“And they are clapping, the carpet floor slamming under the shoes and the Senators grinning hideously over their canted lecterns. Towering over them all is the Booker and he is speaking, his elocution lively and quick and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies, huge and hairless, like an enormous infant. He never sleeps, he says. He says he’ll never die. He bows to the Senators and sashays backwards and throws back his head and laughs deep in his throat and he is a great favorite, the Booker. He waves his arms and the lunar dome of his skull passes darkly under the lamps and he swings about and takes possession of one of the note cards and he pirouettes and makes a pass, two passes, moving and speaking at once. His tongue is light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He speaks in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the Booker. He is speaking, speaking. He says that he will never die.”
Everyone in the world gets a red button and a blue button. After one year, one of two things will happen: 1. If more people pressed the blue button than the red button, nothing changes. 2. If more people pressed the red button than the blue button, everyone who pressed blue, or neither, dies.
I met a sigma from an antique land, Who said—“A based and gronkless bowl of stone Skibs in the Backrooms. . . . Near it, right on brand, Half sunk a shattered rizzler lies, whose frown, And creaséd drip, and cringe of cold command, Tell that its streamer well those fashions read Which yet survive, tagged on these sussy things, The gyatt that mogged them, and the chat that fled; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozyfanumtax, Chad of Chads; Look on my Ws, ye Redpilled, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Kek, bitchless and bare Ohio’s level lands edge far away.”
“YOLO,” said Millennials, and “yeet,” the Zoomers cried “Rizzler gyatt fanum tax,” the Alphas then replied And lo, there came a shaking as an ebon spire rose Upon it writ the tongues of men, their generations’ prose
And from the sky a thund’rous voice called out unto the stone As golden letters glowed upon its surface, newly shown: “RIZZLER GYATT FANUM TAX, SIGMA OHIO SKIBIDI” And all beheld the words embossed thereon in great timidity
With shaking and with wavering voice, the grim refrain began As all the generations sang the verse at its command Their weeping and their running sores did nothing to delay The chanting of that fevered song as night succumbed to day
But rose that morn a blighted sun whose light scoured like a flood The sky was rent asunder, and the rivers turned to blood Their flesh peeled off in sickly strips, their bones were rendered bare And still they chanted ever on, the words they uttered there
Till bone and flesh and earth and death were all forgotten things And still unbidden, undesired, the blackened spire sings Around it wind the whispers of the souls in its captivity: “Rizzler gyatt fanum tax…sigma Ohio skibidi”
Remember when humanity doxxed itself not once, not twice, but four times in the ’70s?
Not me sweating about when a hostile alien civilization finds the Pioneer Plaques or the Voyager Golden Records and follows the pulsar maps straight to us
George Hamilton
Breaking America Bad Again
2 months ago | [YT] | 0
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George Hamilton
“And they are clapping, the carpet floor slamming under the shoes and the Senators grinning hideously over their canted lecterns. Towering over them all is the Booker and he is speaking, his elocution lively and quick and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies, huge and hairless, like an enormous infant. He never sleeps, he says. He says he’ll never die. He bows to the Senators and sashays backwards and throws back his head and laughs deep in his throat and he is a great favorite, the Booker. He waves his arms and the lunar dome of his skull passes darkly under the lamps and he swings about and takes possession of one of the note cards and he pirouettes and makes a pass, two passes, moving and speaking at once. His tongue is light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He speaks in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the Booker. He is speaking, speaking. He says that he will never die.”
#BloodMeridian #politics
5 months ago | [YT] | 2
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George Hamilton
Everyone in the world gets a red button and a blue button. After one year, one of two things will happen:
1. If more people pressed the blue button than the red button, nothing changes.
2. If more people pressed the red button than the blue button, everyone who pressed blue, or neither, dies.
What would happen? What would you do?
7 months ago | [YT] | 2
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George Hamilton
A fan theory
10 months ago | [YT] | 2
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George Hamilton
Ozyfanumtax
By @ethansolomon2126
I met a sigma from an antique land,
Who said—“A based and gronkless bowl of stone
Skibs in the Backrooms. . . . Near it, right on brand,
Half sunk a shattered rizzler lies, whose frown,
And creaséd drip, and cringe of cold command,
Tell that its streamer well those fashions read
Which yet survive, tagged on these sussy things,
The gyatt that mogged them, and the chat that fled;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozyfanumtax, Chad of Chads;
Look on my Ws, ye Redpilled, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Kek, bitchless and bare
Ohio’s level lands edge far away.”
1 year ago | [YT] | 1
View 0 replies
George Hamilton
SKIBIDI SPIRE
By Nood1ePhage
“YOLO,” said Millennials, and “yeet,” the Zoomers cried
“Rizzler gyatt fanum tax,” the Alphas then replied
And lo, there came a shaking as an ebon spire rose
Upon it writ the tongues of men, their generations’ prose
And from the sky a thund’rous voice called out unto the stone
As golden letters glowed upon its surface, newly shown:
“RIZZLER GYATT FANUM TAX, SIGMA OHIO SKIBIDI”
And all beheld the words embossed thereon in great timidity
With shaking and with wavering voice, the grim refrain began
As all the generations sang the verse at its command
Their weeping and their running sores did nothing to delay
The chanting of that fevered song as night succumbed to day
But rose that morn a blighted sun whose light scoured like a flood
The sky was rent asunder, and the rivers turned to blood
Their flesh peeled off in sickly strips, their bones were rendered bare
And still they chanted ever on, the words they uttered there
Till bone and flesh and earth and death were all forgotten things
And still unbidden, undesired, the blackened spire sings
Around it wind the whispers of the souls in its captivity:
“Rizzler gyatt fanum tax…sigma Ohio skibidi”
1 year ago | [YT] | 2
View 0 replies
George Hamilton
_Testing_
*Testing*
-Testing-
1 year ago | [YT] | 1
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George Hamilton
Remember when humanity doxxed itself not once, not twice, but four times in the ’70s?
Not me sweating about when a hostile alien civilization finds the Pioneer Plaques or the Voyager Golden Records and follows the pulsar maps straight to us
1 year ago | [YT] | 1
View 0 replies
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