“To the Feds, I’ll keep this short, because I do respect what you do for our country. To save you a lengthy investigation, I state plainly that I wasn’t working with anyone,” the document said, according to the official.
It also had a line that said, “I do apologize for any strife or traumas but it had to be done. Frankly, these parasites simply had it coming.”
No everything has to be serious at all times and we cannot find any humor in the absurdity of hell world.
The last time I smiled was on November 15th, 2011.
I wear an unwashed battlevest at all times, cannot grow hair, and do not bathe because that would violate the non-aggression pact with my skin microbiome.
Every day I liberate and consume 35 buns from the Jack in the Box dumpster. I eat them randomly throughout the day because set mealtimes are a weapon of the state. Any extra I use to cultivate a custom strain of Penicillin in the event that the bacteria violates the NAP first.
I do not sleep on a bed, that would be putting myself above furniture and I will not participate in the creation of a hierarchy. There is a maple tree that allows me to rest my head on its lowest branch in exchange for my labor in chasing off the woodpecker. I do not actually chase away the woodpecker, I bribe it with bugs from the dumpster. The bugs started it by biting me when I was finding bread.
In the evenings I barter for a can of PBR. I only open it if I cannot find a police officer to throw it at.
Food Not Bombs banned me when I glassed another volunteer for asking if I would give them one of my buns. I did not stab them for wanting the bun, I stabbed them for using the word “give” which would imply a charitable relationship rather than mutual assistance. I will not be forced into a hierarchy. I let them keep the bottle as a token of goodwill.
I will not allow plumbing in my house because plumbing is a weapon of the state. Every shit I take is taken on the flag of a state that should not exist. I dispose of my shit flags by lighting them on fire and throwing them at their respective embassies. I am running out of embassies.
My house is an assemblage of tents recovered from Occupy Wall Street in the middle of Liberty Park. I am still occupying wall street. They forgot to check the sewers.
I have a single friend in this world and it is a liver fluke named Emma that I met after ingesting spoiled pottage on 9/11 while protesting outside the Pentagon security checkpoint (I am outraged that a plane crash received more media coverage than my four year long protest. I did enjoy the vibes).
I have neither income nor debt. I refuse to touch money because it is issued by the state.
The IRS has a grudge against me because the trust fund my grandfather left me has never paid taxes. This was his attempt to force me into a hierarchy. I will not touch the trust because money is a weapon of the state.
I own 97 Mossberg shotguns that I have liberated from police cruisers. I left every shell behind because lead is bad for the environment. I have a single shotshell loaded with steel turkey shot that I bartered from a hunter for half of a Natural American Spirit cigarette.
My PhDs in Computer Science and 19th century Russian philosophy sit on my desk in my home to remind me of the hierarchical nature of education. My desk is the frame from my medical diploma. I leave it on the ground because sitting on a chair would force the chair below me in a hierarchy.
My chair is a Herman Miller Aeron that I liberated from Twitter headquarters when everyone was focusing on Elon Musk’s sink. The chair agreed that coming with me would be mutually beneficial. The chair and I have been seeking consensus on a mutually beneficial seating arrangement for two years.
During the latest BLM protests I firebombed a Nikes outlet in the middle of a peaceful candlelit vigil.
William F Buckley and I wrote hatemail to one another for 47 years until my final letter gave him an aneurysm. My letters were hand delivered on bricks I liberated from Home Depot.
The only water I drink is from puddles.
The Wachowskis and I dropped estrogen together during a Soros-funded summer camp for aspiring crisis actors and they went on to write The Matrix about our time together.
The best way to test whether an electrical wire is live is to drool on it and shrimp salad is racist. Uncle Ted taught me his preferred mixing ratio for smokeless powder but also told me that black powder is more fun.
Every time a business owner files a restraining order against me, I carve a mark into the wall.
I am running out of walls.
When Amerikkka finally collapses I will be able to retire.
I am very smart and people like being around me.
Fuck. New copypasta detected. This is a work of fucking art.