Dearest Terryfied Citizens
The Doomsday Clock needs a good fuck.
It’s not the only one, either. All of these prick politicians and white cunts in suits that think it’s okay to start fucking wars in the name of commerce and stock prices need a good fuck.
When I say a good fuck, I’m not talking about a forty-five-minute appointment with Roxy, the wrinkle-flapped Starlet who visits for three hundred an hour and pegs yer up the botty in yer leather chaps while signing a non-disclosure agreement, so yer damn lonely wife don’t find out.
What they need is a good tantric fuck where the jizz don’t come flying out the end of the knob but instead takes forty-second street under the bridge and gets launched up the spine like the World Trade Centre elevator until it hits the crown, filling the nadis with the orgasmic bliss that cuts through yer conceptual mind and makes yer realise that yer couldn’t be a bigger cunt if yer tried.
And I know yer sitting there watching the Portrait Artist of the Year, eating yer Cheezels and drinking yer 2001 Osama Bin Laden anniversary Pinot and wonderin’ if yer gonna get yer cock or vag blown off by some nuclear dildo flying through the air, so yer inhale yet another block o’ Dairy Milk or that brown shit from Tony the cunt who thinks it’s funny to make all the pieces random sizes, or a bag of those damn worms dipped in malic acid that make the blokes impotent and the women infertile and give yer cancer of the teef.
And yer wonderin why the fuck yer canna live in a world where fuckers dinna wanna start wars constantly. Yer want a world where bastards look after each other, but yer still tap away on yer phone and laptop while fifteen million poor bastaards tap away at rock walls digging Cobalt so they can get a family-size carrot to feed their sixteen children and four hamsters at the end of their fourteen-hour shift an so you can get through the day’s Wordle and find out if Kanye West has stopped being a fucking cunt.
And yer still wet the bed n wave yer yellow n blue flags when the white man countries yer pay yer taxes to send more fucking tanks to fight the Russians cos yer too damn fucking lazy to read the history of the fucking thing, so yer think its about the mad cunt Putin.
And yer don’t seem to give a fuck that for every tank sent, some gaffer in a General Dynamics boardroom is getting a fucking promotion and a bonus so they can keep saving for that trip to Mars while Putin keeps smoking his cigars, but his people dive back below the poverty line like BTC every time that spoiled prick Musk tweets about it.
So yer sit at yer desk instead, and yer write to all the Young Lovers about how they can get to a hundred followers to start swallowing the Kosmik Koolaid of the online literary patriarchy so they too can be a part of the sheep shagging system of nutters that gets more and more advanced at the task of making yer believe that yer mean something in this world besides bein a number that works and spends.
And yer think the world’s ya damn scallop so ya start wasting endless jokes an wisdom on Substack notes which dissolve into the digital binary ocean never to be seen — further proof that yer a damn loser screaming into the ether like yer giving oral pleasure to Gina Reinhart cos ya don’t yet realise that Musk is a reptilian from the planet 73948B and that Twitter is now Gnitter and it will zap yer cock or vag if yer Gneet about the carbon footprint of SpaceX.
Fuck it.
It’s not even a real clock, you cocks.
But then, not even a real clock is a real clock.
Don’t get distracted by popcorn ‘n frozen coke ‘n smoke.
Those fucking suited fucks want you to shit yer pants but don’t do it.
Be the cunt in the room that refuses to be afraid.
Stubbornly tell the fear to go fuck itself.
Focus on the damn work, or don’t fuckin’ bitch about yer mental pain.
Chant the Vajra Guru Mantra and focus on the liberation of all beings instead of thinking about yer own damn fear.
Wish that all beings could be free from pain. Even the fuckwits.
We’re never really separate — any of us. It’s a fucking illusion.
When you are dying, you appreciate things. You become your genuine self in those last moments because there is nothing left that is worth the pretence.
Death is the hardest meditation.
It’s also the most important one.
Thinkin’ bout it is like having a good fuck.
One day you’ll be alright, you and me.
We already are, actually.
And we’d know it if it wasn’t for that tiny mistake in perception.
That pesky distinction of self and other.
A hair’s breadth between an eternity of bliss or an eternity of suffering.
None of this matters, you cunt. You’re infinite.
When they tell you to fear — don’t give them your happiness.
Stubbornly keep it for those who matter.
And make them remember that none of this is happening.
You think you’re facing outwards, but actually, you're facing inwards.
You have the power to change it.
So fucking change it.
You are not a pussy.
Now, wake the fuck up.
I’m the fattest fucking town cryer in the land.
Eat my rainbow spunk
FTB
Damnnnn. Your words are a balm in my Gilead.
Whew, 😓 good one today Frank. Best I’ll read all day.