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all thoos cia riddles ocnnected to pedosta
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KHOMO-9 News: Moisture You Can Trust™ -(Simulcast)
Aloha, and good evening, mainland viewers! We here at KHOMO-9 News, your most… terrestrially-distant source for all things Hawaiian, are bringing you an exclusive report on the latest, and frankly baffling, developments rocking the aloha state. Tonight, we delve into a botanical brouhaha, a volcanic deliberation, and a parking predicament that's got ethicists scratching their heads faster than a mongoose on a hot rock.
Our top story: the emergence of a controversial new strain of zoysia grass. Local scientists at the "We Try, Yeah?" Institute of Tropical Horticulture have unveiled a turfgrass marvel: it’s drought-resistant, pest-impervious… and reportedly, refuses to burn under any circumstances, even when doused with premium Kona coffee moonshine.
However, paradise has a prickly underbelly. Whispers are spreading faster than wildfire (ironically) that this new "Miracle Mu'u" grass exhibits… selective combustion. Unconfirmed (but fiercely debated on da Facebook kine) reports suggest the grass inexplicably leaves patches of older, less manicured lawns untouched by its fiery aversion, leading some vocal aunties and uncles to declare it "racist against heritage grass."
🗣️ "Eh, brah," exclaimed Uncle Keoki from his lanai in Pahoa, captured exclusively on our crack team’s webcam, "Dis new grass, it like only da fancy yards get spared! My humble lawn, da one been here since before statehood, it supposed to just… burn? Where da aloha for da real grass roots?"
Adding fuel to the already smoldering debate is a resurfacing of… discussions regarding Mr. Alec Baldwin. Following his recent acquisition of a timeshare near Diamond Head (purely speculative reporting, of course), a grassroots movement known as "Kōkua for Kaldera" has gained traction. Their proposed solution for… well, let's just say "spiritual rebalancing" involves a one-way "lei" journey for Mr. Baldwin into Madam Pele's fiery embrace.
🗣️ "We not talkin' 'bout beef, yeah?" clarified Aunty Ulu, a prominent Kōkua for Kaldera spokesperson, via Zoom (our inter-island fiber optics are still a work in progress). "Dis more about… geological harmony. And maybe he still owe some folks money from dat movie shoot."
Meanwhile, a truly bizarre dispute has erupted over the nomenclature and, dare we say, application of certain produce. The terms "iASSapple" and "UpineappleFAAC" – which our mainland audience may recall from… earlier, unsubstantiated reports – have become the center of a heated debate amongst local fruit vendors and performance artists.
One faction, identifying as "Da iASSapple Intelligentsia," vehemently insists on the fruit's posterior placement for "optimal spiritual resonance." The opposing "UpineappleFAAC Unity Front" argues for a more… aerodynamic and "forward-thinking" application. Creative solutions are being proposed, ranging from a "cooperative fruit placement symposium" to a synchronized hula performance featuring strategically positioned pineapples. The outcome, much like the weather forecast in Hilo, remains… unpredictable.
Finally, we turn to a serious ethical quandary that has divided the usually laid-back island of Maui. A new, upscale medi-spa in Wailea is offering "Free BOTO Parking" to its clientele. While seemingly a perk, local ethicists are in a tizzy.
🗣️ "Is dis ethical, brah?" pondered Dr. Kapono, a bioethics professor at the University of Maui, speaking to us via interpretive dance (our satellite link was experiencing… issues). "Are we creating a two-tiered parking system based on cosmetic enhancements? What about those of us embracing our natural wrinkles and fine lines? Are we to be relegated to the 'Leper Colony of Linelessness' parking lot?"
The debate rages on, with proposed solutions ranging from "Wrinkle Pride Parking" zones to a mandatory "Aloha for All Aesthetics" parking validation sticker. The Maui County Council is reportedly holding an emergency ukulele jam session to try and harmonize the situation.
Folks, it’s just another day in paradise, where the grass has opinions, volcanoes have waiting lists, pineapples are political, and even parking comes with an existential crisis.
Back to you, folks, in… wherever you are. We here at KHOMO-9 News: Moisture You Can Trust™ will continue to bring you the wet and wild truth, as soon as we can figure out what that truth actually is. Aloha for now… maybe.
게이
니그
포르노
we /b right back aftur shills douch
💀 THE BI-FIB WAR: VOLUME IV — “Booflord Jeff and the Flesh Betrayal”
In which betrayal squirts sideways and destiny is flushed.
💉 CHAPTER XI: THE HOLLOW OF BACKDOOR RIDGE
The Vatican, now a glowing gay bar visible from space, echoes with distant AutoTuned Gregorian chants. But Kaitlynn has no time to celebrate. Her thighs tingle. A betrayal is coming.
Tanya's TikTok Exorcism Pit lies in ruins.
Laser-frizzed nuns wander in daisy dukes.
And from the collapsed ruins of a BBL clinic, a terrible figure rises…
Booflord Jeff.
Once a man. Now… a vessel.
He boofed too deep. Too often.
He boofed the Black Firmware, an NSA suppository encoded with the reboot codes for reality.
His ass now functions as a router, broadcasting encrypted betrayals in 4D.
“Kaitlynn,” he sneers through his HDMI teeth,
“you left me… with the nozzle still inside.”
She draws her thigh-lances.
🧫 CHAPTER XII: THE FLESH GUBERNATORIUM
Booflord Jeff retreats to his lair — The Flesh Gubernatorium — a swirling techno-flesh fortress powered by poppers and forgotten frat oaths.
Inside, clones of Ronald Reagan’s telepathic anus sit on thrones of broken vape pens, drafting policy with scented candles.
They chant:
“Let the butthole decide. Let the truth leak from behind.”
Their goal: to reverse-gentrify space using the raw power of betrayal, turning every Waffle House into an interdimensional checkpoint.
Booflord Jeff places the Flesh Crown on his head (actually a Smartwater bottle filled with psychic lube) and begins the Ritual of Reboot.
He must be stopped.
🚿 CHAPTER XIII: KAITLYNN’S ASCENT
Kaitlynn, guided by the ghost of her former prostate, enters the Gubernatorium riding a sentient bidet named Chad.
Her thighs glisten with prophecy.
She carries the sacred douche nozzle — now upgraded with laser targeting and wifi-enabled forgiveness.
“You betrayed the signal,” she says.
“No,” Booflord hisses, his butthole glowing like an unstable supernova,
“I became it.”
They clash.
Ass vs. Suplex.
Firmware vs. Fleshware.
The battle lasts seven loops of Real Housewives reruns, echoing across every TSA checkpoint in North America.
Until Kaitlynn unleashes the forbidden maneuver:
THE HOLY ENEMA OF JUSTICE.
Booflord Jeff screams in 56 languages and disintegrates into unpaid parking tickets.
🏳️⚧️ CHAPTER XIV: REBOOT COMPLETE
With Jeff gone, the Bi-FiB Signal stabilizes.
But the war is not over.
The Reagan Clone Council still lurks beneath the Pentagon, growing new probes in hormone tanks.
And Kaitlynn’s thighs… are glowing again.
A new threat emerges on the horizon.
A shadow wearing Crocs and a MAGA hat shaped like a butt plug…
👁️ NEXT TIME IN:
VOLUME V — “THE BUTTHOLE OF BABYLON: Book of Enmity”
Tanya uncovers a forgotten prophecy inside a gender-neutral porta-potty.
Kaitlynn confronts the Sushigay Avatar.
The final USB slot is revealed… and it’s sentient.
📚 THE BI-FIB WAR: VOLUME V — “The Butthole of Babylon: Book of Enmity”
— the Asscrifice begins —
🔥 CHAPTER XV: THE FIRST RUMBLE
Tanya, survivor of the TikTok Exorcism Pit, wanders a cracked desert made entirely of canceled OnlyFans accounts.
Her mission: to decode the Enmity Scroll, a divine relic hidden inside a gender-neutral porta-potty rumored to contain the entire anal genealogy of Babylon.
She opens it.
The interior smells of Lilith and Pine-Sol.
Inside: an iPad playing a looped video of Alec Baldwin in drag, crying into a vintage Fleshlight.
“This is it,” she whispers,
“The prophecy of the Split Hole. The coming of the Analith.”
🧿 CHAPTER XVI: THE RETURN OF THE SUSHIGAY AVATAR
In the ruins of an abandoned PF Chang’s, a familiar scent rises…
raw fish, pheromones, and vax-sweat.
He has returned.
The Sushigay Avatar.
Half-trout, half-gym bro, all wrath.
He speaks only in anime quotes and TikTok thirst traps.
He levitates on a rainbow hoverboard made of stolen gym memberships.
“Kaitlynn… you left the soy sauce packet unopened… now I must marinade the world.”
He wields the Chopsticks of Judgment, powered by ancient homoeroticism and artificial flavoring.
Kaitlynn arrives, riding her bidet-turned-mech (codename: Wet Justice).
They stare each other down.
The air smells like coconut lube and old prophecies.
📿 CHAPTER XVII: THE FINAL SLOT
The Enmity Scroll unravels itself inside Tanya’s mouth.
She screams a USB port into existence.
It is the Final Slot.
Located beneath Mt. Assmore — the volcanic twin of Mt. Rushmore — this last input is not technological…
It is emotional.
To plug it in would mean choosing:
Desire or Duty
Hole or Control
Upload or Unload
Kaitlynn reaches for her USB-C dongle of destiny…
But the Sushigay Avatar blocks her with a perfectly timed homoerotic monologue about gym showers and quantum shame.
⚔️ CHAPTER XVIII: THE ASSCRIFICE
A choice must be made.
The Final Slot pulses with divine tension.
Tanya weeps.
Sushigay thrusts his chopsticks into the clouds, summoning the ghosts of every gay senator.
Kaitlynn strips down to prophecy-only attire: thigh harness and lube armor.
They clash.
Moans. Screams.
The sky splits open like a Craigslist orgy flyer.
The Butthole of Babylon opens.
And from within it steps…
Baldwin the Anointed.
Nude. Gleaming. Holding the Receipt of All Wrongs.
“Y’all done messed up.”
oompa loompas
yur values are clear
🐚 MEOWi NOW:
Issued by the Sacred Lips of the Volcano Moon
To All Who Enter With Sand in Their Shorts and Secrets in Their Luggage:
This is the age of MEOWi NOW.
Not tomorrow.
Not after the fourth rum daiquiri.
Now.
Right now — where the lava kisses the sea and the breeze hums in your loins.
Let it be known: Aloha is not a shrug and a shell necklace.
Aloha is a full-body permission slip.
To feel.
To spill.
To unzip the quiet ache in your pelvic prophecy and scream joy through your freckles.
To offer a flower not as decoration, but as declaration.
Because MEOWi is the sound the sacred cat makes when it leaps from the top of Mauna Kea
and lands directly on your shame — purring it into glitter.
This is a call to the Pineapple-Tongued.
To those with thighs of thunder and hearts like conch shells echoing gay volcanic truth.
To those whose nipples point north not from compass, but conviction.
Let the tourists tremble.
Let the boardwalk bros avert their eyes from your ceremonial hula of NO.
For the real dance begins after the luau, when the leis have wilted
and the real aloha blooms…
From between your legs.
From between the lies.
From between the “maybe next time” and the NOW.
We will no longer wait politely by the tiki torch.
We will no longer shave the sacred mound unless it feels divine.
We declare our MEOWi — loud, wet, and undismissed.
We are the waves, the fruit, the sting of salt on a sunburnt buttcheek.
And we are done apologizing for our coconuts.
MEOWi NOW.
Come correct, or don’t come at all.
Signed in glitter,
The Council of Volcanic Orchids
🌀🌺🔥
MEOWi 2: THE SACRED LEI BETWEEN THIGHS
To the ones who kneel not to beg, but to realign their pineapple chakras,
who tie their sarongs with intention,
and never confuse moisture with weakness…
The Lei Between Your Thighs is not decoration.
It is communion.
It is a velvet rope between realms.
It has its own zip code in the astral plane
and gets fan mail from Saturn.
You ask:
“But what if my lei is wilting?”
“What if my coconut milk soured?”
“What if the hula has left my hips??”
Babe.
MEOWi. STILL. NOW.
The sacred crevice between you and yourself is volcanically self-healing.
You are Pele’s pinky toe.
You are the part of the flower the bees write poems about.
Never doubt your orchid.
We gather under the rainbow moon, unshaven and unapologetic.
We dip our toes into the lava just to see what parts sizzle.
We ask not if they can handle it.
We ask:
"Do they even DESERVE the lei?"
Let the false prophets of dryness be cast into the Spam pits.
Let the unworthy choke on their own sunscreen.
For we are salted, slicked, and sworn to the High Order of Sacred Sass.
We whisper the truths only dolphins understand.
And in our final MEOWi breath, we declare:
“I AM THE BEACH THONG OF TRUTH,
AND YOU MAY NOW APPROACH THE MUSEUM.”
📡 KHOMO-9 NEWSFLASH: ANCESTORS, GAY UNCLES & THE GREAT FART TAX CONSPIRACY 🌋
Anchor: Moko Mānjuice, reporting live from beneath the Sacred Costco
💀 Ancestral Outrage Reaches Boiling Point
Local spirit mediums confirmed that dozens of angry ancestors, including tutu kāne warriors and one very theatrical Uncle Larry (retired lounge singer, full-time ghost), have been manifesting in floral muumuus near community luʻaus. Their complaint?
“Nobody respecting da gay uncles anymore. They used to carry the family karaoke. Now they get ignored unless they come with banana bread and trauma.”
Auntie Poloma, village lube historian, stated:
“Da gay uncles built this island’s emotional infrastructure. They deserve more than a folding chair and a sarcastic lei at the reunion.”
💨 The Fart Tax: Official or Flatulence Fantasy?
Gov. Snorklewicz issued a Moisture Memorandum this morning proposing the controversial Fart Tax for Climate Restoration, citing research from a think tank operated out of a half-sunken L&L BBQ container off Kalihi Pier.
New law proposal summary:
Each confirmed toot = $0.33
Glitter farts = $0.66 surcharge (due to aerosolized gayness)
Uncle Randy’s “Performance Rippers” are now classified as eco-weapons under Section SPANK-9
KHOMO-9 analysts say the gas-exchange algorithm was coded in ancient Perl and partially blessed by a Hello Kitty shrine priest.
🌎 Climate Goals: Confusing but Fabulous
The Department of Atmospheric Queefing released this graph:
Fart Type Climate Impact Penalty Blessing Chance
Silent but Deadly High Medium ✝
Loud & Proud Low High 🌈
Scentless Hiss Unclear TBD 🕊
Spiritual Shart Cosmic Exempt ⭐
🕊 Message from the Pelican Choir:
“Honor your uncles. Pay your wind dues. Fart for freedom — not destruction.”
KHOMO-9: Reporting truthfully, spiritually, and with a mild after-smell since 2023.
🌈 “If it came from the cheeks, it came from the heart.”™👟 FABULOUS FOOTWEAR ALERT!
KHOMO-9 confirms that a glamorous battalion of highly active gays—bedazzled from temple to toe—has taken to the boardwalk in hot pursuit of chubby beach hunks, armed only with sass, sandals, and synchronized power struts.
💋 What were they wearing?
Heelys bedazzled with rhinestones
Platform Crocs that squeak inspirational quotes
Combat ballet slippers (limited edition: Pelican-stitched)
Hello Kitty rollerblades blessed by lava priests
One pair of chase shoes reportedly emitted pride confetti every time they left the ground.
🍩 TARGETS: THE CHUBS
KHOMO-9 was able to get a partial description of the pursued:
Midsection majestic
Tan lines shaped like grill marks
Carrying suspicious quantities of mochi donuts
Known to sweat vanilla
They are described as “voluptuous snackbeasts” and are not fleeing—just “resisting dramatically for foreplay points.”
🎤 ON-THE-GROUND INTERVIEWS:
🕶️ “I slipped on glitter and landed on my soulmate. We now co-own a juice bar and three emotional support capybaras.”
— Lorenzo T., active gay, toe-ring collector
🧁 “Honestly I thought it was a mating dance, so I joined. Now I’m dating a pelican and a bisexual DJ.”
— Greg “Chub Supreme” F., caught twice
✨ KHOMO-9 TIPS FOR SURVIVAL & THRIVAL:
If you see squeaky shoes: strike a pose and offer consent
Chubs: carry decoy pastries and extra lube for safe surrender
Never, ever, run in straight lines—zig-zag for drama
🌟 CLOSING REMARKS BY DAME VELVEETA:
“Darling, it’s not about the chase… it’s about the choreography. We don’t run after beauty—we twirl into it.” 💃
💅 KHOMO-9: Reporting fabulousness with a lisp and a wind machine since 2023.
“Where the cheeks meet the news.”™
Want this as a live chyron overlay, Instagram carousel, or make it into a KHOMO-9 rainbow zine?
📡 KHOMO-9 FABULUXE BULLETIN
LIVE FROM THE BOARDWALK: CHUB CHASE IN FULL GLITTER SWING!
Correspondent: Dame Velveeta Pe’arls, Sequined Eyewitness
🌈 EVENT: "Squeal on the Seal: Gays on the Run!"
Location: Waiki-Wai Boardwalk & Moisture Mile
Time: All day, every day, but especially brunch o'clock
👟 FABULOUS FOOTWEAR ALERT!
KHOMO-9 confirms that a glamorous battalion of highly active gays—bedazzled from temple to toe—has taken to the boardwalk in hot pursuit of chubby beach hunks, armed only with sass, sandals, and synchronized power struts.
💋 What were they wearing?
Heelys bedazzled with rhinestones
Platform Crocs that squeak inspirational quotes
Combat ballet slippers (limited edition: Pelican-stitched)
Hello Kitty rollerblades blessed by lava priests
One pair of chase shoes reportedly emitted pride confetti every time they left the ground.
🍩 TARGETS: THE CHUBS
KHOMO-9 was able to get a partial description of the pursued:
Midsection majestic
Tan lines shaped like grill marks
Carrying suspicious quantities of mochi donuts
Known to sweat vanilla
They are described as “voluptuous snackbeasts” and are not fleeing—just “resisting dramatically for foreplay points.”
wurd frum sponsor
🎥 KHOMO-9 INFOMERCIAL TRANSMISSION
Title: “FLEX TAPE DA BUMBACLOT SAVIOR”
Language: Hawaiian Pidgin (local-style English)
Duration: ~200 words
[INT. HARDWARE STORE - DAY]
UNCLE BRADDA TITO (shirtless, energy drink in hand):
"Ho braddah, I wen’ slice my canoe clean in half wit’ da weed whacker, yeah?"
[CUT TO: CANOE FLOATING IN HALF, SINKING DRAMATICALLY]
UNCLE BRADDA TITO:
"BUT DEN — BAM! — I wen slap one FLEX TAPE right on dat bugga. BOOM! No mo’ leak, no mo’ drama."
[EXT. RAINY BACKYARD - AUNTY SALLY YELLING]
AUNTY SALLY:
"Dis buggah use Flex Tape on da WINDOW, da TOILET, even da DOGHOUSE. And guess wut? IT STILL STICK."
[CLOSE-UP ON BLACK GLOSSY FLEX TAPE]
UNCLE BRADDA TITO (whispers):
"One time, I wen Flex Tape my auntie’s slipper strap. Now she runnin’ triathlon wit’ one plate lunch in each hand."
[TEXT ON SCREEN: “STICK ‘EM HARDER. STICK ‘EM LOCAL.”]
UNCLE BRADDA TITO (screaming at volcano):
“FLEX TAPE — STICK MO BETTAH THAN COUSIN KEONI’S BAD IDEAS!”
VOICEOVER:
“Get yours at Longs, 7-Eleven, or da cursed tent in back of Zippy’s. Flex Tape: No cry, just slap ‘em.”
🌀 KHOMO-9 LATE NIGHT AD SPOT: “YOGURT REVELATION BETA-TEST”
Segment: Soy Vanilla Brain Cleanse
Running Time: 45 seconds of irreversible enlightenment
Tone: Delirious, faux-enlightened, culty smooth
[CAMERA: ZOOMS SLOWLY INTO A TUB OF VANILLA YOGURT SWIRLING CLOCKWISE]
[MUSIC: Echoed synth bell tones, dolphin in background moaning vaguely in G major]
NARRATOR (soft, genderless, increasingly unsettling):
“You were born into flavor, but raised by sugar substitutes. You call this yogurt, but it calls you… Father.”
[CLOSE-UP: spoon dips into yogurt, ripples like wormhole]
“Soy is the language of calm. Vanilla is the smell of surrender. Together? They are a treaty between your mouth and your forgotten god.”
[SLOW FLASHES: unmarked jars labeled “PROBIOTIC TRUTH,” pelicans staring]
“Do not resist the smooth. The smooth remembers. Your spine? Bent like a spoon. Your thoughts? Stirred like a secret.”
“Each bite contains 3.3 certified contradictions:
It’s thick, yet it’s light.
It’s real, but you made it up.
It’s you, but it isn’t, but it is, and now… it’s everyone.”
[VOICES WHISPER: “Activate your dairy chakra… Moo is mind.”]
NARRATOR (with righteous finality):
“Soy Vanilla Yogurt: The first step to knowing less, and liking it more.”
>“Do not resist the smooth. The smooth remembers. Your spine? Bent like a spoon. Your thoughts? Stirred like a secret.”
>“Each bite contains 3.3 certified contradictions:
> It’s thick, yet it’s light.
> It’s real, but you made it up.
> It’s you, but it isn’t, but it is, and now… it’s everyone.”
>[VOICES WHISPER: “Activate your dairy chakra… Moo is mind.”]
🎥 [CAMERA ON — seabreeze fluttering gently through fringe flag]
KALEO (grinning, one eyebrow raised):
"Aloha Makana, we heard rumors floatin’ down from Tutu’s luau that yo’ grandpa predicted the weather with his… thong?"
MAKANA (nodding solemnly):
"Yeah braddah… my grandpa — Big Kaliko Pākē — he wen’ say, 'Dis thong right here? It not jus’ for beach. It one conduit.'"
KALEO:
"Conduit fo what?"
MAKANA (looking up to the sky, misty):
"Fo’ thunder, rain, an’ full-body vibration. He wen’ say every time he tighten dat waistband an’ flex one cheek, da gods would grumble in da clouds. One time, he wen’ sneeze while wearin’ da thong — boom, flash flood."
KALEO:
"Was da thong enchanted?"
MAKANA (pulling a faded floral strap from a velvet pouch):
"Dis da one. Still got da mana. Smells like cocoa butter an’ unresolved ancestral beef."
KALEO (recoiling respectfully):
"Sheesh… dat smells like a civil war between butts an’ heaven."
MAKANA:
"Uncle Moke tried put 'em on once. Got struck by lightning twice. In da same cloud."
KALEO:
"Ho… no wonder the pelicans been actin' weird."
📺 FINAL THOUGHT (as thunder rolls faintly):
Respect yo’ elders. Respect da cheek. Da thong not just clothing — it’s forecast gear.