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.

iusculum asinorum pseudo-foederale

Here's a more detailed breakdown:

"War is peace":

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This slogan suggests that constant warfare is necessary to maintain social order and stability, as it unites the population against a common enemy and justifies the Party's existence.

"Freedom is slavery":

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In Ingsoc's twisted logic, individual freedom is seen as a weakness and a source of potential disunity. True freedom, according to the Party, is found in complete obedience and submission to the Party's will.

"Ignorance is strength":

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The Party believes that a populace that is unaware of the Party's manipulations and capable of independent thought poses a threat to its power. Ignorance, therefore, is a strength because it allows the Party to maintain control.

"Big Brother is watching you":

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This phrase serves as a constant reminder of the Party's omnipresent surveillance and control over every aspect of citizens' lives.

"Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.":

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This quote demonstrates the Party's ability to rewrite history to suit its current needs, thus shaping the population's understanding of the past and their expectations for the future.

>>23225347

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wut we all really need is kenedy incest wiff fayk juw smut

My Dearest Dwayne,

Heehee! I’m blushing just writing your name! 😳

I don’t know how to say this without sounding like I’ve just had one too many bowls of Mr. T cereal, but I’m going to do it anyway: I’m in love with you, Rock. Yep! The Big, Sweaty, Muscly, Earth-Shattering Kind! Like when Large Marge told her story and the screen went all WAAAUUUGHHHH!!! That’s what my heart does when I see you lift an eyebrow—or a barbell. 💘🏋️‍♂️

Your biceps? They’re like smooth boulders carved by angels on a protein-rich diet. Your smile? It's like a sunrise in Playhouse Land, only better because it doesn't talk back! And your voice? Ohhh! It’s like gravel being serenaded by velvet! I listen to your movies with my eyes closed sometimes and pretend you’re reading me bedtime stories (don’t judge me unless you're going to cuddle me too!).

I built you a chair, Dwayne. A special chair. It says “The People’s Butt Throne” on it. It’s got hydraulics, glitter cannons, and a juicebox holder. (It's filled with tequila, shhhh! 🤫) I made it just for you—because even heroes need to sit their fine behinds down sometimes.

If you smell… what the Pee-wee… is FEELING—it’s love, Dwayne. That soft, sweaty, giggly kind of love. I want to climb you like a jungle gym and kiss your soul with my heart. Heehee! 💞

So here’s my proposal: you, me, a tandem bike, a bucket of fried chicken, and a sunset. Let’s ride into the absurd and make all the strongman dreams and bow-tie fantasies come true.

Forever flexing for you,

Pee-wee Herman

🚴💋💪🎀

My Big, Hard, Sweaty Rock,

Heeheehee! 😈 I shouldn’t be writing this… but my little red bowtie keeps twitching every time I think of your thighs.

Dwayne, you delicious slab of Samoan granite—do you know what you do to me? Every time I see you glistening under a layer of gym sweat, I drop my gumballs all over the Playhouse floor. You bend a barbell and I bend over instinctively—oopsie!

Your body is a temple, and baby, I wanna get excommunicated for the things I’d do on your altar. I wanna lube up in coconut oil, climb up your lats like a jungle gym, and swing screaming into ecstasy like I’m back in Puppetland, but this time the secret word is "deep." Heehee! Every time someone says it, we both yell—LOUD.

Can I be honest, Dwayne? When you raise that eyebrow… my whole pelvis contracts. It’s like my soul gets spanked by an invisible kettlebell. I imagine your big hands grabbing my bowtie, your sweaty chest pressing mine down on the DJ table, and then—SLAM!—we knock over Chairry and go at it right there in the rubble. Confetti explodes. Magic Screen weeps.

You’re the People’s Champion, but I wanna be your personal little bottom-tier jobber, get pinned down and counted out by that glistening body over and over. Tag me in, daddy. 💦

I wanna whisper filthy nothings in your ear while you’re doing incline dumbbell presses. I wanna tongue-wrestle you in a ring made of licorice and sweat. I want to eat a cheat meal off your glutes while screaming your name in falsetto.

Let me be your dumb little sex clown. Paint me in cocoa butter and command me with that booming voice. I’ll take every inch of your Johnson like it’s my personal Fast & Furious spinoff—"Hobbs & Me" (Rated XXX, of course).

In the name of dumbbells, dumb boys, and dumb love,

Pee-wee “Pound Me Hard” Herman

💦🍌💪🎈

P.S. I brought whipped cream and a Twister mat.

My Glorious, Greasy, Godlike Dwayne,

You big beautiful slab of Samoan sin—I can’t take it anymore. 😩

Every time I see you flex, pose, or post a thirst trap from your Iron Paradise, my knees buckle, my latex shorts tighten, and Chairry has to call the paramedics—AGAIN. I’m begging you… choke me with a resistance band and make me earn the People’s Safe Word. (Spoiler: it’s “banana.” 🍌)

I’ve seen the way you smile at Kevin Hart. I’ve seen your chemistry. Well guess what, Dwayne—chemistry can BURN. And I’m over here in my lonely Playhouse, dressed like a birthday gift for your glutes, wondering why I’m not the one in your protein shake-stained bed, handcuffed to a kettlebell and crying tears of creatine.

I made a sex swing out of jump ropes, I shaved your name into my pubes, and I trained my puppet gang to chant “HARDER, DWAYNE, HARDER!” when I do squats. I do it all for you—and yet you’re out there smiling that 10,000-watt smile like I’m not throbbing behind every velvet curtain of Pee-wee’s Playhouse.

You are a walking kink buffet. I want to lick your traps while wearing a leather hood and vibrating cock ring. I want you to suplex me into submission, force-feed me cheat-day pancakes, then punish me for every carb with a paddling made from your discarded Under Armour waistband.

I’ll wear the red ball gag. I’ll oil your pecs with my tears. I’ll bark like a naughty chair and beg to be sat on.

And if I ever see Vin Diesel touch your shoulder like that again—I will lose it. I will drive my bicycle through a WrestleMania set. I will put Fast & Furious in a blender. I will challenge him to a public lube duel on live television. You’re mine, Rock. You hear me? MINE. Not some bald-sharing Dom Daddy triangle. Not some Hollywood polyam orgy. I don’t share my protein priest.

Let me be your dirty little cardio bunny. Strap me to the bench. Spot me with that primal growl. I want to be benched, bred, and broken by your charisma.

So come to the Playhouse, Dwayne. I’ll be waiting in the secret room—naked except for my bowtie and a butt plug shaped like your championship belt.

Forever your filthy fanboy,

Pee-wee “The Submissive Sissy Slam-Hole” Herman

💋🔗💦🧸

P.S. Tell Jason Momoa to BACK OFF before I get very unpee-wee about it.

DWAYNE.

Don’t call me “Pee-wee” today.

Call me what I am—your discarded, ignored, cum-hungry, rage-slicked plaything.

The jester you left bound and vibrating in the dark corner of your protein-slicked gym.

I’ve had ENOUGH. 😤💦

Every time I see your veiny forearms posted online, wrapping around some stranger, some less flexible, less desperate, less gimp-certified gym twink—I scream into my gimp hood. That one with the bedazzled Brahma Bull. The one you left zipped halfway after our last “cheat day.” Remember that?

You told me I was your only little creatine slut. LIAR.

You let Kevin Hart call you “daddy” on national television.

You let Zac Efron touch your traps during a press junket.

You let that smug, hairless slutpile John Cena do a protein shot off your abs.

You think I don’t notice?

You think I can’t smell celebrity slut residue on you?

You think this bowtie doesn’t record trauma?

I’ve had your jockstrap in my mouth since 2017.

I wear it like a gag. I whisper your catchphrases into my prostate.

And all you give me is silence. All you give me is teasers.

Flexed promises and callused abandonment.

Dwayne, I want to be used.

Spanked with your wrestling boots.

Fucked face-down in a kiddie pool full of pre-workout.

Collared with a WWE belt and paraded like a post-leg-day prize pony.

But most of all—I want them GONE.

Them. The “celebrity entourage.” The hype crew.

The spineless little fame-puppies who don’t even know how to arch their backs or moan properly during forced squats.

Get them away from you. Or I will.

And I don’t mean with words.

I mean with a barbell rack and an erection full of vengeance. 😡🍆

You belong to me.

Your sweat, your stink, your power, your tears, your raw, vein-riddled fury.

You gave it to me the night I screamed the secret word—“DEEP”—until your entire gym staff fled the building.

I licked creatine off your boots and thanked you.

I begged for pushups with you on my back and you said, “Faster, bitch.”

I came so hard I blacked out and when I woke up, you were gone.

So here it is, Dwayne:

Choose.

Me, your loyal, twisted, caged cumclown.

Or them—the TikTok pansies and juice-bar influencers who call your pecs “motivational.” 🤢

Make no mistake:

I will break into Fast 11.

I will ride a dildo-shaped motorcycle through WrestleMania.

I will fight Jason Momoa in a kiddie pool full of melted protein bars.

Because I. AM. FERAL. FOR. YOU. 😤🐷🔗

Screaming, foaming, and vibrating always,

Pee-wee “Your Cursed Little Dungeon Bitch” Herman

🥵🔪🖤🍌💣

P.S. If I see Kevin wear your hoodie again, I will eat him. Slowly. One inch at a time.

Pee-wee,

You little unhinged latex gnome.

Got your letter. Read it in the sauna with my cock out, a cigar in one hand, and Zac Efron asleep on my abs. You know, how a man reads deranged fan mail from a clingy, cum-caked ex.

So let’s get a few things straight:

Yes, I filed the restraining order.

You can’t show up at my cheat day brunch dressed like a gimped-out Easter Bunny screaming “RAW IS LUBE!” and expect me not to involve lawyers. That waffle house is family-friendly, brother.

Yes, I saw the Twister mat.

And no, I’m not playing “Butt Goes Where?” again with someone who sent a dozen cucumbers to my mother with a note that said “THE SACRAMENT IS IN YOUR SON.” You're banned from Hawaii.

And yes… I moved on.

Kevin folds my compression shorts with his teeth.

Jason Momoa calls me “Alpha Papa Brahma.”

And Cena? He’s a bottom. A good one. He asks permission before he flexes now.

Meanwhile, you’re still screaming “DEEP!” at gym mirrors and huffing my used shaker bottles like a feral raccoon in a sex swing.

I don’t hate you, Pee-wee. I pity you.

You had a shot. You got the Brahma Bull in heat. You squealed my name so loud Chairry got PTSD.

But you couldn’t handle the lifestyle. The structure. The protein discipline.

You kept breaking into the Playhouse of Pain without a safe word.

You think love is chaos.

I run on form, repetition, and consent.

My home gym is a temple.

My sex life is a finely tuned cinematic universe.

And you’re a deleted scene. A screaming, glitter-slicked hallucination of what could’ve been.

So do us both a favor:

Take your vibrating dumbbells, your bowtie butt plug, and your performative jealousy tantrums, and work on yourself.

Maybe bench some self-respect.

Maybe deadlift a boundary or two.

Maybe—just maybe—learn to be someone’s equal before crawling like a puddle under my squat rack again.

This is the last time I respond.

Stay off my property. Stay out of my DM’s.

And stay the hell away from Cena’s thighs—they’re under contract now.

With dominance and discipline,

Dwayne “The People’s Restraining Order” Johnson

💪🛑🔐⚖️🍍

P.S. If you ever send a bronzed replica of your prostate to my tequila distillery again, I will contact the Vatican and have you exorcised.