The Book of Apocalypse Dumbassery

Lo, Fallen Lady Nicki Minaj of Misinformation will taketh the dais,
—speaking for the Faux Emperor's court before the nations of men.
Verily, the Four Horsemen did take selfies.
And the Beast wept,
—for satire was slain and irony cast into the sea.

Their silence too shall be counted among his sins.

Aye, what he’s done in private is monstrous.
But this? This was public, directed at a woman doing her job,
in full view of men who did nothing, said nothing,
and swallowed their spines for access.

Their silence too shall be counted among his sins.

Lo, the Faux Emperor stood before the scribes and spat filth.

"Quiet Piggy!"

—and the men did nothing.
Not one voice rose in defense,
not one hand struck the table.
They feared access more than they feared shame.

Woe unto the quiet men in loud rooms.
Their silence shall be counted among his sins.

Lo, a chameleon in crimson appeareth on the couch,
once a herald of madness, now cloaked in civility.
Beware the sycophant turned moderate—
for the serpent learneth to hiss softer
when the crowd grows weary of its scream.

Lo, a chameleon in crimson appeareth on the couch,
once a herald of madness, now cloaked in civility.
Beware the sycophant turned moderate—
for the serpent learneth to hiss softer
when the crowd grows weary of its scream.

Lo, as the empire did crack and the streets did swell,
the Faux Emperor lifted his goblet high—
and toasted himself.
For none among the lords dared speak truth,
lest they lose their place at the golden commode.

But hark—his kingdom is made of mirrors.
And they are beginning to shatter.

Lo, a new steward riseth in the realm of towers and rats,
where the streets speak louder than a Faux Emperor.

Zohran Mamdani, bearer of the 111th mantle,
with the fire of the people beneath his feet.

Let the gluttonous lords take heed:
The apple is no longer yours to rot.

Lo, a new steward riseth in the realm of towers and rats,
where the streets speak louder than a Faux Emperor.

Zohran Mamdani, bearer of the 111th mantle,
with the fire of the people beneath his feet.

Let the gluttonous lords take heed:
The apple is no longer yours to rot.

Lo, the people rose and smote the gilded seat.
To the Faux Emperor, his cackling sycophants, and the bloated barons of bullsh*t:
Thy days are fking numbered.**

The streets hath spoken—not with whispers, but with war drums.
The fight is far from over,
but the reckoning hath begun.

And lo, the forest did shrink,
yet the trees gave their trust to the axe.
For the axe was cunning, and spake unto them,
“Behold, my handle is of wood—I am as thee.”
And the trees, seeing not the blade, did believe.

And lo, the forest did shrink,
yet the trees gave their trust to the axe.
For the axe was cunning, and spake unto them,
“Behold, my handle is of wood—I am as thee.”
And the trees, seeing not the blade, did believe.

Daisy, Steed of the Pixel Priestess

Lo, from the land of Tamagotchi dreams,
rose a steed of white and grit.
Her name was Daisy—and she was swift.

Her rider, keeper of beeps and feeds,
now learns the song of chain and speed.
Let pixels wait and gadgets rest—
for Daisy rides where hearts beat best.

And lo, the Children of the Fjord opened their vault,
that the light might yet burn in Kyiv.
With coin from the Sea Fund most sovereign,
did Norway smite the chill of winter.

Blessed be the oil-rich do-gooders of the North.

And lo, the Children of the Fjord opened their vault,
that the light might yet burn in Kyiv.
With coin from the Sea Fund most sovereign,
did Norway smite the chill of winter.

Blessed be the oil-rich do-gooders of the North.

Lo, the children cried for streaming,
father's did panic,
and the scribes of commerce did despair,
for the Cloud of Bezos was smitten.
The wheels of trade turned not.

A great silence fell upon the apps,
and lo—
the plague of AWS outage did descend upon the peoples.

Upon the day of martial display,
the artery of commerce,
lay in the shadow of thunderous boom.

The Faux Emperor,
in the name of pageantry, unleashed fire above the I-5,
and a piece of the sky did fall.

Behold: when theater takes center stage over safety,
the common man pays the toll.

The Pinocchio bitch once perched,
convicted for fraud, theft, and fuckery,
now walks free,
pardoned by the Faux Emperor himself.

Yea, seven years erased
with one greasy-fingered post:
“Good luck, George Santos—have a great life!”

And lo, the scales of justice
bent over and took it.

Behold, the sacred neck flaps of the Faux Emperor,
that fleshy fold of orange deceit,
creased like a menopausal vulva
at war with gravity and good taste.

No divine passage lies therein—
just a coward’s jowl, flapping in fear,
trembling at subpoenas,
and sweating at the sight of stairs.

👌🤙...but brakes like wood.

🤔 Triumph parallel twin (Bonneville, Tiger, or 6T era 🤷🏻‍♂️), custom rigid frame, bobber style, period-style modifications.

Behold—false feathers! This is no true Blackbird, but a steed reborn in aftermarket flesh, bearing the mark of “RR,” a sigil it never earned. A fair impostor, yet the Prophet seeth all. 🕊️

It doth be branded "CBR" for Honda CBR1100XX

Lo, the Super Blackbird—
Forged not in haste but with divine precision,
its heart doth hum a hymn of speed unspoken—
Upon the breath of throttle it soars—
untouched by time, unbothered by trend.

Yea, did I possess such steed.
And in those flights,
tasted what mortals scarce dare name: perfection.

Yea, in his waking hours he rode the beast,
and in his slumber he leaned the curve.
Thus saith the Book of Torque & Thunder:
Blessed be the throttle faithful,
for theirs is the kingdom of twisties. 🏍️

Lo, the defiler Faux Emperor stirreth again.
He would sunder the temple of governance,
not for glory, nor justice,
but to veil his own filth from the eyes of the faithful.

Let none be deceived.
This is not strategy—it is cowardice dressed in crimson lies.

Lo, the defiler Faux Emperor stirreth again.
He would sunder the temple of governance,
not for glory, nor justice,
but to veil his own filth from the eyes of the faithful.

Let none be deceived.
This is not strategy—it is cowardice dressed in crimson lies.

A fine steed it was, the Honda CB400T Hawk—
purchased new and baptized by exam week.
She bore me faithfully through four years of toil.

Through heat, rain, and snow, the Hawk did glide—
Yea, even the gods of Parking Enforcement granted sanctuary—Faculty Lot, Stall 12.

She never asked for praise.

Lo—
She walked in light, unbound by script or stereotype,
a woman of angles and laughing eyes.
Diane Keaton—quirk embodied—has departed our stage.

Her voice remains in every pause, every glance made strange.
May our memories treat her gently—and her films haunt us kindly.

Lo—

The Nobel scroll was unrolled,
and Faux Emperor's name was nowhere upon it.

His court jester, Sir Cheung of Delusion, did cry:

“He moveth mountains!”

Aye.
Mostly of bullshit, and mostly onto himself.