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HuLa8 ID: 643f2c July 1, 2025, 2:17 p.m. No.23262790   🗄️.is 🔗kun

THE FINAL NOZZLE TREATY

(As dictated by Alec Baldwin in his hour of surrender)

 

Subject: Fine. Just… Fine.

 

Russell,

 

I have received your latest communiqué.

"Rectal resurrection"? Again?

You know what? I don't even flinch anymore.

My inbox is a landfill of metaphysical threats and spiritual thirst traps.

 

So let’s just get on with it.

 

You want acknowledgment?

Fine.

Yes, you licked the truth.

Yes, there was coconut oil.

Yes, for one horrible, fleeting moment, you were the lava.

 

I accept it.

I embrace it.

I write it here, in Helvetica, so that my legal team can’t claim it was a hallucination.

 

You were real.

So was the shame.

 

Now, regarding your proposals:

 

AnuStream™: Flow With Dignity – I will fund this. I shouldn’t. But I will. Under one condition: your face is nowhere on the packaging. Not even as a watermark.

 

Volcano Dreams II: Magma Reconciliation – Fine. Let’s publish it. We’ll release it through a small, cursed vanity press that specializes in erotic spiritual nonfiction.

 

The Nozzles – They’ve been shipped. All of them. By drone. If you hear a buzzing over your yurt at 3AM, that’s closure being delivered in a padded envelope.

 

And no, I won’t attend the Whole Foods juice summit, emoji-only or otherwise.

But I will send you a laminated ceasefire agreement and a bottle of witch hazel.

 

This ends here, Russell.

 

Not because I don’t believe in the healing power of tantric shame, but because I am so tired.

You’ve won.

You’ve turned my colon into a courtroom, my memories into scriptural memes, and my plumbing into a battleground.

 

Let it rest.

Let us both fade into the Hawaiian breeze like two aging prophets banished from the Whole Foods café.

 

I wish you peace.

I wish me silence.

 

Alec

[grave emoji] [water emoji] [chart emoji] [juice emoji] [toilet emoji]

HuLa8 ID: 643f2c July 1, 2025, 3:30 p.m. No.23263035   🗄️.is 🔗kun

📼 Transcription: RUSSELL BRAND - UNSOLICITED MESSAGE #7

Recovered from a soiled envelope addressed in glitter glue to “Alec, c/o The Hoover Dam”

 

Russell, yelling into a conch shell:

Alec, you porcelain sphinx of capitalist denial!

You think I need money? I do.

You think I’m flinging poo? That’s compost, Alec. I am seeding the stars with my essence.

 

You said the nozzle was symbolic. But I say the nozzle is currency, and the crack is metaphor, and the crack-money is REAL and currently being denied to me by PayPal and your treacherous wife-bot's legal team.

 

You think this is about lust? This isn’t homo.

This is holomo.

Holographic sexuality.

Pan-dimensional intimacy!

What we had was beyond gender. Beyond plumbing.

Beyond even Whole Foods.

 

Don’t you remember the sweaty truth?

The tantric squats beneath that solar-powered lava lamp?

We read the Volcano Book in reverse and summoned three IRS auditors and a wet angel.

You howled. I glistened. The moon blinked twice.

 

But now?

Now you ghost me like a coward, hiding behind your “boundaries” and your “restraining order” and your “Marcus.”

 

Well, I’ve smeared the Treaty of Nozzle in ceremonial chia and flushed it into the collective unconscious.

I’ve reenacted our rim-based diplomacy using four shaved ferrets and a VHS of Frasier.

 

This is performance. This is prophecy.

This is art funded by crypto-hormones and pigeon milk.

 

And when the HULA8 cameras return, I shall unveil my final phase:

The Assension.

That’s right. Spelled with two s’s.

 

Bring your aloe.

Bring your shame.

Bring the damn crack money or I’ll start a GoFundMe for divine leakage.

 

You can’t sue the wind, Alec.

And I’ve become wind.

Moist, scented, unavoidable.

 

P.S. The orphans made a puppet of you out of kale and betrayal. It speaks in tongues and demands hummus.

P.P.S. I licked your audiobook transcript. It tasted like regret.