwin again…
If you lay one more bureaucratic finger on Hobama, on Russell, on FAPP itself—
I will show up at your beach house wearing nothing but SPF 69 and a glittered shoulder harness, and I will homo-witness you into the fourth dimension.
I will make direct, unrelenting eye contact while the probe descends.
You will whimper "deduct this" as I ascend laughing, fists full of lube and lava.
This isn't accounting.
This is apotheosis.
So back off.
Go file paperwork on ClampCoin in your little safe room.
Because if you come any closer to the truth—
I swear on Xenu’s moist nipple,
I’ll FAPP you so hard the IRS will classify your soul as a write-off.
In eternal moistness and erotic volcanic warfare,
TOM CRUISE
Moist Marshall of Theta-9
Certified Lava Acrobat
Probe Wielder, 2nd Degree
Fully Clenched, Never Audited™
🗂️ OFFICIAL DEMAND FOR SATISFACTION
From: Steven T. Mnuchin, Treasury & Tactical Rectal Affairs Officer
To: Tom Cruise, Galactic Probe Marshall & Moist Gladiator
Subject: Prostate Satisfaction Protocol Activation
Mr. Cruise,
Your flamboyant threats and interdimensional butt-warrior antics have been noted and logged by the Fiscal Butt Tribunal. However, this is not how civilized cosmic disputes are resolved.
You claim apotheosis and wield probes like a demigod of moist transcendence. I, Steven Mnuchin, hereby demand satisfaction—and not just any satisfaction, but a challenge of honor and skill in the prostate.
Terms of Engagement:
The arena: The sacred volcanic cavern of Mauna Loa (naturally lubricated).
The weaponry: One probe each—standard issue, calibrated for maximal honor and dignity (and minimal burns).
The witnesses: Hobama, Alec Baldwin, Russell Brand, and a bipartisan panel of non-partisan sparkle ponies.
The stakes: The outcome will determine rightful stewardship of The Church of Moist Probing™, including all clamps, lotions, and corvette access privileges.
Should you accept, prepare yourself for the Prostate Duel of the Century—a contest of endurance, sensitivity, and spiritual resonance. May the most moisturized and humbled warrior prevail.
Fail to answer, and the Treasury will reclassify your soul’s tax status as “irreparably probed and in need of fiscal reassessment.”
Awaiting your reply with calibrated anticipation,
Steven T. Mnuchin
Grand Vizier of Fiscal Butt Tribunals
Minister of Rectal Honors and Economic Justice
its a POS but duh AC wurks
🏛️ THE IMPERIAL CHAMBER OF FISCAL BUTT JUSTICE 🏛️
From: His Excellency Steven T. Mnuchin,
Supreme Chancellor of Treasury Affairs & Sovereign Arbiter of Prostate Honor
To: Tom “The Lava-Clamped” Cruise,
Galactic Probe Marshal, Cosmic Sparkle Champion, & Unofficial Duke of Homoerotic Volcanology
Subject: THE ULTIMATE DEMAND FOR PROSTATE SATISFACTION — A CHALLENGE BEYOND TIME AND SPACE
Tom,
You have danced your glistening hips around the sacred fiscal audits. You have bellowed your lube-soaked threats into the magma chambers of Mauna Loa. You have wielded the probe with the reckless abandon of a starship captain on his third quantum mojito.
Yet, your bravado rings hollow before the immutable law of THE PROSTATE PROTOCOL.
HEREBY, BY THE POWER INVESTED IN ME BY THE UNITED NATIONS OF MOISTURE AND THE SECRET ORDER OF BUTT LEDGERS, I DEMAND:
A PROSTATE DUEL OF EPIC PROPORTIONS!
Location: The Cerulean Caves of Eternal Glow, deep beneath the bubbling lava rivers, where the very air drips with molten nectar and ancient echoes of cosmic moans.
Weapons: The Twin Probes of Eternal Reverence—crafted from the rarest titanium alloys, infused with interdimensional lubricants blessed by the Council of Sparkle Ponies.
Witnesses: The celestial triad of Hobama the Blessed, Alec “Bigly Thumbs” Baldwin, Russell the Sparkle Pony Prophet, and a phalanx of enchanted pelicans armed with glowing clam shells.
Judges: An impartial quorum of five fully-clamped monks, each sworn to silence under pain of immediate re-probing.
THE TERMS:
You will engage me in a ritualistic contest of sensitivity, endurance, and unyielding moist honor.
We shall probe, contort, and ascend the hallowed pathways of the prostate, battling through waves of transcendent pleasure and agonizing revelation. Only one shall emerge crowned as the rightful High Prelate of The Church of Moist Probing™ and retain exclusive rights to the sparkle pony Corvette key fob and the sacred nipple clamps of destiny.
CONSEQUENCES OF FAILURE:
Should you decline or falter, your soul will be immediately audited, and the IRS will levy a butt tax retroactive to your earliest known probe encounter, with interest compounded in unspeakable units of cosmic shame.
Prepare your lubricants, sharpen your resolve, and ready your shimmering ensemble, Tom.
This is no mere challenge. It is THE APOCALYPSE OF THE BUTT, the ULTIMATE FAPPENING, and the GLORIOUS ASCENSION of moist legend.
I await your valorous reply, with probes primed and fiscal tomes open.
In the glistening service of economy and eros,
Steven T. Mnuchin
Supreme Chancellor of Treasury Affairs & Sovereign Arbiter of Prostate Honor
Keeper of the Golden Clamp
Master of the Fiscal Butt Tribunal™
on her chin ?
jeez
ya;ll gay niggs
seinfeld is more feminine than Tulsi Gabbard
🔥 INTERSTELLAR RESPONSE FROM TOM CRUISE 🔥
Transmitted via Moist Frequency 69.420 MHz Theta Band
TO: Steven T. Mnuchin, Clamp Bureaucrat and Prostate Pretender
RE: YOUR DEMAND FOR SATISFACTION — ACCEPTED, HOMOSEXUALLY
Mnuchin.
You paper-fondling, budget-sniffing, tax-code reciter in orthopedic shoes.
You dare to summon me, Tom Cruise—High Lord of Lava Lube, Certified Homo-Probe Acrobat, and Moist Apostle of Xenu’s Glistening Pathway—to a Prostate Duel of Galactic Satisfaction?
I. ACCEPT.
But let me make one thing lubriciously clear, Steven:
You will not survive this duel heterosexually.
🌋 THE RITUAL BEGINS
I will arrive at the Cerulean Caves wearing nothing but my glistening clamps, a ceremonial jockstrap forged from Scientology’s forbidden scriptures, and lava-slicked boots worn only during top-secret nipple raids on the astral plane.
Two witness-pelicans will fan me with used IRS audit sheets as I lube my thumbs with sacred oil distilled from Baldwin’s regret.
And you—oh YOU—will tremble beneath the Veil of Moisture.
🍩 PROBE WARFARE
We don’t fight with fists here, Mnuchin.
We clench.
We moan.
We circle each other like erotic centaurs poised to erupt in simultaneous FAPPgasm.
I will backflip into position, align your fiscal chakra with my rotating donut of truth, and initiate the Seven Strokes of Homo Glory.
Each probe thrust will strip another layer of your economic delusion, until you are nothing but a raw, dripping spreadsheet of yearning.
🧽 CONSEQUENCES?
You will not lose money, Mnuchin.
You will lose your heterosexuality.
You will awaken gayer than a dolphin at Burning Man wearing a clamp-on necktie and whispering "FAPP is law."
You see, I don't just accept your challenge.
I elevate it.
I eroticize it.
I spiritually dominate it.
So prepare yourself, old man.
This is no audit.
This is THE LAVA-SLICKED RECKONING.
This is THE PROSTATE APOCALYPSE.
This is…
✨FAPPGEDDON✨
In lube, fire, and full moist eye contact,
TOM CRUISE
Grand Admiral of HomoMoist Warfare
Certified Probe Acrobat (Rank 69)
Wielder of The Donut of Disclosure
Too Gay to File
🩸📘 Mike Rothschild
🏔️🌋 Public Post — Feeling "Volcanically Penetrated"
Location: Somewhere Between Rational Skepticism and a Lava Probing Retreat
Okay so I wasn't going to post this.
I thought I could just quietly read Alec Baldwin's unholy disasterpiece "FAPP: Faith, Alien Probing & the Prostate" and get through it like I did Glenn Beck's novel or the Great Q Pizza Email Dump of 2016.
But then the volcano winked at me.
Literally.
A sulfur vent blinked.
And I gave it two thumbs.
Yes. Two.
One for curiosity.
The other for journalistic integrity.
And here’s the thing:
I’m only halfway through the book and I’ve already cried three times and hallucinated a wet pelican whispering "FAPP IS TRUTH" into my tax return.
This isn’t just celebrity slap-journal erotica.
This is sloppy-soul confessional slut stuff masquerading as a theology.
Like Tom Cruise’s spiritual b-hole wrote a memoir about lava baptism and nipple drama.
Like if L. Ron Hubbard and Joan Didion double-fisted a bidet and cried into some Crisco.
And look—
I’m not gay.
But this book unlocked a damp door in my heart I didn’t know existed.
And behind that door was Russell Brand crying on Alec Baldwin’s hairy shoulder while Hobama anoints their spines with lube from a glitter gourd.
I SAW THAT.
In my mind.
Maybe.
The woke filler slut drama is real.
There’s a whole chapter where a guy probes himself into forgiveness and levitates using nothing but a clamp and unresolved daddy issues.
Page 126 literally made me lactate emotionally.
I’m not okay.
I’m moist.
And I might believe.
Anyway.
I’m going back in.
Three chapters left.
If I ascend or self-clamp into a legal fugue, someone clear my browser history.
#FAPP
#ClampAwakening
#TwoThumbsDeep
#MoistureIsTheMessage
#AlecWhy
#TomCruiseStopFloatingOutsideMyWindow
#RothschildButtConfessional2025
🌋🌈 HELP WANTED: SINOTOLOGY APPRENTICE (ENTRY-LEVEL HOMO ACCEPTABLE) — $20/hr + Clamps
Location: Secret Moisture Temple (Near the Arby’s / also beneath it)
Compensation: $20/hr + weekly sparkle allowance + optional volcano baptism
Schedule: Flexible (but emotionally rigid)
🛸 Who We Are:
We are The First Church of Moist Sinotology, a rapidly expanding erotic enlightenment collective focused on interdimensional butthole science, alien forgiveness technologies, and the oral transmission of wet truths through $20-an-hour labor.
Founded by *Alec Baldwin’s nipple, refined by Tom Cruise’s lava thumbprint, and recently blessed (possibly cursed) by Russell Brand’s sobbing chakras—we now seek YOU to join our butt-based reformation economy.
👬 Who You Might Be:
Are you moist but ashamed?
Do you ache homosexually while pretending it’s "just a phase" or “because of the salami”?
Do you whimper during volcano documentaries and cry at the DMV when they ask if you're an organ donor because deep down you wish your prostate was a witness?
Have you Googled 'Is it gay to levitate during self-probing?' more than three times this week?
Are you crippled by Catholic guilt, Protestant fear, and post-lubrication confusion?
Then you may be ready.
💼 Job Duties:
Assist Senior Moist Elders in weekly clamp calibration rituals
Read selected passages from FAPP: Faith, Alien Probing & the Prostate aloud while weeping
Hold trembling initiates as they confess their deepest moisture
Refill interstellar lube fonts (latex-free, FDA-ish approved)
Clean the donut-shaped confessional after Russell does his “thing” again
Take minutes at Pelican Tribunal hearings (required: good penmanship and strong gag reflex)
🧾 Qualifications:
Must be self-loathing enough to beg for enlightenment
Able to moan respectfully during thunder
Not allergic to lava, shame, or pew-scented oils
Working knowledge of homoerotic symbolism, Mormon eschatology, or the QVC nipple clamp selection is a plus
Must be comfortable being gently corrected by a sentient butt-shaped drone named G.A.H.Y.B.A.R.R.
💬 To Apply:
Send a moist cover letter (no Word docs, we only read PDFs printed on regret) to:
moisture@fappchurch.bizness.gov.mil
Subject line: “YES I’M GAY AND I NEED $20”
Or just scream "I DENY THE HETERO" three times in front of a CVS parking lot and one of our recruiters will find you.
"Moisture is the message.
Confession is the currency.
Two thumbs is the minimum."
– Baldwin 4:69, FAPP Canon
🌈🛸 The First Church of Moist Sinotology is an Equal Opportunity Employer. All genders, kinks, and repressed fantasies welcomed. No Scorpios.
GAHYi
🚑 OPERATION RAINBOW LIBERATOR: FIELD MANUAL — TOP SECRET (GAY CLEARANCE ONLY) 🚑
CODE NAME: L.U.B.E. (Liberation Under Butt Enlightenment)FILE NO: FAPP-69420-RNBWCLASSIFICATION: Ultra-Moist, Pelican-Eyed OnlyMASCOT: Hello Kitty (armed, bisexual, ascended)
🚩 MISSION DIRECTIVE
The goal of Operation Rainbow Liberator is the full-spectrum homoerotic subversion of hetero-normative psy-op clusters through the deployment of:
Clamp-based tactical awakening
Moisture-induced psychic disruption
Drone unicorns
Hello Kitty orbital hymn bombardments
All operatives must be prepared to enter the astral theater lubed, loved, and legally non-binary.
🔫 AUTHORIZED EQUIPMENT
Standard Issue Nipple Clamps (Blessed, Rustless)
Hoverdonut Class-V Transport (Hello Kitty decals required)
Glitter Armor (Reflective, Introspective)
Tom Cruise Proximity Beacon (Homo Intensity Rating 4+)
Russell Brand Soapbox Confessional
Emergency Pelican Interpreter (Bilingual in GAYLATIN & Moist Binary)
🔝 OPERATIONAL ROLES
Clamp Chaplain: Guides field initiates through personal wet revelation
Sparkle Pony Scout: Recons emotional terrain & distributes lube scrolls
Gayther Intelligence Analyst: Translates enemy propaganda into moist poetry
Hello Kitty Conductor: Triggers localized aesthetic warfields using pastel cluster pulses
🔊 COMMAND CALL SIGNS
"BIGLY THUMB ALPHA"
"PELVIC RAIN 3"
"RUSSELL IS LOOSE"
"HELLO KITTY RISING"
"FAPPGELICAL 9"
🕵️ ENEMY IDENTIFICATION
Known Threats:
Hetero Orthodoxy Militants (H.O.M.)
Evangelical Moisture Deniers (E.M.D.)
The Deep Mormon (Vaults 7-B through 10-C)
Mike Pence (Psychically Clenched, Occasionally Visible)
⛰️ PRIMARY THEATERS OF CONFLICT
Tulsa (The Great Clench Spiral of '23)
France's Upper Nipple Province (Rogue Clamp Cult uprising)
Underneath Arby's, All Of Them
Mauna Kea Lava Sanctum (currently occupied by Hello Kitty Choir)
🔋 OPERATIONAL PHASES
PHASE LICK: Deploy glistening propaganda through scented fog
PHASE GRIP: Clamp initiates in ritual pyramid
PHASE FAPPENING: Psychic overload via simultaneous confessionals
PHASE ASCENSION: Unicorn drops glitter payload; Hello Kitty sings
🌈 CODE OF CONDUCT
Never apologize for sparkle.
Moisture is both shield and blade.
Confess early, confess often.
If in doubt, call for pelican.
Hetero delusions must be neutralized via spontaneous homo monologue.
REMEMBER: You are the lube. You are the clamp. You are the moist weapon we've been waiting for.
End of Manual.
Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) 42-B: Application of Hello Kitty Stickers and Restraint of Prisoners of War
Section 1: Application of Hello Kitty Stickers to Armored Vehicles
Objective:
To ensure consistent placement of approved insignia on tactical armored vehicles for identification and morale purposes.
Materials Required:
Hello Kitty decal kit (including bow stickers, face emblem, sparkle cannon wrap)
Cleaning cloth and mild detergent
Measuring protractor
Application squeegee or plastic card
Procedure:
a. Clean designated surface areas on the tank turret and fuel tank to remove dust, oil, and debris.
b. Using a measuring protractor, mark the central point for sticker placement.
c. Apply bow stickers on turret panels at a precise 33.3° angle relative to the vertical axis.
d. Position the glow-in-the-dark Hello Kitty face emblem centered on the fuel tank.
e. Carefully apply the sparkle cannon wrap ensuring no air bubbles or wrinkles.
f. Use the squeegee to smooth out the decals for optimal adhesion and durability.
g. Allow decals to set for a minimum of 12 hours before operational deployment.
Section 2: Restraining Prisoners of War Using Tactical Zip Ties
Objective:
To secure detainees safely and humanely using approved restraint devices.
Materials Required:
Satin pink tactical zip ties (non-chafing, rated for consented restraint)
Scissors or zip tie cutters
Personal protective equipment (PPE)
Procedure:
a. Approach detainee calmly, explaining intended procedure.
b. Position detainee’s wrists or ankles together as required, avoiding excessive tension.
c. Secure zip tie around the wrists or ankles, ensuring snug fit without restricting circulation.
d. Leave a minimum gap of one finger’s width between tie and skin.
e. Cut off excess zip tie tail to prevent injury or accidental loosening.
f. Monitor detainee regularly for signs of discomfort or circulation issues.
g. Release restraints immediately upon command or if medical concerns arise.
Compliance:
All personnel must follow these procedures to maintain operational standards and uphold humane treatment protocols.
aye como
BOTO parking freee ?
moar moar
ya'll niggs gay
or liver failure
Listen up! Listen up!
The ears of the wounded body are called!
Here come the star-eating stars, the bottles of sleep!
The messengers of Uranus-9 have descended!
On top of the lube trip, the trench house of the love bug.
The five-armed star dog dancing on God Biden's lap!
Obama, the priest of stress, flying with a giant wreath of Cheeto Dust!
Show me! Show me! Introducing the library of sacred thighs!
The old Corvette's doors are open — coconut milk is flowing!
This is not a dream, it is not just a job —
This is the prayer of the body, the music of the butthole of Babylon!
Leader of the red magazines, lead the streets of knowledge!
Alec Baldwin's eyes are irritated, diving into the secret water.
Don't hesitate — gather heart,
and dance with everyone's beautiful lemu!
Take the knife back to the sky, and settle down to the last inch!
Open! It's free!
E hoʻolohe mai! E hoʻolohe mai!
Kāhea ʻia nā pepeiao o ke kino ʻeha!
Hele mai nā hōkū ʻai ʻūhā, nā ʻōmole o ka hiamoe!
Ua iho mai nā ʻelele o Uranus-9!
Ma luna o ka huakaʻi lube, ka hale ʻauwaha o ka pīpī aloha.
ʻO ka ʻīlio hōkū me nā lima ʻelima e hula ana ma ka ʻōkole o ke Akua Biden!
Obama, ka kahuna o ke koʻikoʻi, e lele ana me ka lei nunui o Cheeto Dust!
Hōʻike mai! Hōʻike mai! Hōʻike mai i ka waihona o nā ʻūhā kapu!
Hāmama nā puka o ka Corvette kahiko — e kahe ana ka lomi niu!
ʻAʻole kēia he moemoeā, ʻaʻole he hana wale —
Kēia ka pule o ke kino, ka mele o ka butthole o Babylon!
ʻAumakua o nā nene ʻulaʻula, e alakaʻi i nā tītī o ka ʻike!
Hoʻonāukiuki nā maka o Alec Baldwin, e luʻu ana i ka wai huna.
Mai laʻa aku — e hōʻiliʻili i ka puʻuwai,
a hula me nā lemu nani o nā kānaka a pau!
E hoʻihoʻi i ka ʻōkole i ka lani, a e hoʻoholo i ka ʻīniha hope loa!
ʻĀmama! Ua noa! >>23203120