95% UFO

Science? A meat grinder, man. Feeds in observations, spits out explanations neat and tidy. No room for the hairy margins,the psychic static that whispers of things beyond the goddamn control panel.  UFOs? Aliens waltzing in with their flying bathtubs? Not part of the equation, see. Too messy, too damn inconvenient. Belongs in the spook show, with trenchcoats and fedoras instead of lab coats.

They show up on radar, yeah, but that’s just the surface noise. The real action’s happening on the psychic switchboard, scrambled signals from beyond the meat curtain. That’s where the spooks come in, the boys who play chess with blindfolds, gotta sniff out truth through the bullshit fog.

Science? Deals in percentages, a nice clean 95% and they’re high-fivin’ each other in the lab. In the spook biz, 95% is chum in the water. Keeps the marks distracted while the real game’s played out of sight. 

Intelligence, that’s a different animal. Here, truth ain’t a neatly packaged lab report. It’s a whisper in a Tangier alley, a flickering image on a grainy photograph. You, the spook, you wade through the muck, the disinformation, the layers of bullshit thicker than a junkie’s arm. Ninety-five percent? That’s chump change, Burroughs. The easy hustle. The real game’s in that last five, the goddamn heart of the maze. Like Hitler, fat and smug with his Normandy intel. Wrong five percent, see? Led him straight to the goddamn abattoir.

Who’s running the circus, that’s the question. Entities with a taste for the absurd, twisting reality like a funhouse mirror? They’ve built a labyrinth of dead ends and misinformation, a Droste effect of lies reflecting on lies. Data? Science’s crutch. Here, you gotta follow the hunches, the whispers on the psychic switchboard. Logic gets you lost in the hall of mirrors. You gotta feel your way through the static, like a junkie chasing the dragon’s tail. Maybe you never reach the truth, just deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. But hey, at least the ride’

These UFO jokers, if they’re real, they’re playing a long con. A hall of mirrors with a million exits, each one leading deeper into the rabbit hole. Data? Forget data. That’s the bait, the shiny trinket to distract the rubes. You gotta follow the vibes, man, the unspoken dread that crawls up your spine when you see one of those goddamn ships. That’s where the truth is hiding, not in some lab report with charts and graphs. It’s a gut feeling, a cold sweat in the dead of night. That’s where the real hunt begins.

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