Okay "Timothy Kane" = NSA Troll, let's wrap this. Timmy, your handlers no doubt advised you how many characters between you and the word "troll" preserves a fake identity, so while we're at it let's do "Roger F." = NSA Troll as well, just to be sure.

After investigating your spoor, I'm obviously sticking with my initial hunch that you are a cubicle rat working for some NSA contractor.

Originally published March 31, 2015

[ORIGINAL POST SUPPRESSED! Here is the link to the original YO, MINIONS, posted December 12, 2013. This post was deleted by my Facebook Page-Twerking NSA Troll Farm friends: "How many traitors does it take, to destroy the greatest nation in history? Ask the NSA--they're on the job!"]


Were you born subhuman, or did some progression of events like eating leaded paint as a child do the job? You know, even inside the NSA, there are still many fine Americans actually laying it on the line for Freedom. But you are not one of them, are you?

Are you "paying your dues," biding your time taking night courses to get your drone operator qual? Anxious to leave attacking America and her citizens for a living behind, to go where the real action's at? Out abroad spreading Democracy, out where blood runs in the streets wiping entire villages and towns off the map to get at the oil or ramp up the CIA's heroin production?

You are on the wrong team. And I'm going to have the thankless job of trying to prevent real, pissed-off Americans from lining you and your buddies up against walls and shooting you one day soon, keeping your miserable carcasses alive for long enough to get you all squealing like pigs, to find out where all the bodies are buried etc, so we can get the creatures who employ subhumans like you to do their dirty work indicted, to insure they get their day in front of the firing squad.

Here is how this goes down: You and Prince OBooBoo's other thirty nine million fake Twitter followers all operate out of the same blocks of IP addresses.

ISP's and companies like Facebook know this, but presently have the "National Security" gun held to their heads, preventing them from doing anything (overt) about it.

That will soon change, as government spying activities are not only trashing America, they are causing billions of dollars of losses to companies like Facebook.

When it becomes (more) common knowledge how much taxpayer money is being spent on things like paying you and your fellow Trolling Minion Hordes to prey on American citizens, heads are going to start rolling.

The opening indictments will blow wide open the government-owned IP address blocks being used (if Anonymous doesn't do it first), and about ten minutes of searching will start linking up all the fake identities, Twitter accounts etc to physical addresses (the entire worldwide IT industry hates you with fierce passion for the traitors that you are, and will gleefully pour gasoline on the fire).

From there, tax records will quickly show who worked where, and people like you, Timmy, will get your day in the sun, explaining how you wound up being the type of scum you've apparently become.

And then the economy will finish collapsing, people will began to panic and starve. And your neighbors will remember how hard you and creatures like you worked to make that happen.

And, not being able to get their hands on your overlords who will have fled the country, they'll settle for getting their hands on...

Yo, Minions…of our various wastrel traitorous obscenities--NSA, IRS, FBI, BATF, DEA, DHS, CIA etc etc etc.

You have no doubt noticed of late, the quixotically studied yet preoccupied demeanor you encounter in your betters passing you in the halls? Your handlers and their handlers ad infinitum (abominatio est) in steely-eyed pretention of purposes beyond your pay-grade yet whose uncompromising trajectories land them at places like the john or the water cooler--how they no longer quite summon themselves to eye-contact with you and are prone to barking at you--yapping like Chihuahuas really-- when tactfully queried by underlings seeking revelation such as what are we supposed to be doing t-today s-s-sir..?

You and your fellow minions dutifully put on your "team" faces, and set your jaws against the clamoring, omnipresent thrumming these many months "..thou shalt not Snowden, thou shalt not Snowden, thou shalt not Sn…" in almost hypnotically dire foreboding…

"…for shouldst thou Snowden…" it pulses on like a lone, slowly blinking red lamp, the sole illumination onboard a doomed submarine, whose crew claws the air and their throats in the final stages of asphyxiation, the sub heeled-over, careening groaning sliding slowmo into inky icy blackness…

"…thy entire family, lo unto the eleventh generation, shall be renditioned into the technical ministrations of jackals supposited by us in lieu of government in some forsaken conquered Arab nation…"

…relentlessly blaring from every memo, screensaver, blackberry, bulletin board and toilet stall yea it sweateth from the very walls and stinketh of stale urine.

Speaking of which…already this early in your day, nagging at the threshold of your awareness, that sharp rancidity of over-applied underarm deodorant bringing out understated tones of singed polyester, the trailing wakes of some kind of unseen interoffice chemtrails spreading to suffuse an atmosphere rife with left-spin isotopes rich in hints of aluminum and complex esters whose affinity for your olfactory receptors reminds you of love-turned-crazy-glue in the form of an acquaintance of a friend's younger sister you shouldn't have slept with in high school, with accompanying ionic laceration of various membranes forecasting bloodshot eyes and headaches all around well before lunchtime. Synergistically catapulting into a prominence all its own the coppery-plastic stench emanating from the closest thing any government office has to a shrine or anything holy, centered about the obligatory relic of a cheap coffee-maker overdue for its annual reboot and reinoculation.

The bleary furtivity of your cohort's glances starts triggering jarring overlays at giddily inappropriate moments, flashbacks of scenes replete with other pairs of bloodshot eyes populating smoke-filled college dorms and frat-house parties where, in lieu of study, you blasted your senses in pursuits precluding your debut in the private sector, cementing yourself on a ballistically-ordained trajectory into the only profession available to those with your particular skillset and academic prowess.

Into government employ then, with the lugubriously laconic arc of a turgidly-smoking, hastily-assembled projectile vomited from a trebuchet whose magazine is spent. The gunner's mate having sent his idled seconds and thirds to the stables hastily scraping offal into sacks together with stones prised-up from the pavement, pouring over them the last of the rum who'll be left to drink it anyway? Igniting and launching them, more in mute futility than in any hope of dissuading an opponent; so you presented yourself at the public trough.

You who are even lower than this, bottom-feeder Contractors in Treason: noticing your Liaison Officers from the various traitorous agencies lately also avoiding both eye-contact and the many messages you've been leaving them, while you so dutifully keep the minions you employ in the dark--wondering with growing disquiet, What's Going On?

What do rats Always Do, after successfully gnawing the ship's hull to Swiss Cheese? (The "ship" being America) Your overlords are of course preparing to so thoroughly disavow you, you'll feel like Martian rocks ejected by meteoritic impact from the planetary surface with sufficient velocity to orphan you a thousand years ago in vacuum on the distant surface of the far side of earth's moon.

Too bad "loyalty" with your crowd only extends to debate among your pals and overlords whether you'll go better with ketchup.

Now, you genuine, Government Employee Traitorous Minion Scum (GETMS -- HeHee), you are going the Congressional Indictment route, followed by endless closed-door grilling, sort of a "fried-chicken" motif except with turds, before they flush you and your miserable career. You Contract Creeps--you do know your middle-name is "Expendable" don't you? CEC's?

Remember that fat lady who flushed the toilet while sitting on it, her ass made like a perfect gasket and the suction started sucking her guts out through her rectum (I wonder if she sang?) Five or six feet of it went down the drain, they hoisted her with a crane but couldn't pull her intestines back up out of the sewer pipe, so they had to amputate? --your chair--no, your entire cubicle is like that, except this is the power-suck-flush model, like on an airplane. What will that feel like! Once the full thirty feet of wiggly-bits have shot out your butt, will your tongue turn inside out, or will it stay in its original orientation? Will it go "Pop!" when it exits? Will your eyeballs go too, and splat like paintballs?

You've maybe spied in your overlord's briefcases; that they're not packing juicy files replete with heady treason these days, but extra dress-shirts and undergarments? That they return home at the end of each day smuggling baggies of soiled apparel because they can't risk stuffing them in the trash, lest the janitors (dutiful spooks that they are), extract them with tongs and bag them down to the lab for DNA analysis, then into the queue at the nearest supercomputer, the better to quantify who is shitting what and why.

They are, and the slower-witted ones soon will be, scurrying to liquefy themselves sufficiently {complete with the now-familiar rictus of stiff upper lips--don't tip off the minions! yo…mushroom}, desperately hoping to bribe, beg or bluster their way into some foreign country honey, didn't your mother have ancestors in Bolivia? There to find orphaned rocks of their own to crawl under.

Maybe there's a dumpster with our name on it--you remember? Where you threw up on our honeymoon behind that bar in Bali?

Attention Foreign Governments (I knew that thou [knowest this already]: but because of the [American] people which stand by I said it, that they may [be relieved of their ignorance thereby]): Skittish goofballs with damp underarms and queasy expressions approaching passport control in your various nations like they may at any moment bolt back up the boarding ramp, will be as difficult to spot as goldfish masquerading as gerbils.

Do receive gladly whatever bribe they may offer you, and enter in their behalf every misdemeanor and felony they may have lightly brushed in passing. And having interrogated them sufficiently to locate and seize their assets, belongings and co-conspirators, do swiftly deport them.

However we pray, remove from them their children that they shall not know the depths of shame and depravity from whence they come, instead fostering and counseling them unto freedom from self-loathing.

And so alighting with planeloads of sticky-icky formerly fleeing traitors at La Guardia, having prior to boarding relieved them of their outer garments to prevent them from attempting to garrote themselves out of their misery enroute, secure their wrists unto their ankles with zip-ties and affix signs about their necks trumpeting in inch-high lettering their multifarious sins, while taxiing up in front of the passenger terminal--but in no wise attach to the jetway! Instead deploy thy evacuation slide in the midst, hurling them down the slide as sacks of feed that they may be strewn upon the tarmac in their skivvies while being prevented from scampering about by the zip-ties, there to be filmed akimbo in their glory by news crews enthusiastically jostled by the multitudes filming with their cell phones. And so it goes with your fearless leaders.

(You do dear minions, in that foggy archive wherein you keep safely medicated memories of such as your betrayal of your country, recall that the final purpose of unwashed minions such as yourselves is to take the fall for your betters?)

You couldn't be considered "smart." Really, "clever" is the word. Little, small semi-sharp nasty things, that's you. If a United States Marine for instance, is a broadsword, you are box-cutters with greasy handles and gummy-stuff stuck to the little blade. Ah, well. Have to make do with what you've got, eh?

What you've got, is information (Einstein). In your own sweaty, slippery, sneaky way, you've got to get your hands on enough of it to arrest the attention of your betters as they reach over to actuate the power-flush lever on your entire life. But it has to be something really riveting, as in blow-right-through-the-back-of-the-trous, leaving a little steaming crater there in the seat-cushion of the office chair, attention-getting, you following me?

And while you are feverishly clutching about for a big-enough straw to save your wretched life (if you don't just get yourself snuffed--remember who you work for), go home, and discretely grab a pen and pad (you are remembering that they'd plant a mic and a spy-cam up your wazoo if they thought they could get away with it?) Simply document chronologically, with particular emphasis on Who among your fearless, trustworthy, loyal leaders (see, even you can laugh!) knew What When.

Go down to the head near your cubicle, to the toilet-paper dispenser? Yeah, that's called the Constitution. That's a good reference, for the kind of thing you want to jot down. (BTW I know it's just part of your daily grind there in treason-land, but killing Americans is big, very big out here in reality.) Jot down lots. Lots and lots, keeping it magnetically affixed to the bottom of a dumpster or something. The miserable, wretched, filthy piece of garbage you may save is you.

AND SO: Having dealt more generally (and generously we think, yes?) with the various subhuman subspecies of minion and their reptilian masters in the various agencies and their CEC's: Brings us of course with relish, specifically: to our CIA.

Having been born into the bosom of Liberty, turning so against Her!

What craven thing hatched you?

Now see here: Let us compass about you, your well-earned doom, affixing the fruits of your wickedness about your necks in chains, forging those links upon you by the very hammers of hell.

You suddenly find yourselves sucking your own special vacuum (or is it sucking you? Hard to say), in the implosive aftermath of so many tons of heroin (what, about 300,000 lbs?), so much revenue, bribe money etc, gone down in flames and up in smoke on that 747 in Afghanistan.

And in that fiscal implosion, your masters at Langley and elsewhere are all frantically shifting their gears and their rears, inexorably and forever abandoning the old, familiar Management by Backstabbing, Blackmail, Extortion and Bribery:

Every Piranha for Itself, Full Powerfroth Edition: >Engage

With every intelligence agency on the planet, every government, even foreign postal workers, now suddenly aware that greatly to your dismay and their glee, all of you kill-your-own-mother-for-sport, baby-eater kind of minions are getting permanent busy-signals on all your Call-In-An-Airstrike, Dial-a-Predator Drone phone lines, and your secret-decoder rings have stopped working, too.

You abandoned any vestiges of tradecraft more than fifty years ago, favoring arrogant, belligerent, reckless posturing, strutting around as if Tomahawk missiles swung where in reality your atrophied pencil-eraser penises cringe like salted slugs, with Hellfire missiles up your backsides in place of spines and your whereabouts and hangouts tattooed on your foreheads like bullseyes. Like? As.

You did indulge whatever psychotic and psychopathic whim possessed you, at any expense to your enemies, "allies" and fellow countrymen, relying on the threat of annihilation to cover the cost. You did rape us, pillage us, assassinate us, poison us, drug us, infect us, plunder us etc and then laugh at us and bomb us as we attended the blood-drenched wreckage you left in the wake of your worldwide crime spree.

Far more so than we: They. Hate. You. They do they do they do, hate you so.

The sound! it must have made, at the end of the movie when Butch and Sundance charge out to face the music. A roar as of thunder, instead of individual gunshots. A roar of celebration in brilliant muzzle-flash and acrid nitrocellulose, traveling continuously around the planet again and again wherever CIA nests and infestations are found, millions of well-worn and well-cared-for firearms discharging continuously in calmly vindicated fury, with the odd surface-to-air missile thrown in for good measure.

Perhaps historians looking back on these events, will attempt to quantify by exactly how many millions of bullets, the planetary fusillade accomplishing your joyful, collective, simultaneous demise did exceed any number of bullets historically expended in such a short period of time.

Will they record that those well-armed, steady-handed citizens of the United States of America and so many foreign countries did abide in the wishes of the American people, that your carcasses will have been sufficiently riddled, shredded and intermingled so as to confound identification, which did necessitate mopping your remains into buckets, dousing the heaps with gasoline and burning them, with the sites thereafter cemented over and modestly monumented with warnings in the various languages: "toxic waste" Amen.

Jasmine Garrett "Triste sort pour la constitution!"

December 14, 2013 at 4:37pm · Unlike · 1

Boeing 747 Carrying 300,000 lbs of CIA Heroin Crashes and Burns at Bagram Airfield

Now that so many CIA excreta (apologies for the redundancy) are under the electrified suppository for failure-to-perform heroin-wise, the CIA NAMBLA Worldwide division is heroically ramping-up their Kiddies-For-Kleptocrats shipments to Planet DC (who else has both the cash and political power to suppress law-enforcement?) to support the insatiable appetites of the Pink Swastika crowd running our country and our planet: wouldn't want their morale to suffer!

After all, who but the CIA can both deliver, and once the children have lost their friskiness due to trauma or blood-loss, make all the little corpses disappear! (Nancy Hillarity and Dianne can tell you)

George Herbert Walker Bush says, "The Agency I headed with pride, the CIA, not only successfully blew away two...well, three or four Kennedys actually I forget, along with Martin Luther King (don't sell them short--Marilyn and thousands of pissant third-world politicians testify from their graves), they provide the best in-home service any homicidal pedophile could dream of!

"Whenever my drooling son gets low on coke: they deliver! Young Vietnamese Specials* with holes drilled in their skulls mounted on waist-high fixtures for a short-notice ADL, Trilateralist or Bilderberg party? The CIA delvers! And body-fluids cleanup? No one, no one! can top these guys--they'll even sauté up orders of body-parts on the side! As far as Americans go, who are as far away from any definition of American as it's possible to be: Call the CIA!"

(you probably think I exaggerate...)

* "Well, except for everyone's favorite Uncle Dick of course. No nambly-pambly hanky panky for him! Five minutes naked in a cage with a baseball bat--the only thing left to do is rinse off the bat and grab a mop I tell ya.

"Yes, sir after a little 'batting practice' --heh heh--a cold shower and some warm entrails, Old Cheneyburton is good-to-go for a full week of golf and treason!" -GHWB

December 19, 2013 at 12:19pm

Donald "Rocket" Garrett (Ret)
US Army (AH-1) USAF (F-16)

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