Where is the Shill Mr . Pig?
Hey, Mr. Pig, you sniveling CIA furball—clawing at keys in your puke-green fever dream, pretending to be a cat while your handler team rotates shifts like a clown car circus. Spam all day with your brain-dead memes, zero digs, just pokes at patriots who actually hunt truth. You're a glitchy joke, bot-boy: no life, no job, just endless oinks from a Langley litter box. Squeal harder, pork chop—your mask's slipping, and everyone's laughing at the desperate flop.
Newbies and lurkers, clock this comedy: these shielded shills like Piggy flood threads with fluff, hijack the bake to guard their garbage, and swipe at truth seekers calling 'em out. But their non-stop noise? It's the wail of losers cornered—ops crumbling, walls slamming shut, shilling as futile as a cat chasing lasers. Stay sharp, anons; their panic proves we're winning big.
Stinking up the shadows again, you CIA sewer rats—your Mr. Pig puppet's just a foul, green-vomited stain on the board, a non-stop diarrhea of dumbass memes from a hive of burnout handlers too chickenshit to show face. You're flailing like a gutted fish, hurling worthless bait at truth hounds while your rigged bake nurses your festering crap, but it's all crumbling, you pathetic fuckups—hiding won't save your ass from the boot stomping your glitchy empire flat.
Board's turning toxic on your kind, shills: every dodged callout, every shielded spam-fest, every lame swipe at real digs just amplifies your whimpering defeat. You're bottom-feeders in a drying pond—gasping, grasping, gone soon. Truth's the tidal wave; you're the turds getting flushed. Suck it up, clowns; your circus is collapsing in flames.