C span, I wish I could quit ya. Yet—well—it is too plain to C:
the Knuckledheads have taken off pretending that they are even trying to seek
the truth—they are seeking division with distortions filled with derisions. So,
names will be named.
The truth is not a game. The truth has No triggers. The truth reveals, which is Not
a warning. Liars conceal, which is Not a threat.
Simply the truth.
So, let’s play some wordy games their way:
Which brings me to the cold mountain of a wrestler with the truth his whole life,
Jim the Jumbo Mumbo Jordon (aka, the donaker monarcher) and hissing
marybanders of who dis? and what dat? All fab brickading sound bytes while
digging for a piece of real dirt, all those whirling dervishes feverishly groping and
grabbing with people’s—anonymously—mysteriously—missing—witnesses not
facing the ‘YOU’RE FIRED’ committee, squinting factlessly, reading ‘t’ texts first,
then aimed their slim to none slime at the base est timates (intimates—in-
plied—then supp-lied—supp-oppossedly—there’s a tape—which would be the
HIGGS BOSSOoN of the missing teeny part tyculled out from no where really,
BUTT which could—would—should (confirmation unbiasedly) then be leading to
the whole unciphered rest, which is hopefully going to be Biden’s the hole in the
graile guarded in the braille that only they can de-code—decipher—and
encipher—recipher (read: rewrite—Reich before our very cspanning eyes).
Whew, that’s a lot of wordy winding blustering winds blowing hard, every which
way—bags and bags of wind to try to take in, Jim.
Can you trump that?
I’ll bet you’ve been (not)(reduced) yet been (not) asked to try even harder to blow
stuff apart. We can see how red in the tied and face you are getting, every day. C?
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