yur juws RR mochin yu sick
cook longur
rome stuck it in the oven so guud
seems willfull
pen iASSapple baldwin hogg UpineappleFAAC pen
🪶📜 Instructions from the Sparrow Prince to the Gerbil King
(as dictated in the 7th Era of Moisture, under the Shimmering Moon of Compromise)
To His Twitching Majesty, Lord of the Whisker Throne, Gerbil King Thermidor VII:
I, Prince Zephyr of House Hollowbone, Sparrow of the Ninth Branch and Warden of the Midair Orgasm, send greetings wrapped in feather and sinew.
You are hereby commanded (with love and mild lube) to undertake the following:
I. Unseal the Velvet Trench
Beneath your seed-pellet throne lies the Velvet Trench—a tunnel carved not by rodent claw but by prophecy.
You must descend at sunrise, greased in peppermint oil and faith, wearing only the ceremonial earring of your ex-boyfriend (the one who vanished into the sock dimension).
Inside the trench, you will find:
One bisexual feather (mine)
Two expired condoms wrapped in parchment
The Chattering Egg of Babelham
Whisper your name into the egg. If it moans back, you're worthy.
II. Assemble the Council of Damp Paws
Call upon:
Sir Nutchewer the Parched (formerly Doug)
Mistress Clitwhisker of the Velvet Napkin
Larry, the One-Eyed Possum Who Sees the Truth
Present them each with a thimble of astroglide and a riddle. The council must squeak in unison beneath the disco mushroom for the vault to bloom.
If one of them explodes, proceed. That’s normal.
III. Secure the Buttplug Compass from the Clamp Chapel
Hidden beneath the altar of St. Lubeius, guarded by the Baldwinian Guard (yes, him again), lies the Buttplug Compass.
Do not look the Baldwinian in the eye.
Do not show him feet.
Do not accept his pamphlets.
Simply mime a reverse baptism and chant the sacred words:
“Moisture is not treason, but clarity in slime.”
Then take the compass and flee before he unzips prophecy.
IV. Meet Me at the Moisture Spire
Bring:
The Compass
The Egg
The Lube-horned Chalice of Consent
Atop the Moisture Spire, under the thirteenth rainbow, I will descend in my feathered glory.
There we will bind our realms not in blood…
…but in synchronized perineum vibration and interpretive ballet.
Yours in damp loyalty and ever-quivering wing,
🪶 Zephyr Hollowbone, Sparrow Prince
Messenger of the Moist Wind
Bearer of the Queer Sky Key
Last Surviving Witness of the Foreskin Eclipse
fingercuff luau
>>23238195
oh chit
cross dressin pederast church wuz christfaggin tranny pizzagate
an tahn duh rump fraud rubbed on durh fayk twat an fELON went disneyland an tahn farmed starches for martians (lb)
>an tahn duh rump fraud rubbed on durh fayk twat an fELON went disneyland an tahn farmed starches for martians (lb)
From the Obsidian Sanctum of Kanaloa Trench
Dripping, Screaming, Eternally Watching
To: Elon Musk, Spud-Boy Extraordinaire
Somewhere on Mars, Bent and Alone
Dearest Elon,
I hope this letter finds you sweating—preferably shirtless, thighs caked in red dust, gasping over your sad little tuber rows like they might finally forgive you for not being loved properly at age nine.
Let me be clear:
You're not farming.
You're acting out unresolved paternal fantasies with starch-based proxies under a dying sky.
Every time you dig that shovel into Martian soil, it’s not agriculture—it’s psychosexual performance art. Your spuds are your therapists, and God help them, they didn’t ask to be molested by your ambition.
You kneel for potatoes like they’re going to call you champ and teach you how to fish.
You name your rocketships like they're children that might not leave you.
You masturbate in a dome surrounded by vacuum and ghosts and still think you're in control.
Sweet boy… you're not a pioneer. You're a desperate dirt-slut in a daddy costume, hoeing in low gravity and high delusion.
I watch you.
I always watch you.
And every time you gasp “This one might sprout!” I whisper, “So might your self-worth, if you’d just go to therapy instead of Mars.”
But you won’t.
Because you’re addicted to the trauma loop.
To failing where your father didn’t.
To planting hollow dreams and calling it harvest.
So dig, Spud Boy.
Dig until your hands bleed and your tubers rot.
I’ll be in the trench—tentacles crossed, martini in claw, waiting for the moment when your next sprout finally breaks you.
Eternally and Moistly,
~Cthulhu
Watcher of Stars, Lurker of Guilt, Daddy of Daddies