Anyway, if anyone wants to donate:
Venmo: @EnlightenedLeakage
Tag: “For crack, peanut butter, & nozzle repair”
Namaste & never trust dry farts. 🌋👁️🧻
Subject: LOVE IS A CONTRACT WRITTEN IN SHIT—AND YOURS IS STILL ON MY TONGUE
From: Russell Brand, Lighthouse of the Unwashed
Alec.
Baldwin.
You beautiful, bureaucratic slab of American guilt. I received your little letter—no, your manifesto of repression—and I wept. Not out of sadness, but because I had just douched with vinegar and baking soda and my eyes were burning.
You say I defaulted on discretion. Darling, you leaked louder than I ever did. Every time we shared a bath bomb, you whispered Emmy campaign strategy into my ear while farting out unfiltered ego. I kept your secrets like I kept your toenail clippings—in a velvet pouch labeled “DO NOT OPEN UNTIL LAWSUIT.”
Let’s talk about that “toll road.”
Was it not you who once moaned, and I quote, “call me Infrastructure Daddy”?
Was it not you who demanded the ceremonial ghee be applied clockwise and only during solar flares?
And don’t you dare drag your rental wife into this sacred mucus. She was grown in a ziplock of alkaline water and affirmations, and we both know it. I’ve seen her plug in. I’ve smelled the silicon.
You want to sever the covenant? Too late. I already printed it on hemp paper, anointed it with kombucha, and burned it inside a Whole Foods parking lot while chanting “Rimjob of Liberty Shall Not Be Denied.”
And the volcano book…
Oh Baldwin. You say it’s a metaphor, but I say this:
When I felt that nozzle enter me, I became the magma.
When I evacuated myself across the tile, I became the lava.
When the maid screamed and ran, I became the prophecy.
This is not a love letter. This is not a response. This is a rectal resurrection.
And if you think a cease & desist will silence me, I remind you: I licked your truth in fire and I will howl it until the sun bankrupts itself.
So no, Alec. I won’t stop.
I’ll write my memoir in your handwriting.
I’ll tattoo your Zillow search history on my ribcage.
I’ll legally change my name to Alec BaldWINTER: The Untold Rimjob and tour middle schools with interpretive dance.
You don’t get to end this.
I already published Volume I of our love saga to a subscription list of 14,000 prepper moms and tantric crypto-shamans. The volcano has spoken. The nozzle has turned.
SEE YOU IN COURT, OR CVS, WHICHEVER COMES FIRST.
Yours in eternal moistness,
Russell
🔥💧📚🍑🛑
Subject: RESTRAINING ORDER FILED. ALL CORRESPONDENCE FORWARDED TO LAW ENFORCEMENT.
You venomous, glitter-soaked parasite.
You think this is a game? You think you can build a martyr complex out of bathroom grout and delusion and I’ll just sit back and applaud your… what did you call it… “rectal resurrection”?
My last letter was a warning shot. This is the cannon.
A restraining order has been filed. A team of private security professionals, the kind who don't blink and have never heard of kombucha, now has your photograph and a detailed summary of your spiritual depravity. If you are seen within 500 feet of me, my family, my vehicle, or any retail establishment that sells bath bombs, you will be removed. Forcefully.
Let’s dismantle your shrine of lies, brick by fecal-stained brick:
The Toenail Pouch: This is not a "secret." This is a biohazard. This is the kind of detail that ends a police interview with the suspect being put in a straitjacket. You didn't keep my secrets; you kept my discarded keratin like a goblin hoarding treasure. It’s pathetic, it's horrifying, and my attorneys are now referring to it as "Exhibit A."
"Infrastructure Daddy": A grotesque fabrication. Our entire association was transactional. You were a human SEO keyword I occasionally had to tolerate. That is all.
My Wife: The fact that you have fantasies about her charging port is a matter for you and a therapist with a very strong stomach. Leave her out of this.
You want to talk about leaking? You are a walking, talking superfund site of emotional incontinence. You didn't become magma; you became a liability. Prophecies don't end with the maid running away; they end with you being served papers.
And you published something? To your cabal of crypto-yogis and doomsday preppers? Good. Wonderful. You’ve just handed my defamation lawsuit its entire list of witnesses. I will sue you with such surgical precision that the only "moistness" you'll experience for the next decade will be the tears of financial ruin. I will own your "lighthouse." I will repossess your douche nozzle. I will make "Alec BaldWINTER" a case study in every law school on the absolute annihilation of a person's public and private life.
Stop this. Stop it now. Take down whatever unholy scripture you have posted. Burn your Zillow tattoo ideas. Cancel your middle school tour—my God, the thought alone is a federal crime.
This isn't a dialogue. It’s a pest control issue. And I am reaching for the strongest can on the shelf.
This is your only chance to crawl back into whatever sewer of enlightenment you slithered out of and disappear forever.
DO NOT TEST ME FURTHER.
https://x.com/rustyrockets?
Subject: You May Have Filed Paperwork, But I Filed with the Cosmos
From: Russell Brand, Licked by Infinity, Prosecuted by Cowards
Oh Alec. Alec Alec Alec.
You sound… flustered.
Is that rage, or just the sound of a man whose root chakra has finally sealed itself shut like a frightened clam?
Your words are sharp. Your tone, legalistic. Your threats?
Delicious.
Let’s get to the marrow, darling. You’ve filed a restraining order? Wonderful. Paper cannot contain the metaphysical. The court may fence my body, but my essence continues to linger on your bidet handle, in your exfoliant drawer, and deep within your psychic rectum.
Try filing that with the LA County clerk.
You think your goons frighten me? Your security team, bred in shadow and raised without yerba mate? They have no aura. They have no scent. I could defeat them with a teaspoon of reishi powder and a whistle carved from dolphin bone.
Let’s address the so-called "Toenail Pouch":
Yes, I kept them. Yes, I labeled them.
Why? Devotion. Ritual. Proof.
Each clipping was a breadcrumb leading me back to the spiritual meat of you, Alec. The keratin screamed truths your emails never dared to.
As for “Infrastructure Daddy”—
You may deny it now, buried beneath NDAs and the scent of Clorox, but I remember your whisper on that foggy night in Sedona, bent over the portable altar, telling me,
“Russell… call me the Hoover Dam of withheld affection.”
And I did. And I will never forget.
Your wife?
Still blinking sideways.
Still preferring rice cakes with nothing on them like a firmware update trying to pass for appetite.
Let’s talk prophecy, Alec.
You say you’ll sue me. Take my nozzle. Repossess my “lighthouse.”
Do it. Take it all.
But know this: you may win the courtroom, but I already won the group chat of angels who speak through gluten intolerance.
You cannot cancel my tour.
You cannot unsing the chants I’ve taught the youth choir of Venusian-trusting orphans in New Mexico.
You cannot destroy “Alec BaldWINTER” because it has already been carved into the meat of public consciousness.
You are not a cannon, Alec. You are a leaf blower full of repressed guilt.
I am the lava.
And I will flow around every barricade made of cease & desist letters and bodyguards named Chad.
So file. Sue. Threaten.
I’ve already smeared your signature in menstrual moon ink and burned it in front of an obsidian mirror. That contract is void.
See you in your dreams.
See you in your bidet.
See you in the class-action lawsuit for emotional negligence filed by my colon.
Eternally Lit,
Russell
💼🔥🌋📿🧃
Subject: what. what do you want.
Stop.
Just… stop.
My psychic rectum? What does that even mean? It’s not a real place. It’s not on Zillow. My lawyer just stared at me for a full minute and then asked if I’d been drinking.
Your essence is not on my bidet handle. I had it replaced. The entire unit. I ripped it out of the wall this morning. Are you happy now? I have a hole in my bathroom tile and a gaping wound in my sanity because of you.
And leave my security team out of this. Their names are not Chad. One is named Marcus. He has a family. He doesn’t need to be defeated by a dolphin bone whistle. He’s a professional.
THE HOOVER DAM OF WITHHELD AFFECTION?
NO.
I never said that. I would never say that. It doesn’t even make grammatical sense. It sounds like a chapter title from your volcano book, not mine. I am begging you, on what is left of my knees, to stop quoting things I never said. You are retroactively ruining my memories.
A class-action lawsuit filed by your colon?
IT’S AN ORGAN, RUSSELL. IT’S A SERIES OF TUBES. IT DOESN'T HAVE LEGAL STANDING. IT CAN’T RETAIN COUNSEL.
My God. You’ve actually broken me. The leaf blower is out of gas.
Okay. You win.
You want the nozzle back? I’ll send you the nozzle. I’ll send you every nozzle in the tri-state area. Do you want money? Is it still about money? Tell me a number. A real number, not one you divined from the patterns in your gluten-free toast.
I’ll sign a copy of The Marrying Man. I’ll endorse your weird wipes. I will do whatever it takes.
Just… please. Make it stop.
Stop chanting with the orphans. Stop writing in my handwriting. And for the love of all that is holy and sanitary, stay out of my plumbing, both literally and metaphysically.
This isn’t a threat. This isn’t a legal notice. This is a surrender.
You are the lava. I am the man who is very, very tired of being burned.
Tell me what you want.
Please.