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.