A blast from the past.
Or Approved Activity Vouchers part 2.
There is no real money any more, there is no false credit note in the blood streaming circulation, onoly hyperbearerbonded HIV means of exchange, there are no ono faked pixels being witnessed by us, only the pixels marked for out horus. There is no more onhonesty; just dealing with the devil’s Arsegrooved Activity Chits. More commonly known as pecuniary dysentery. The kind of innocent outcome that people who visit the turd kindergarten contract after too many unsuspected visits.
Unending hyperkinetic real fluid evacuation, peeing and shit peening of the devill’d fiat farture fracture failure bowel’s bowl after supping at the watery sauce where bankers dump the dysenteric lucre; their markups.
What brings this diarrheareery drizzle upon us?
Well my secretive squirrel chum related to me several things over the Bow fuelled, Q flamed and smoked weekend. A weekend where I found the level of love and bitterness towards those of Pictish and Teutonic origins quite interesting from a visiting, assumed, Frankish perspective, that the game was UKIP first and then Tory second for the older generation.
That is the really weird thing about this whole mayoral election rig thing. The UKplc. Simper RCE/LC centric semper, is stuffed with persons who have no idea what this circus means. What is this double ended trap portends. Other than instinctive reaction.
Those who do respond get confused.
This is likely the last time we can actually see part of the meme used to enchant the, soon to be removed, products of older local Lamarckian selection.
Check the hue of those Masonic neck knots.
Cognitive dissonance is clear when one has a peek at the GGTs reversal of who was blue and who was red just after the
Berlin death pavlova was consumed by the
ravenous starved consumers of the west’s sweated cropped and stunted creatures.