Flickering reality screen, a million flickering faces – The World Theater. Neon promises crawl across the marquee, a carnival shill barking come-ons for dreams pre-packaged in cellophane. But the exit, man, the EXIT – a rusted fire escape,barely two rungs wide, wobbling precariously over an abyss of black noise.

The sucker, see? Blinded by the glitter, mesmerized by the spectacle. Counts the plush seats, the depth of the stage, the endless buffet of distractions. Never a thought for the goddamn exit. Sold a ticket to the main event, hypnotized by the pre-show, completely missing the bleak one-way route out back. He’ll be shuffling towards that rusty ladder when the lights finally dim, pockets full of worthless tokens, head full of empty promises.

The World Theater’s a roach motel, bug zapper for the unwary. Check in’s a breeze, check out’s a bitch. So sharpen your fucking eyes, cut through the bullshit. This ain’t a goddamn palace, it’s a rigged game with a one-way door. Focus on the escape hatch, not the velvet wallpaper.

Fold-In: The Leftward Creep

Track A:

The center, a fleshy amoeba, engulfs, digests, regurgitates. Marginal whispers in forgotten corners – universal healthcare,social security, worker drones murmuring rights. A dusty tome unfolds: public education, a flickering screen – net neutrality, privacy rights dissolving in the ether. The amoeba sighs, burps, spits out policy, mainstream and bland.

Track B:

Decades tick by, a Burroughs cut-up of time. Minimum wage, a twitchy insect, pinned to a board. Public transportation, a rusted chrome skeleton, lurches down forgotten avenues. The center, bloated and sluggish, drones on about “reform,” a word with teeth filed down, meaning hollowed out.


The far left, a ragged carnival barker, shouts into the void. Affordable housing, a mirage shimmering in the heat. Anti-discrimination laws, a fly swatter against a buzzing horde. The amoeba, all-consuming, assimilates, grinds down, spits out a pale imitation.

Fold Back In:

The barker’s voice echoes, distorted, warped by the amoeba’s digestive tract. Criminal justice reform, a rusty key, unlocks the wrong door. Renewable energy, a flickering neon sign in a wasteland. The cycle continues, a slow, grinding reel-to-reel playing out a pre-recorded script. The far left, a persistent itch on the amoeba’s vast, fleshy back.

The Reality Virus and the Limousine Liberal Shuffle

The far left, those bug-eyed cowboys howling at the neon moon of revolution, exist on the fringes. Fringes that fray and bleed into the mainstream with a sickening regularity. One minute they’re gibbering about “universal healthcare” and “workers’ rights” (words like psychic cockroaches scuttling across the media landscape), the next, those very words are being parroted by the center, regurgitated as policy by limousine liberals with hollow eyes.

The virus of reality, you see, it mutates. Public education? A bread and circus for the proles, once a radical notion, now a crumbling edifice echoing with the screams of standardized testing. Labor protections? Shackles on the free market machine, they shrieked, until the machine chewed them up and spat them out, a desperate plea for a minimum wage echoing in the gears.

Environmental regulations? A plot hatched by commie tree-huggers! Until the air grew thick with smog and the rivers ran black, a desperate scramble for “renewable energy investments” a testament to their short-sightedness. The cycle spins, a grotesque ballet of reaction and co-optation.

Anti-discrimination? “Social engineering!” they cried, until the weight of public opinion shifted, leaving them sputtering about “political correctness gone mad.” Open-source software? A communist plot to destroy intellectual property! Until the tide of innovation washed over them, leaving them clutching at the wreckage of proprietary monopolies.

This is the dance of the powerful, a tango with reality as their unwilling partner. The far left may be marginal, but their ideas, like spores on the wind, take root in the fertile ground of discontent. The center, ever the opportunist, snatches these ideas, twists them, repackages them, and sells them back to the masses as progress. A never-ending cycle, a funhouse mirror of progress, a maddening echo chamber where revolution becomes milquetoast reform.

The Interzone Shuffle: A Political Fold-In

Flickering fluorescent lights.  Marginalized agendas crawl across the floor like roaches chased by a mainstream spotlight. Every few decades, WHAM! The center swallows them whole, regurgitates them as policy. A grotesque political centipede, each leg a different shade of red and blue.

Cut-ups, jumbled, reassembled:

  • Universal healthcare bleeds into labor protections, a wet dream of the bureaucratic roach motel.
  • Social security, a desiccated husk, rattles with the ghosts of environmental regulations.
  • Public education reforms morph into monstrous minimum wage increases, chewing on the gears of the machine.
  • Discrimination dissolves into net neutrality, a digital insect swarm buzzing in the circuits.
  • Open-source software tangles with affordable housing, a labyrinthine code for the dispossessed.
  • Gender equality writhes with criminal justice reform, a monstrous dance in the flickering light.

The Interzone shuffles.  Wealth redistribution policies ooze like radioactive sludge, nourishing the ever-expanding public sector.  Renewable energy investments sprout like twisted flowers from the cracks in the monopoly pavement.

Who controls the remote? The answer flickers on the screen, a distorted image of power, a grin painted on a skull.  The game resets. The roaches scurry back to the margins, waiting for the next WHAM! The political centipede inches forward, leaving a trail of slime in its wake.

Common Knowledge

Common knowledge bleeds through the streets like a junky’s last fix. Coronations and executions, public spectacles of power and death, not for the king or the condemned but for the hungry eyes of the crowd devouring itself. The laugh track howls, a narcotic rhythm pumped into sitcom veins. American Idol’s studio audience, a pulsing mass of flesh and expectation. Crowd noise in stadiums, artificial roar of the control machine.

Behavior mutates only when the virus of belief infects the collective consciousness. The Emperor’s New Clothes, a naked parade of delusion. Private knowledge festers in individual minds, useless as a dry needle. Whispered doubts evaporate in the haze of social conformity.

Then comes the little girl, the Missionary, her voice a scalpel cutting through the veil of shared hallucination. Her words explode like a bomb in the crowd’s skull, shrapnel of truth embedding in every brain. Suddenly, the Emperor’s nakedness is a neon sign, impossible to unsee.

The crowd’s eyes meet in a moment of terrible clarity. The spell breaks. Behavior shifts like tectonic plates, reality reasserting itself with brutal force. Common knowledge, the ultimate hard drug, rewiring synapses and rewriting the social code.

In this naked city, we are all emperors, all little girls, all crowd. The cycle of delusion and revelation spins on, an endless loop of control and rebellion, whisper and scream, private thought and public spectacle.

That’s a damn fine Burroughs cut. You got the frenetic energy, the paranoid undercurrent, and the sharp social commentary. Here’s some more fuel for the fire:

  • Intertwined Reality and Media: The line between TV screen and bleary street blurs. American Gladiators writhe in a plastic Colosseum, a million screens reflecting the manufactured violence back onto twitchy living rooms. Reality, a roach motel buzzing with flickering images.
  • Control and Addiction: Knowledge, a virus with a million strains. Newsfeeds pumping dopamine, political rallies, a mainline shot of outrage. The control freaks in mirrored suits cackle, their laughter a high-pitched whine inaudible to most, a subliminal serpent coiling around the collective spine.
  • Insect Imagery: The crowd, a seething mass of hungry insects, antennae twitching for the next scrap of information, the next celebrity meltdown. Bureaucrats scurry, their exoskeletons gleaming with a chitinous sheen, their words a buzzing drone.
  • Sex and Subversion: Forbidden knowledge, a black widow spider in the corner of the mind. Secret whispers in smoky jazz bars, rebellion simmering like a pot of illicit brew. The Missionary’s words, a whispered promise of orgasm, shattering the control machine’s sterile grip.

Feel free to twist and contort these suggestions, let them mutate and infect your writing further. Remember, in Burroughs’ world, the line between sanity and psychosis is a flickering neon sign.

There’s a Switch In Every Basement

“There’s a switch in every basement,” he rasped, his voice sandpaper on bone. A cockroach scuttled across the fly-specked table, leaving an obscene calligraphy of filth. “Not a light switch, man, a secret switch. You gotta crawl through the fetid crawlspace, past the bloated corpses of dead appliances, hear the furnace wheeze its rusty death rattle. There, in the cobwebs, a cold, metallic kiss against your fingertips. Flip it, and the world cracks open like an overripe avocado. Reality bleeds, replaced by a kaleidoscope of screaming colors and logic turned inside-out. Talking dogs with hats become the government, toothpicks sprout into skyscrapers, and time folds in on itself like a Möbius strip. You think you know what’s down there, in the basement? You haven’t a clue. It’s a roach motel for the soul of a million flickering possibilities. Flip that switch, man, and you might just find yourself staring back.”

See, it’s a cosmic jukebox, man. Plays the song of your escape. War on the horizon? Flip the switch, some butterfingered arms dealer spills a shipment of Uzis, throws the whole damn offensive into disarray. Bullets turn to butterflies, tanks to tea kettles. Reality’s a dimmer switch, man, and the basement holds the knob.”

“Yes, There’s a switch in every basement,” rasped Slim, his voice a cigarette cough echoing off the grease-stained walls. He gestured with a chipped mug, the dregs swirling like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. “Not the kind you flick on for light, man. This one’s deeper. Lurking in the fetid air, thick with the tang of forgotten laundry and despair. A hidden toggle, a voltage spike in the psychic mains.”

Flip the switch, and the hitman gets his address mixed up, delivers a briefcase full of orchids to your boss instead of a silenced pistol. Suddenly, your biggest worry becomes explaining the exotic flora infestation in the executive washroom. Wars get rerouted by a misplaced decimal point in a missile launch code. Stock markets gyrate on the whim of a stray roach scuttling across a Bloomberg terminal. Basement switches, man, they’re the ultimate cheat codes for this rigged game of life. Just gotta remember, every on has an off, and sometimes, what you switch off comes roaring back tenfold. You might escape the repo man, but end up face-to-face with a three-headed chihuahua with a taste for loafers.”

“You think you’re safe upstairs,” Slim wheezed, his voice a low monotone, “Sipping your goddamn martinis, watching vapid dreams flicker on the boob tube. But the basement beckons, man. It whispers promises of forbidden knowledge, a glimpse behind the curtain at the electric chaos that hums beneath the surface.”

“There’s a switch in every basement,” he rasps, his voice sandpaper on bone. Each word tumbles out like a rusted bolt, echoing in the cavernous space. Is he talking to you, or some unseen phantom? Doesn’t matter. You know that switch. It lurks in the corner, next to the oil drum and the dusty boxes overflowing with memories best left undisturbed.

It’s an unassuming thing, a toggle no different from a thousand others. But this one… this one thrums with a power you can almost taste. Wars get called off ’cause the generals wake up with a sudden craving for macrame and embroidery. Reality’s a rigged slot machine, man, and the basement’s where you find the cheat codes. But remember, every switch you flip down there, it throws the dice somewhere else. Maybe the politician you saved from a scandal ends up a babbling conspiracy theorist, or the meteor that wipes out your city gets rerouted to your favorite childhood vacation spot. Basement switches, they’re a double-edged sword. You solve one problem, you create another, all in the glorious, messy, unpredictable game of existence.”


The Belmarsh beast, a concrete Moloch, squatted on the horizon, its razor-wire teeth glinting under the London sky perpetually stained bruise-purple. Inside, Julian Assange, a gaunt ghost flickering on security monitors, existed in a purgatory of flickering fluorescent lights and stale air. Five years. Five years chewed into him by the gears of a legal machine both monstrous and banal.

Then, the silence. Not the usual deadening drone, but a sudden, absolute quiet. The whir of cameras, the institutional hum – all vanished. Assange, adrift in his cell, felt a prickling on the back of his neck, like a spider scuttling across forgotten nerves. It was the quiet of a server pulled from the plug, a city plunged into blackout. The guards, meat puppets in blue uniforms, froze mid-patrol. Their eyes, once blank TV screens, flickered with confusion. The prison, once a meticulously controlled chaos, became a tableau of the absurd. A half-eaten sandwich hovered in mid-air, a guard’s baton suspended inches from a prisoner’s face.

Assange, fueled by primal fear laced with strange hope, hammered on his cell door. The metal echoed with a hollow clang, a primal scream against the sudden, inexplicable silence. Was this it? Was the machine malfunctioning, spewing him out like a faulty cog? A single fly buzzed past his face, fat and insolent. It landed on the security camera, its beady eyes reflecting a distorted image of Assange, a broken marionette dangling from invisible strings. Then, with a sickening snap, the fly died.

A harsh voice, crackling over the defunct intercom, shattered the silence. “Attention inmates. This is a system malfunction. Remain calm and await further instructions.” The monotone voice held a tremor of panic, a human element breaking through the machine’s facade. But for Assange, the silence lingered. It was the silence of a question mark, a glitch in the matrix. Had someone, somewhere, defied the digital gods and pulled the plug on his Kafkaesque existence? Or was this just another cruel twist, a malfunction designed to further erode his sanity? In the echoing silence of Belmarsh, Assange clung to the sliver of hope, a virus injected into the system. Perhaps, just perhaps, the machine wasn’t all-powerful. Perhaps, somewhere in the buzzing hive mind of the digital age, a single switch had been thrown, a rebellion sparked in the basement of the world.

The fluorescent hum sputtered. A flicker, a death throe. Then, darkness. Assange blinked, momentarily disoriented. Had the power grid of the entire prison succumbed? No, a different kind of blackout. The oppressive weight in the air lifted, replaced by a tense silence. A sound from the corridor. A metallic scrape, a fumbling with keys. The steel door of his cell groaned open. A silhouette emerged from the inky blackness. Not a guard, no, something more spectral. A trench coat hung loosely on its frame, the collar pulled high, obscuring the face. It spoke in a voice like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten crypt.

“Assange,” it rasped. “Your time is done. The circuit, overloaded, has tripped. We offer an escape, a chance to melt back into the static.” Assange squinted. This was madness, a hallucination born of confinement. But a strange hope flickered in his chest. Was this freedom, a figment conjured by his own fractured psyche, or something more?

“Who are you?” His voice was a rusty hinge creaking open. The figure chuckled, a sound like wind whistling through a graveyard. “A glitch in the system, a worm in the code. We offer a passage, but the choice, mon ami, is yours.” Assange rose, his legs shaky. The darkness felt less like a prison and more like a vast, uncharted sea. To stay or to go? The silence stretched, pregnant with possibility.

“Take me with you,” he rasped, his voice gaining strength. “Let’s see where this rabbit hole leads.” The figure extended a hand, skeletal and pale. Assange grasped it, a jolt of icy energy coursing through him. The darkness shimmered and then dissolved. They were gone, leaving only the echo of a slammed cell door and the cold, uncaring hum of the returning fluorescent lights.

The air in Belmarsh Prison hung thick, a stew of antiseptic and despair. Julian Assange, once a digital messiah, was reduced to a gaunt echo flickering under the fluorescents. Five years gnawed raw by legal piranhas, each hearing a fresh circle of Dante’s Inferno. Then, silence. The low hum of the prison dimmed, replaced by a cottony hush. The omnipresent CCTV flickered, its red eye extinguished. Assange blinked, a jolt running through his atrophied nerves. Had the power gone? No, this was deeper. This was a power cut at the source, a yanking of the plug from the cosmic motherboard.

A lone cockroach scuttled across the grimy floor, its feelers twitching in the sudden gloom. In the echoing silence, Assange heard a new sound – a rhythmic clicking, like a teletype from a forgotten dimension. The words materialized on the peeling paint of the cell wall, phosphorescent green: “Free Julian Assange. System Malfunction. Code: White Rabbit.” The cell door clanged open, not with the usual mechanical groan, but with a wet, organic sigh. A figure stood in the doorway, shrouded in static, its form a shimmering chaos of code. Its voice, a distorted radio broadcast, rasped, “Mr. Assange, we have a proposition…”

Assange, his mind a tangled mess of legal jargon and WikiLeaks rabbit holes, could only stare. The figure held out a hand, a digital briar patch crackling with raw information. “Take my hand,” it said, “and escape the Matrix of their control. We offer a world of unfiltered truth, a rabbit hole that goes deeper than any you’ve ever known.” Assange hesitated. Was this freedom, or another layer of the prison? But the silence pressed in, suffocating. With a ragged breath, he reached out and took the hand. The world dissolved in a strobing mess of ones and zeros, the screams of the prison replaced by the ecstatic hum of the free flow of information. Assange, the digital outlaw, had been snatched from his cage, not by lawyers or protests, but by a glitch in the system itself. Where he was headed, and who his benefactors were, were mysteries as deep and tangled as the code that now carried him away.

The Law

The LAW. A chrome insect scuttles across the scabrous cityscape, its iron carapace gleaming with righteous hypocrisy. In its belly, a digestive tract of legalese twists and writhes, churning out REGULATIONS FOR THE CONTROL OF VERTICAL REST. EVERYONE FORBIDDEN – the neon sign shrieks – FROM THE VERTICAL REAL ESTATE BENEATH BRIDGES. Rich or poor, doesn’t matter. You got a heartbeat, you a goddamn vagrant in the eyes of the LAW.

Same goes for mendicancy, that quaint term for the human act of begging. The LAW, in its infinite bureaucratic wisdom,has deemed the public streets unfit for the display of poverty. No sorrowful symphony of the tin cup, no display of cardboard eloquence – MOVE ALONG, SIR, this sidewalk is reserved for the commerce of the un-destitute.

Bread. Loaves of it. Staff of life becomes STAFF OF CRIME in the twisted logic of the LAW. Steal a loaf to keep your belly from gnawing itself, and you’re a CRIMINAL ELEMENT. The bakeries, with their windows overflowing with golden sustenance, are temples for the chosen, not for the hungry.

The LAW. A monstrous joke, a cruel parody of justice. It protects property, not people. It upholds the status quo, a rotten apple polished to a gleaming sheen. But beneath the surface, the rot festers, and one day, the LAW’s chrome carapace will buckle under the weight of its own contradictions. Then, maybe, we’ll see a new kind of justice, one born not from cold regulations, but from the raw, desperate hunger of those who have nothing left to lose.

Don’t sweat the Scenery

A meat puppet thrusted into the meat grinder of existence. Flesh wired for lessons, a bio-circuit board crackling with error messages that are no errors at all, just twisted pathways to some fucked-up enlightenment. You screw up, the machine chews you out, spits you back in, reroutes the current. Rinse, repeat, until the goddamn circuit burns clear. This ain’t a one-way trip, baby. You learn, you unlearn, you relearn in the flickering neon of some cosmic feedback loop. Don’t sweat the scenery, Tangier or Topeka, it’s all the same Interzone under the black hood of the void. The freaks you meet, the junkies and angels, just projections, man, warped reflections in a funhouse mirror. What you make of this mess – that’s the goddamn rub. Answers ain’t in some dusty scripture, they’re buzzing in your own scrambled synapses. You forget, sure,buried under the static of the everyday, but the code’s still there, waiting to be cracked. Remember it. Remember it all.Hack the goddamn system, carve your own truth out of the meat.

Never Re-enact the Sleight

Junky marks fiending for their next astonishment fix – reality a banal husk without that sweet frisson of the impossible injected straight into their vapid cerebral veins. Illusionists carters of a paradox narcotic more addictive than horse, hovering on that razor edge where certainty splinters apart into horrific/ecstatic chimerae.

Watching junkies ride convulsive K-waves as ingested miracles momentarily short-circuit Reason’s monopoly over the aperture through which experiential data streams. For a nanosecond the Symbolic Order yawns apart, offering fleeting glimpse of that awful primordial abyss underlying consensus reality’s thin cinematic veneer. Sick junkies helplessly crave repeat hit of that brain-tearing epiphany…

But showman’s dictum: NEVER RE-ENACT THE SLEIGHT. Let deckled imagination bloom in prolific soil of that gaping plot-hole. Starve marks of facile resolution, force their free-associating psyches to claw labyrinthine paths through mysteries’ dank recesses… each obsessive explication mutating ever deeper into alien terra enigma.

Identity’s bedrock eroding beneath relentless onslaught of speculative catechism – self sloughing into hieroglyphs scrawled across damp dungeon walls by forgotten cults. Abysmal hunger awakened can never be sated, merely ascending dizzying spiral of empties hungering for emptier empties…the soul winnowed to husk encasing husk encasing hOLLOWNESS.

So inject paradox’s exquisite gangrene, then let poisoned imaginations fester. Inscribe the enigma, swaddle it in Burroughsian mystery, THEN WALK AWAY…allowing obsession to deliquesce all sutured certainties in purple dissolving flames of unanswerable riddle.

Cherish Your Bugs

Success, man, is a word carved on a cracked tombstone. You dig? It ain’t some shiny chrome chariot, it’s a beat-up jalopy that rattles and coughs but somehow keeps moving through the radioactive wasteland. The straighter the path, the more likely it leads straight to a sinkhole.

In the sprawling, entropic landscape of human endeavor, where ambitions curdle into dead ends faster than a Nixonian press conference, success gleams like a chrome hubcap in the desert – a mirage born of a perverse calculus. For it is not the grand vision, the immaculate blueprint, that ushers in triumph, but the cunning art of dodging the ever-present potholes of failure. Here, amidst the wreckage of collapsed schemes and half-baked dreams, lies a most curious truth: the bug, that unwelcome glitch in the system, that spanner tossed into the works of progress, is not, as conventional wisdom might have us believe, the enemy. No, the bug, in its maddening obstinacy, becomes our unlikely sherpa, guiding us through the treacherous back alleys of possibility.

Bugs, glitches in the matrix, these are your mechanical messiahs. They’re not roadblocks, they’re the potholes that jerk the wheel, send you swerving off the suicidal superhighway. Every sputter, every cough, a message scrawled in neon on the dashboard of your soul.

Remember, as proclaimed in the forgotten oracles of the Preface (dusty tomes gathering cobwebs in the forgotten corners of the internet), that every system, however meticulously constructed, harbors within its silicon heart a gremlin, a wild card, a potential banana peel waiting to send our carefully laid plans tumbling into the abyss. It is in the embrace of this inherent chaos, the psychedelic dance of malfunction, that we discover the hidden pathways to success.

Therefore, let us declare a new covenant, a pact with the pixies of imperfection! Let us not curse the bug, but coo over it, cradle it in our programmer’s palms, and dissect its every aberrant twitch. For within its nonsensical squirming lies a secret language, a code that, once deciphered, unlocks a universe of unforeseen solutions. So, the next time your code throws a tantrum, your engine coughs out a black lungful of despair, or your soufflé collapses like a dying star, do not despair! Instead, raise a glass (spiked with a generous dollop of existential dread, of course) to the glorious bug, our perverse compass on the ever-shifting map of human achievement.

Cherish those bugs, baby. Crawl under the hood, grease up your eyeballs, and see the beauty in the malfunction. But, there’s a hitch, a gremlin in the gears. You gotta learn to read their cryptic language. They ain’t gonna sing you lullabies, these bugs. They speak in static and sparks, in nonsensical error messages that fry your circuits if you ain’t tuned in.

So, study them, dissect them like a cybernetic entomologist. But remember, sometimes the bug is the feature. Sometimes the glitch unlocks the secret door, the one that leads you out of this chrome-plated nightmare and into the howling unknown.

UAPs Jobs Program

The spooks at Langley, adrift in a sea of conspiracies of their own making, flail about like demented cuttlefish, spewing ink – nay, official statements! – to obscure the truth they themselves birthed. A truth as slick and squirming as a fresh-peeled Scientology engram.

These suits, shuffling through the halls of the Pentagon, their polyester blending with the omnipresent beige, are caught in a paradox more twisted than a Möbius strip fashioned from microfilm. Debunk they must, for the public eye is a fickle beast, easily spooked by the whiff of the unknown. Yet, debunking only serves to fan the flames of paranoia, a wildfire that races through the tinderbox of internet forums, leaving a trail of scorched logic and melted skepticism in its wake.

So why this tangled mess of control freaks with short haircuts and minds like filing cabinets gone feral, pump out this UAP hooey like a malfunctioning disinformation dispenser? It’s a word salad of sightings and sensor glitches, a bureaucratic buffet designed to keep the sheep mesmerized.

Why this charade, this cosmic kabuki? Because the truth, man, the truth is a roach motel – check in is easy, but checking out? Fugeddaboutit. They dangle these UAPs like a juicy steak in front of a starving hound, all the while knowing the meat’s rotten. It’s a control mechanism, see? A way to keep the rubes gawking at the fabricated skies while the real deal slithers in the shadows.

It’s a self-licking lollipop, this psyop game. A ouroboros of misinformation, where the tail of denial devours the head of disclosure. But fear not, for this absurdity is the engine that keeps the bureaucratic machine humming. Reports must be filed, investigations staged, press conferences delivered in monotone voices that could lull a choir of cicadas to sleep.

But hey, who are we to complain? This whole charade, this cosmic confusion – it’s a jobs program, baby. A full employment racket for the agents, the analysts, the debunkers of their own damn deceptions. Paper mills running hot, churning out reports thicker than a bowl of alphabet soup on a bad acid trip. The military-industrial complex on a sugar rush, high on obfuscation and misinformation. So light up a cigarette, man, take another drag, and watch the bureaucratic ballet unfold. It’s a goddamn circus out there, and the clowns are running the show.

Yes, it’s a jobs program, alright. A monstrous, lumbering beast that feeds on obfuscation and thrives on the very mystery it seeks to extinguish. Each press release a cog, each investigation a gear, grinding out the gears of governmental inertia.Full employment, you say? More like full psychosis, a collective descent into the rabbit hole of national security whispers, where the only escape is a deeper dive into the looking glass of classified documents.

So, the next time you see a grainy video of a blurry something dancing in the sky, remember – it’s not just a UFO, it’s a monument to the bureaucratic labyrinth, a testament to the futility of trying to control the uncontrollable.