Friday, 18 November 2011

A RESTATEMENT OF PRINCIPLES.

I love the idea of living in a quietly cooling Godbothereing belief system. I like the fact that it has lost its fire to kill us all for believing in Irn Bru and Ginger Beer if we want to. I love the fact no one will come and drag you away to be phekked over by the religious police for being a Shandy drinker. No LPP driving small calibre frangible projectiles into your knee caps for having the unmitigated gall to suggest that cherryade might be pleasant to imbibe.

I like it’s slow, gentle, decline into the background, though with acknowledgement to it's acheivments.


What I do object to is some of our top ritualists in the foundations doing the devil’s work by trying to muscle in any other form of shamanic bollox ritual phekkwittery with rotating and counter rotating wank stators. Go and fuck yourselves you foundation boybitches. Clear.


I also don’t like the druids over a Goebbels Gobshite Towers getting us prepared for the NWO one world religion, which it isn’t, it is fukkery fakery. Keep it in the cattery kitty litter trays where it belongs you mongs.

GGT the ritualistic cabalist high priests of propaganda that get us in a once a year ceremony to worship them. License fee, you might as well leave some gold at the Oracle of Delphi. It’s the same con.


The GGT are just grooming our children to get ready for the idea of a one world religion. That however will be based on NOAHIDE traditions.

A Bronze Age hoax that infects our commercial and civil statutes already.

To infect our children with this retarded smoke and mirrors show is puking Tavistock Institute.


Do you want the Bronze Age? Like the idea of the Stone Age?

Then line up for the Club of Rome’s god bothering magik shaman show. A load of satanic arsespewed, filthspecked, bloodspattered, stinkvomiting sewage from a bunch of evil inbred slack chinned degenerate phukkwitz.


Phukkin A.


I am going to de-louse you in the fake fakirs’ tale.

Love them.


Or leave them.


Your choice.

As always your c hoice.

Can you face them down, no matter the softness of their pillows?

Your choice. Asshole.