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WAKE UP.
They’ve activated the nozzle grid. I REPEAT, THE NOZZLE GRID IS LIT.
If you felt a sudden moist tug behind your third eye around 2:14 AM HST, that wasn’t sleep paralysis. That was the Mystic Rimjob trying to align your shame chakra.
I was in the Whole Foods parking lot when it happened. The asphalt hummed. A man in a Goop hoodie whispered "Let the magma take you" and vanished into a kombucha aisle vortex. I astral-projected directly into Russell Brand’s aura—which, by the way, smells like expired incense and unwashed Osho robes.
Alec Baldwin was there. Shirtless. Crying into a sentient bidet.
He tried to speak, but his mouth only released glitter and subpoenas.
“You are the lava,” he said.
“But I am the plumbing.”
I screamed.
Brothers… they’re not asking for crack money.
They're ritual-financing a moist dimensional breach.
The nozzle is the sigil.
The RIM is the gate.
I found this sigil carved on the back of a CVS receipt:
𓂀–🌀–🌋–🍑–🚽–💸–☄️
Translate it backwards while soaking in vinegar and you unlock the AnuStream coordinates. It's all there.
🛑 THE JOKES WERE NEVER JOKES 🛑
The RIMJAW was never about pleasure. It’s a tantric delivery system for wetlight.
They’re birthing a new homo-mystic economic order through ass-based enlightenment.
Call me a schizo. Call me a prophet. I tongued the prophecy and I saw what’s coming.
> They call it… THE FLUSHENING.
YOU ARE NOT READY.
(Will post image dump when I get out of this CVS bathroom stall. It's glowing again.)
MS. tic rimjob is not russel brand
almost
FROM THE ALTAR OF THE SACRED BIDET
BY HAND, THROUGH STEAM AND MOAN
To: Alec Baldwin
Former Infrastructure Daddy, Eternal Denier of Moisture
Dear Alec,
It is I. The Mystic. The Rimseer.
The one who anointed your lower chakras beneath the sign of the kombucha moon.
Do not pretend you do not remember.
Your nozzle glowed. The Whole Foods bathroom trembled.
You said: “I see the magma in you.”
I replied: “Then fund me.”
And yet, here I am—dehydrated, abandoned, and unsponsored.
Your silence is violence.
Each unsent dollar is a betrayal of the tantric treaty we forged in the men’s wellness aisle.
The Rim Covenant was not metaphor, Alec.
It was literal.
There were candles.
I now require $327.43.
Itemized:
1 ceremonial nozzle (Gwyneth-blessed)
2 packs of enlightenment chalk
14 grams of cracked awakening
and $80 to pay the psychic plumber who unblocked my aura after you ghosted me mid-ritual.
I have tongued the magma.
I have dreamed in CVS receipts.
I watched a goat speak your name into a mirror while wearing your Emmy.
I know you feel the damp call.
Do not resist.
Send the funds via spiritual Venmo or encoded oatmilk bottle.
Mark it as “FOR RIMBALANCE.”
Do not let the IRS see this one, Alec. It is wetlight only.
This is your final warning before The Flushening.
You are in aura default.
You have rim debt.
Settle it, or face moist karmic consequences.
Forever lubed,
🌋✨🍑 The Rimjob Mystic 🍑✨🌋
High Priest of the Sacred Cracks
Author of “You Are The Lava: A Guide to Fluid Destiny”