"You need to be paranoid about G-Men and the police and billionaires planning to wreck your job from their yachts. Of course, it's all wildly inflated, disconnected from reality, but for fuck's sake, you can tell that it was, at least, at some point in the scheme of things, anchored to reality. The shadows of these plots exist in our world and they are real.Read More
We've never done a story about the Presidential Debates before. BUT NOW WE REPORT LIVE!
Before the two candidates come out to the stage, the cameras flicker over the hollow faces in the crowd, ghastly faces like Dick Cheney and Henry Kissinger.
Hofstra University is a well known occult nexus, as it is both in the center of the richest place on Earth, and it is named for the future sacrifice of Richard Hofstadter at the hands of the Church of Gates. That death is a fitting tribute as the media coverage begins and the bloated and lifeless husks of the endless bloviators wheeze, begging for sexual deviances to be committed on the barren altar. They trade barbs as they sink into the mire, but only one cybernetic being can sustain himself in the cruel, irradiated chamber that is the only atmosphere in which the candidates can exist.
Finally, the bells in the sky toll and the candidates shuffle onto the stage, each trailing a longer shadow than seems appropriate. Dear God, they look old. It may be an artifact of sexism that we only discuss Clinton’s health, or some latent ageism that causes us to think that these candidates should not be old, but each crawls out to the stage ancient and decrepit, any energy that sustains them is being drawn up through the purple lights that form laser-focused beams heading toward the spotlight.
Black ichors speckle around their eyes and mouths as they position themselves between the alien onyx obelisk inserted horizontally into the arena.
The first question goes to Clinton, draped in fabrics soaked in the blood of the innocent, their inaudible cries for mercy in a thousand languages lost before the tormented crowd.
As she answers in words torn from memory, the writing on the wall crawls in curls of blood, carving itself in moonstone, each arcane angle potent with meaning.
At last, Trump opens his mouth, to reveal razor rows of teeth, shredding his blackened lips. The names of the chiefs of dead nations cross his bleeding tongue, and in between each blasphemous utterance, he rattles off the name of a job that no longer exist, eating the livelihoods of the dead, each victory a purple light drawing energy into him, revitalizing him.
Clinton then summons up the bone spectres of Trump’s golden gilded past, excoriating him with the Soul Names of those she has thrown into the pit, as their histories light up the engraved words behind him, filling the screen, each affront burning thousands of acres of ancient woodlands on the west coast.
But it does not matter to the singular gaze of the camera. Now Trump is listing numbers. Trillions, thousands, millions. Other numbers that do not exist, until they are made real by the energies filling the stage. It is black life, light made of void.
The cybernetic moderator fails to notice the building current. Perhaps he cannot, perhaps the television cannot convey it, but our eyes at Pearl River Flow see the light arcing between them as Clinton begins chanting her own numbers into existence, powered by the souls of a world we can never see as she evokes the spectre of Trump’s separate reality.
The mere mention of Trump’s America, a separate hell into which he retreats to succor himself on the souls of the doomed, causes a portal to arise, a black mirror in all directions, showing what cannot be. The lights in the arena change, the obsidian stone between them cracks with a shrill pitch.
With that eardrum-rupturing noise, the pustule sacs that have swollen around the eyes of both candidates burst, releasing a thick oily ink-black onto their faces as they twist time around themselves like a maelstrom.
Time. It seems to stretch on, then bounce back, hours passing in seconds, seconds stretching into days, days that seem to starve the candidates of life, every moment grows the oily slicks at their orifices. Clinton’s blood red suit alternates between leeching the crimson lifeblood from the crowd and pumping it back into her body, the crimson demon reinvigorating her as Trump huffs and bluffs, black eyes wider and wider by the moment, veins bulging through thin skin, black not red, his blue neon tie glowing brighter and brighter to power the dark lightning jolting from the cyborg moderator. Lester Holt is a molten wreck, his batteries draining to energize the sparking capacitors showing through Trump’s suit shirt.
Trump’s skull is animated through his thin skin, he shouts and shouts that he will release his “Tax Returns!” Tax Returns are a nightmarish glamour from the dimensions of Dark Order, from which both of these lich-forms hail.
Clinton desires that we all be exposed to those mind-blinding facts, she revels in her wish to have our minds shredded by the endless iron bars of the infinite dimensional prison that holds what he owes.
The number-dimension screams into the view of our camera, which reverts to a binary madness for an unknown amount of time as Trump shrieks about the places around the world in which numbers have rent asunder the fabric of time and space and taken control. Clinton, in response, throws up a shield of the damned souls of the People of America, their screaming forms evaporating at the nihilistic pressure exerted on the stage.
The moderator’s flesh has melted under the barrage of Dark Archon Energy and his twitching cries leak into the crowd, which stirs and tremors. The black ink erupts into them, and they begin screaming in unison, words so low and dark that the shrill screams of Trump intertwine with them in a spell that cannot be heard with human ears, given a counterpoint at shrill soul-piercing intonations by Hillary Clinton as she spits teeth onto the vibrating membrane of the stage floor as it builds, tearing at the foundations.
Now both candidates bow down before the Dark Order, the bars of our cell become visible, our energies congealing, building into the imprisoning form. Clinton summons them, then Trump splits the sky with the Peal of the Doombell: “Law and Order!” he screams, damning the masses to hells of our own devising, screaming for thousands and thousands to die on the altar of the Badge and the Gun.
Now Donald Trump cries to the thrumming membrane that is cracking and stretching around the base of the arena, as it bounces to Clinton’s low and blooded throaty cry, extending her air sack and rolling the noise through the ether that has stretched between the bubbling wreck of rubberized wire and plasticized flesh, they all know that Overlord Obama is not a legal Human Being, he is one of the Overlords, not of the reptilian type, but of…
...and we cannot recall anything in the past five minutes, the true visage of Overlord Obama has faded away and been replaced with his human face. They are now shedding the tips of their fingers and jamming the bloodied nubs into the ports that create the internet, summoned into the arena by the Dark Archons.
915, Trump screams for more oil, more oil, Clinton’s blood-red suit has turned pink, salmon, now sandy and white, draining the blood from all the remaining human beings in the room as they are chewed up into a psychic blender that has activated, the words in blood on the walls behind them have activated, whirling and shredding, the blood of the humans in the room is being drawn, as the two animated corpses call forth the brood of human beings slain in the wars in the middle east.
It is a literal bloodbath. Blood in the gutters. Blood covering both candidates. Blood soaking into the screaming wires that make up The Moderator. The jerking flesh smolders and tears apart as they howl for nuclear annihilation, each evaporating soul vanquished into the onyx pit as it is drained and leeched as they are thrown into the linear pit, a hole that is a line in three dimensions, a hole in space from every direction that has sprung up between the two forms that are spewing black ichor, spraying ink and oil and doom across the frothing conglomeration of death that is roiling up onto the stage past the invisible walls of force that are burning any hint of goodness and truth from those ectoplasmic forms being sucked into the hellvoid.
Trump is screaming even though the television is off. Clinton whispers ice into all the hearts on Earth. Neta, Black Aten, the Dark Sun, the Hell Pharaoh, the tentacles of the sky, all draw our minds to the scenes of endless war, the Doom Star, the black death creeping over the sands, they scream as the sky over the arena is rent asunder as the invisible bells toll.
Death calls from the abyss and begins to haul us to our doom. They scream for the splitting of the sun, they scream for the sun on the earth, this is the end. This is the end, the oil bubbles over and flows into the sand with the blood as the conglomerate of flesh and death and electronic doom, the codes for the bombs flow up through the sands of time and hell, into the fingers of all who grasp at them, and now the crowd is part of the hellsky spilling into the Great Plains, washing across the Midwest, pouring over the silver cities, whose lights are now tinted with blood and now it comes across all times and places into Jackson, Mississippi, as David Brooks shrieks the screams of the doomed, all the frail and useless words that once formed a dam against the dark magics of the Outer Dark are mush in his mouth, his teeth are black and brittle and now we must sign off, forever.
There are transmissions across the bandwidths. Push your soul into the Land. Push your soul into the Ocean. There is no contest. But a winner will be declared, and a loser will be insinuated.
There are codes referenced. The most #woke of all will discern the translated messages. They will learn where the message breaks down. More of the Pearl River Flow will be revealed. At the 1 hour, 10 minute mark, to be specific.
They were brainwashed into it. That's my story that prevents me from exiling the lot. It may come as no surprise that my feelings for the governance of the State of Mississippi are less generous than my feelings toward barnacles. Barnacles, at least, have a useful ecological function, while our elected representatives are mere nuisances infesting our Ship of State. Given that the Ship of Mississippi is rotten, full of holes, and sinking, the barnacles ain't helping.
Yet, what they've been getting up to lately is beyond their usual assholery. I can think of no explanation for their behavior that does not end in them banished to one of those vanishing islands off the coast.
Save this one: They were under mind control. I've seen Jessica Jones, I know how the Purple Man works. That is the only rational explanation.
Therefore, I present, Mississippi Legislative Adventures: Starring Dick Billington!
Dick Billington strode his way across the gold-gilded red carpet of the Mississippi State Capitol the same way he made every footstep he’d ever taken - with the massive confidence of a golden-bronzed God, a pectoral colossus straddling the political globe in tasteful charcoal suit pants specially tailored to hide his shamefully massive bulges from the prying eyes of the curious public.
He hadn’t even been elected, but today’s polls showed him with an uncharacteristically poor 99.9% approval rate - a failure he personally blamed upon the four illiterate “readers” of a schlock website about the sort of food only ‘the poors’ would eat under threat of starvation.
No, Dick Billington had taken it upon himself to finally straighten out the worst body of governance in the United States. He’d personally cock-punched some boot-licking techbro representative and called him a “beta” before taking his office by force because it was headquartered in Madison, Mississippi. Madison was a town that Dick Billington liked because it covered every surface in bricks, and hard, red bricks made Dick Billington require even more spectacular acts of the tailor’s craft in order to keep his dress slacks slack and his shirt-threatening pectorals from sending his real ivory buttons flying across these august halls in a blinding display.
“What’s on the agenda today?” He asked Philip Gunn. The moment Dick Billington said that, Philip Gunn became the second most powerful man in the Mississippi State Legislature, and that position was only so prime because everyone else was jealous that Billington had spoken with him first. Until Dick Billington had walked in the room, Philip Gunn had the most masculine name in the chamber, and the best haircut, which was only because every Representative went to supercuts, while Dick Billington had willed his hair into Superman-esque jet black with the properly grey temples after once seeing Mitt Romney across a room at their favorite underground golf pro shop in the Maldives.
Dick snatched the agenda off the podium and glared at the press, forcing them to retreat from the chamber, up against the wall like Dick Billington wanted them, come the Revolution. He was a one man revolution, he knew, and they knew it, and they all wanted to die by his hand. The Clarion Ledger capitol beat reporter was wishing for the sweet embrace of oblivion so hard that Dick almost struck her down with his eyes, so cold and so blue that he’d never needed to use ice cubes, he just stared at his drink the way that he stared at the cowering members of the legislature and press. The scribe from WLBT threw himself onto a pen, and in his death, he knew happiness for the first time, relief from the weight of his lifetime of lies, transcendent bliss under the gaze of Dick Billington, a gaze harder than steel, a beam that could have withstood all the jet fuel in the world without melting.
“Education? Medicare? State Park funding? Prisons? Police? Roads? What is this shit?” Dick wasn’t shouting but everyone in the building knew they had to listen. Every last one of them was a toadying creature trained from birth to love the whip of fascism. Each and every empty skull was putty in the broad bronzed hand of Dick Billington. Putty he could shape. Mold. An amorphous gunk waiting to be turned into something beautiful, something more than the assembled biomass of slime mold and racism that had infested that glorious dome since time immemorial.
“This is all bullshit.” Dick Billington said, and every representative was ashamed that they had even considered this business. They flailed, gnashing teeth and sweating as each tried to outdo the other in eating their waiting bills, tearing lobbyist-written stacks of tax breaks and school rules into sweaty, bloody shreds, their flabby fingers working for the first times in their lives, the tiny reptilian basal ganglia all that could function in their atrophied brains, disused for decades. “Do you all know what the real problem is?”
Dan Eubanks, who, because of his exposure to superstardom in his blockbuster YouTube videos, had managed to maintain a modicum of awareness in the Dick Billington onslaught, screamed out the first thing that came to mind.
Dick Billington froze. With his improbable musculature, the effect of coming to such a full-body stop caused the air around him to heat up several degrees. The delegation began to mutter, to wonder, and as the steam wafted from Dick Billington, half of them were outraged that Eubanks had dared speak and half were bowing down in stunned religious fervor at anyone brave enough to assemble words in the presence of that awesome personage.
“Who are you?” Dick Billington asked. The words were like a tornado in a trailer park. Mississippi Representatives threw themselves on top of one another to try and answer, those who had been outraged were now genuflecting Eubanks, those who had bowed to him were now scrambling to be seen by Billington. Cries of ''witness me!” accompanied their petty acts of violence and cruelty, though Dick had eyes for none save Eubanks, a lone pillar of humanity in the writhing sea of genteel racists. It was like a Roman orgy rendered in salt pork, devoid of sex or pleasure.
"Just a humble servant of the Lord who has selflessly taken it upon himself to represent the people of Mississippi.” Eubanks said, pleading on his knees as Representative Bubba Carpenter (R-Burnsville) shrieked racist epithets at the crowd to try and raise his voice above the clammy clamor.
Dick Billington silenced the mewling with a glare that froze sweet tea into sugary syrup and one word so perfectly pronounced that every Representative shed a single tear, which was shattered by the perfect enunciation issuing from those unchappable lips. They all wished they had never inserted the state-issued buttery cornmeal plug that every Mississippi politician is required to keep in their mouth at all times.
“Mediocre.” Dick said, and they fell to the floor in horror.
Then. “Cocks?” Dick asked, pointing his sculpted finger at Dan Eubanks (R-Nesbit) “What have you done about cocks?”
“Meeee meee meee!” Philip Gunn (R-Clinton) sang like a schoolgirl, for he too had cock-related legislation that he would never have dared put forth had Dick Billington not disrupted the status quo so thoroughly.
“I didn’t ask YOU. I asked the man who yelled ‘cocks’ earlier.” Dick Billinton said. He felt as though the squabbling Representatives were becoming disorderly. He briefly considered making one of them stand in the corner for a punishment, though he knew the others would then become bloodthirsty, like Lord of the Flies on an island of piggies.
"I have a bill that would police people's genitals at the restroom door." Eubanks said. The others were agape at the pointless audacity of the proposal.
"And why didn't you bring it to the floor already?" Dick asked.
"I thought it was intrusive, offensive, and frankly, a bit absurd." Eubanks said. The others nodded mindlessly, and for a brief moment Dick Billington saw his spell fading, saw something approaching humanity enter the cold, dead eyes of the assembly.
“But cocks.” Dick said, and their attention was on him like a room full of dogs being shown a ball. All he had to do was throw it to Eubanks.
“Cocks.” Eubanks replied. “I want to make sure that if you’re using a restroom, only all natural 100% organic cocks are in that room with you, cocks that have been nurtured since birth. Cocks that understand the full joy of unchallenged manhood throughout their development, a cock that is a cock every day that it is behind God-given pants, a cock that rests, hopefully, nestled in comfortable, all cotton briefs, or, God forbid, boxers.”
“I understand.” Dick Billington said. His words bestowed a peace transcendent, and in that moment the Mississippi State House of Representatives knew truth, experienced justice, and was brought face-to-face with an unyielding avatar of the American Way. A thousand Captain Americas were born and died in the pause between “I” and “understand,” sacrificing their soul-eagles to the eternal fire of the Brotherhood of Men.
“I, Dick Billington, know but one pain.” Tears were wept in the open, and in a distant radio booth the state technicians struggled to unplug the microphones from SuperTalk Mississippi as both JT and Dave began masturbating to Dick’s words.
“And that pain is having some intersexed person come into the restroom with me while my penis is exposed. It’s dangerous. Any uterus in the room with me while my regal phallus is exposed to naked air will, without warning or delay, become pregnant.”
Tears were drawn down cheeks that had not felt them in decades. Every woman in the room became pregnant. A Clarion-Ledger reporter threw himself from the balcony as penance for his crimes.
“And what shall the punishment be for the misallocation of genitalia, Representative Eubanks?”
“I hadn’t thought to punish them, dare I? It seems so petty, so ruinous.” Eubanks said, quivering.
“Dare.” Dick demanded.
“One. No, two, no… three…” His eyes gleamed, this was the moment that he had been waiting for. The YouTube videos, the campaigns, the promises and hands on bibles, the handshakes and babies, the sacrifices on altars in the darkest woods, the endless hours on the pews of the church, when the only worship he now desired was that of Dick Billington….”
“FIVE YEARS!” He shouted. “HALLELUJAH!”
“AMEN!” Came the cries of the flagellants. “AMEN! HOSANNA IN THE HIGHEST! They surely deserve the penitentiary for such flagrant destruction of life!”
“PARCHMAN FARM!” Cried Bubba Carpenter, hoping for one whit of attention from the Adorned One.
“Representative Eubanks, for your service to cocks, I will let you attach your name to this bill.” Dick said. “Now, let’s see, what else is on the ledger… schools? PAH! Crime lab, medicare, bridges? What kind of godless communist wants ‘clean water’ as a priority? If lead is good enough for bullets it’s good enough for our water systems.”
The crowd was frothing, ecstatic, like all southern men their fathers had never approved of their lives, and there was only one thing better than that approval. Dick. Billington. “Who else brings service to Dick?” Billington demanded from the whimpering crowd. The Mississippi State House of Representatives had proven easy enough to fix. He knew that Mississippi would be 40th in a few things before long.
Maybe even higher.
“I have something, I have something, I have something! Witness me! Witness ME!” Representative Gunn shrieked. He sounded like a wounded pig, he proudly wore his spittle like a bib of slime.
“GUNN.” Dick pronounced, and spontaneous ejaculations wracked the crowd as their new God said their favorite word. Randy P. Boyd (R-Itawamba) fell prostrate before the bronze form of Dick.
“Show him our dick bill, Gunn! Show him our dick bill!” Randy pleaded, face buried in the red and gold carpet.
“Silence!” Gunn hissed, but in that moment of assertion he knew the entire crowd had turned on him, for daring to steal one whit of attention from the Almighty. He withered. The baleful eye of Dick was upon him. Speaker Gunn wished for death, but knew he did not have permission to die. Not yet. Not until Dick gave it to him.
“What do you have, Gunn?” Dick asked. He drew himself up to full height, adding half a foot to his already towering frame. Ivory buttons flew from his chest in cruel trajectories, ivory disks that ricocheted from the marble walls. William “Dick” Tracy Arnold (R-Prentiss) lost one eye as the others scrambled around his blood-soaked feet to grab the rarefied pieces of dead elephant.
“I need legal protections for the pathetic shreds of my sex life. I want sex outside of marriage to be illegal. I want to make sure nobody’s hiding a penis from me. I want to make sure nobody’s getting… getting…” The assembly hung their heads as one, the floor becoming even more interesting than Dick Billington for the briefest of moments.
“Tell me.” Dick said, beckoning Gunn over with a single curling finger. The man practically skipped into the circle of invisible light, and began whispering into Dick’s broad bronzed ear, but not before becoming hypnotised by each whorl of cartilage, wondering at what secrets those ears had heard, what they had…
“They’re doing what?” Dick was taken aback, blue angel eyes soaring in rage.
“With their penises. And sometimes the penises go in unsanctioned, unreserved… places…” Gunn blushed a crimson hue, what was whispering to Dick Billington was something that he had seen himself, something that he once had wished only to tolerate, but now, he knew, in the presence of that golden god, he must betray.
“...sometimes without penises. Entirely.”
Dick Billington shook with anger. He, an unelected servant of the Greater Good, here in this shameful chamber, would right this wrong - true, it was a wrong only he felt, a wrong that nobody with a modicum of decency would be affronted by, and yes, their “dick bill” would create untold legal issues.
“No!” Dan Eubanks said, crying. “Not that!” The others knew what he spoke of, in darkened rooms they had seen “The Dick Bill” and they knew they could never pass it, that no one would dare vote for it. For, even without reading it - none of them read the laws that they passed - they knew that it was a horrible legislative nightmare, shackling lifetimes of misery to accidents of birth, denying entire swathes of the population rights, enshrining in tortured legalese the minor conveniences of a nonexistent population.
Such things they had only glimpsed in their darkest fevered imaginings. Now, thanks to Dick Billington’s growing influence, it could become the law of the land. But for Dick they would burn the constitution they claimed to hold sacred, they would ignore the Holy Teachings they once had meditated on in pristine temples, before their elections, the rites of which had stolen their souls.
“Make it so.” Dick Billington said. “But as much as I despise people who labor under the assumption that our government doesn’t enforce the beliefs of the Christian religion…”
The assembly laughed. It was an honest laugh, they all knew the truth.
“..still, I can’t stand the hypocritical language in the title. ‘Protecting Christians from Government Discrimination’ - gentlemen, you know as well as I do that there is nothing at all Christian about this bill. Not one bit. Sure, those viewpoints are the only ones it protects, but… let’s think, what do none of you have?”
“Souls!” Eubanks shouted, weeping.
“Religion!” Carpenter added.
“Consciences!” Boyd shouted.
“Freedom!” Shouted Gunn.
“Then it’s settled.” Dick Billington said. “Protecting Freedom of Conscience from Government Discrimination.”
They wept at the meaningless majesty of the title.
“Well, gentlemen, I must be off. This has been informative, but I’ve decided I don’t like working in government.”
Dick Billington walked out, leaving a wake of desperate men, aghast at what they had done, what they had voted for. But it was too late.
While we have been informed that the preceding sequence of events is "unlikely," we at Pearl River Flow will take the following silence from our lawmakers as tacit acknowledgement that it is an accurate summation of what occurred. Should any of them deny that this was the case, the staff of Pearl River Flow will gladly apologize for our assumption and prepare the boats for exiling our legislators.
Yesterday notwithstanding, we rarely are able to cover "topical" events in the Newsflow. That's because we rely on the flow of garbage to come our way before we can cover it. Today is different. We've found the unused and discarded first page of Phil Bryant's inauguration speech. We hope it can shed some light on the subject.
Note: The prayers are gonna be really long. Don't drink anything all day, until the first prayer is over. You don't want dry mouth, Phil!
Also, don't do the "WACKY JOE BIDEN" voice.
Other notes: Only dog whistle racism. Try to appear human. Don't mention your skin condition. Don't mention that one tooth that's hollow that allows me to drain the cerebrospinal fluid from my victims.
My fellow Mississippians, as I today take this stage, I am reminded that I am the color and consistency of the skin atop a pot of cooling velveeta brand white cheese. I won't deign to call it by the Spanish name.
NOTE: Don't say "Queso blanco"
I am reminded of why you voted for me. Perhaps you felt you had no alternative, that you didn't want to vote for the alter ego of Jack Burton - the guy from Big Trouble in Little China? You all saw Big Trouble in Little China, didn't you? It's great. Some of the best one-liners in Hollywood. They're remaking that movie, with The Rock. Dwayne Johnson, I mean. Dwayne Johnson is "The Rock." I was more of a Stone Cold Steve Austin man, myself.
NOTE: SAY "DEMOCRAT," NOT THE OTHER WORD
But enough about one of the greatest movies of all time - and I don't mean Omega Man, because we're going to come back to Omega Man before my inaugural speech is over. Anyway, I was reminded of why you WERE voting for me, not why you weren't voting for "that democrat."
NOTE: DON'T MENTION THE TOOTH DON'T MENTION THE TOOTH
It's simple. It's heritage. People say it's not hate, it's heritage, and they ain't talkin' about Heritage, Mississippi, brother. (NOTE: Too 'urban?") But I say - hate IS our heritage. Hate got me elected here today. I wouldn't have my job or my church, I would not have written any of my books, without hate. You may see the fourth and fifth volumes of 21st Century Government – Digital Promise, Digital Reality and Leadership Secrets of Government Financial Officials, not that you can get them on Amazon or anything - and think "Phil must really LOVE government," but you'd be wrong. It's my love of hate that keeps me alive. That, the movie The Omega Man, where Charlton Heston is all oiled up and rolling around... oh, and my love of freshly drained... cerebro... uh, mayonnaise.
NOTE DON'T MENTION THE PLANTATION
My fellow Mississippians, I love mayonnaise! Oh, mayo, that sweet oily condiment, my one true love. May the state of Mississippi and my duties as governor never come between me and the freshly curled top of a jar of mayonnaise. I love mayonnaise, is what I'm saying. If Paula Deen made a butterball turkey out of pure mayonnaise in her restaurant, which has a great theme that I love, I'd carve quivering slabs of that creamy, slithering mass and spoon them into my withered, pale lips, smacking away at each oily dab as it melted across my cratered tongue. I could lovingly refrigerate it, allowing the mass to congeal to the proper density, slipping thick silver knives through the homogenized texture, a consistency like the finest pudding. If only I could subsist on nothing but mayonnaise, as Paula Deen promised. Then, there would be no need for teeth - inefficient teeth, pointless bones in your mouth, all save the one tooth. The special tooth. The killer. The drinker.
Now, on to Jesus.
NOTE: THIS WILL TAKE UP THE REST OF THE SPEECH. GO TO PAGE 2.
As usual, we've stumbled across something discarded. In this case, however, it's relatively new - we present: Outtakes from the 2016 State of the Union Address by President Obama.
“And, in closing, Hail hydra!”
“A lot of people have been talking about maple syrup grading. And yet, our schoolchildren often don’t know the difference between Grade B and Grade A? We cannot let Canada take the lead on maple syrup grades! I am proposing a new maple syrup grading system.”
“Now, never let it be said that I did not know that Brian Eno is a robot. However, he was a creation of a government program that ended before I was born. My administration has prevented the spread of these devious Enobots.”
“It’s like the kids say. If you want to get high on the good stuff, talk to Joe Biden.”
“Quite frankly, I find some of your haircuts to be disturbing and unamerican.”
“America, let me lay it out for you. We cannot make a BB-8 droid with our current crop of STEM graduates.”
“Today, we are canceling military led artificial intelligence research due to dire warnings from the future.”
“It’s far past time. Congress must let me tell the rest of the world - The Spice Must Flow.”
“My high score in CIV V has gone unanswered by the Republicans in congress.”
“To combat our weakening test scores for elementary schoolchildren, we are proposing an ego boost - from now on, #2 pencils will be renamed #1 pencils.”
“Our research to understand the human brain has yielded unprecedented insight into the reasoning behind YouTube comments.”
"I have been afforded an advanced screening of the Black Panther movie, which will be mandatory viewing for all Americans in 2017."
“...therefore, I am proposing a new, ‘nuke them all’ policy in regards to copyright infringement.”
“Now, the NSA tells me that I shouldn’t worry, but if anyone out there is into encryption, I think I’m about to need a lot of it in my new job.”
“It’s no secret that the services of the secret service are often not very secret. The secrecy of the secret sauce of secret service service is a secret that serves to serve us well, seconds of secrecy should serve enough service for the American public to see the service the secret service provides.”
"A lot of you may be wondering about the situation in Iran with our kidnapped sailors. Well, let's just say that President Rouhani and I have a mutual friend who's going to see us through this. HYDRA."
"We cannot stand by and watch Star Trek become a joyful, action experience. In television entertainment, Americans demand plodding intellectualism and bleak humanist values delivered through dialogue and scientific understanding."
"The NFL will no longer be allowed to fix games, and the Super Bowl will no longer be a method for the Illuminati to signal the shifts in their ancient domination of mankind."
"Bigfoot. Is. Real. And in the chamber. May God have mercy on our souls."
Hearts 89%, Stars 9%
Trek 75% Wars 20%
Netflix 64% Chill 32%
Cake 77% Pie 21%
Death 55% Dishonor 44%
Kirk 62% Picard 24%
Prequels 51% Original Trilogy 48%
McDonalds 72% Whataburger 22%
Waffle House 92% Huddle House 5%
KFC 53% Popeyes 35%
LEET 45% 1337: 37%
Law 48% Order 48%
Jango 55% Boba 45%
Prisons 60% Schools 37%
Enthusiasm 80% Math 30%
ALL CAPS 44% Proper English 25% Illegible 30%
Monarchs 76% Democracy 20%
Hate 82% Heritage 11%
Archer 67% Janeway 30%
Nagasaki 55% Hiroshima 44%
Family Guy 66% The Simpsons 33%
Dracula 52% Frankenstein 47%
Wolf 61% Man 35%
Werewolves 90% Wolfweres 7%
Greedo 59% Han 41%
Clearly, Mississippi is the worst state. The staff of Pearl River Flow regrets to report this news at all. We disagree with all of these decisions, save the votes for Waffle House and Wolves. Our editorial stance from this point on is that Democracy is a hoax of the ruling elite, and the blood soaked machines that keep it running should be dismantled.