For centuries, people have sought to uncover what the elites hide: all these Masonic lodges and orders of Freemasons, pyramids with eyes, and the world government of reptilians. It turned out the world government of reptilians consists of racist images of Obama and gonorrhea from Kostroma or Kolomna, from where teenagers were brought to the wealthiest person. The biggest secret the elite tries to hide is that they are made of the same flesh as you, username. And they are governed by the same limbic system and the same dopamine carrot and stick.
They just drew four aces. And you — a mixed pair. You didn’t draw complete garbage — that’s in Bangladesh, where children dismantle toxic tankers for a bowl of rice and have neither Patreon nor clean water. You drew honest two pairs. The guys drew four aces, but they find it boring to play this way: they drink, they sniff, they write books like “Spare,” because it’s hurtful, and bad publicity is still publicity. But at their core — the same snub-nosed ape.
Lady Diana simply wanted strong dark-skinned billionaires, gardeners, and fitness trainers, maybe even simultaneously, and she didn’t care about the name of the crown. The richest person in the world, who built schools in Africa and loved to philosophize, turned out to love teenagers and the same gonorrhea as in Vasya Kosoy from Kostroma.
Trump enjoyed putting clients’ cases of a different skin color in folders with racist labels in his youth, and now he has reached the top, and his insides come out. And there’s nothing more there. All these Masonic rituals and secret lodges are just decorations: you peek behind the curtains, and there sweaty loaders are seating the ushers on their faces, cobwebs, and vomit. Some just got lucky to be born at the top of the food pyramid, built on turtles.
I’ve written a lot about how Russians milked the Caucasus or Chukotka, but we should remember more often that old money isn’t the absence of logomania, Oxford style, and calm tones, but the sweat and blood of cotton plantations, the heat of the fire under pots and bowls for distilling sugarcane called “Jamaican train,” 14-year-old weavers sucking the limp member of the master to record 14 hours of work (Dickens wrote not fairy tales, but documentaries).
And coffee and rubber — if you didn’t meet the quota, then a slave’s hand was cut off and hung to dry on the neck for all to see. And so it was up to the pyramids when the son of God himself commanded the Nile to overflow. Bolder, stress-resistant primates and shell game swindlers. And the internet just appeared, and we can see all these orders and lodges with our own eyes.
Why do people believe in Masons? Because believing in Masons is calmer. If the world is ruled by Masons, it means there is Order. Let it be evil, but Order. There is a Plan. There is logic. But if the world is ruled by lustful old men, offended thugs, and random billionaires with gonorrhea — it’s Chaos. It means we’re flying in a plane where pilots sniff cocaine and fight over the controls, and stewardesses pretend that everything is on schedule. People need the “sacredness of power.” They need to believe that “they know what they’re doing up there.”
And we’re the second generation that, thanks to literacy and technology, has peeked behind the curtains and seen: The King is not just naked. The King is drunk, stupid, and using a butt plug. The first generation birthed communism and skull hecatombs. Let’s see what we will give birth to.
