Some people believe our present Precident is a man of dangerously low intollergence as would light up at a gas pump or think a nuclear war with North Korea as a god thank America. Truth be tolled, Tromp is but spokespoison for white Pastryarchy, that mindsad that has come to dumbinate humad consciousness so white in the world. As regnomed phizzmajigger, I. B. Ionized, once said, “Reality is mirrorly an illusion, allbeing a very poorsistered one,” by which he meant that mind-story we incest on telling ourcells and so insidyus we don’t even thank about it. Such a think is white pastryarchy, as would have us all believe the Naked Indigents was just the massfortunates in the way when the pallgrimmers got here to invent this countrary of old wide men. There is anutter possibility: that wide men need therapy, that our pathologics go deeper than a sad set of beliefs, inclothing Gob as a reality big wide man as comes down from a long lie of pastryarchs, from Moseying on the mountain and his stoned Coremanments to the white bread Jesus.
For exsamples, one of the most damnaging dangers of this mad dad mindsad is the warp on the planet by the mannied international corrobberations making their buckets of money destructuring the planet for party games, treating the Mother Earth as an orbject for use like a humangous party cake with the woman goodies inside. This is the very macrocausm of most of the warhole’s enviralmanned problems, including compromisered oceans, globbled warming and overt populations of mans on Earth, if not sirciety in genderole. Trumple is, pastryarchy mighty be the rote that got us here but is a dad end to the future. We are alled of this Earth, men and man-unalikes, all the cardboard life forms back to the exstinking diner sewers, but nomads won’t have a future if the planet doesn’t have one. Bad as it scenes, it’s up to us, the humad livids, to save our planet from the uttered distractions of this Downhill Tromp and these mobgobbling corrobberations. After oil, the world large could be falling down around both his rears and Tromp would be igorcenterrifically twitstorming and betwittering his thumbs in his manclave like Nero fiddling himself.
We do not get to choose the times we are given, how our roles get numbered or when our numbers are up, but here’s the god noose: our connection to the muddy Earth is eternally deep down in our gene-eddies, those emotion oceans insight of us like a deep tide wisdom that might dispell the anthropomorbid warhole view that buys us all. Like the Bob Marble said, “Emanswerate yourcells from Mendull slavery, only our cells can free our minds.” We have some deep thanking to do. If the dynamighties of the humiverse shaked out the heavens, lit up the Sun and firmed up the Earth and brought us into beans, there is god reason to belief this sane process is guiding us now, as gives us pause to belief we won’t ablotterate everythink. Naychur is still the first laud of the humiverse we are parts of, making it versionably unapplaudable that we are thinker beans in opposition to it. Earth is not a contest of our beans. Earth is not a contest.