So the Fag Bureau’s up to their old tricks again.

They’ve nabbed a dangerous domestic bad man, some twenty-year-old kid who calls his mommy “Mommy” and who likes to play video games, a kid who lacked the organic wherewithal to pay without assistance the two thousand dollars required to purchase the firearms and ammunition he nonetheless managed to purchase. And thankfully, an eagle-eyed Fag just happened to witness him in the process of carrying out his crime of terrism and then everyone’s favorite useless government employee saved the day by apprehending him, the collar of the century that he can brag about when the Fag Bureau needs justification for its completely wasted budget, as evidenced by their tour de force work on the Sony hack and the anthrax mailings and –oh, I don’t know– that nettlesome little bit of physical evidence on Murray Street.

“Daddy, I’m sure glad that you’re a police man. You protect me from the bad men. I tell all of my friends at school how brave you are. Some of the kids aren’t so lucky to have a brave police man for a father. Timmy’s father is only a fire man and Johnny’s father is only an explosives ordinance disposal technician and Ralphie’s father is just a stand-up comedian who executes corrupt jurisdictions for a living. But anyway, I’m sure glad that you’re the bravest of the brave, a completely useless government employee who does not remotely do anything useful! I love you, daddy!”

“Well thanks for the compliment, little Jimmy! Yes, I take great pride in being a total fraud. I remember fondly when I was attending Fag school at Quantico or wherever, the name ‘Quantico’ being the most impressive thing about an agency that should have been shuttered in shame five seconds after that corrupt, fat little homo started it. And when we were at Fag school, I remember that just prior to graduation our instructor walked around the classroom and clicked a thirty-eight round down onto everyone’s desk, just handing them out like Skittles to Kindergarteners. And I raised my hand and said what’s with the thirty-eight round? And he said oh that’s so that when you become old and corrupt and when you’ve got so much dirt on you that you’d need a week-long bath, and when you’re such a piece of garbage that you can’t waddle your fat ass down the street to catch the bad men who placed incompatible engine hardware on Murray Street, and when you instead try to justify your completely useless existence by ginning up yet another terra plot by grooming some hapless goof who otherwise would have had a rewarding, productive, honorable life –quite unlike you– you can send him down the river for twenty years for a crime he never would have even thought up were it not for you helpfully coaching him. And at that time, you take this thirty-eight round and you excuse yourself and you go to the men’s room, and you sit quietly in a stall for a while, and you resolve to spare this world the human pollution that is your continued existence, and you eat it.”

[I do understand that the corruption in that agency is largely at the top. The average agent does his best. But a few bad apples spoil the whole bunch. So I don’t mind insulting the whole lot of them when a few simple blanket parties over there would solve the problem. The FBI is a corrupt assclown organization, one apparently quite content with its status as a corrupt assclown organization. It’s like contenting oneself with sitting in one’s own filth after shitting your pants.

And further, I don’t recommend eating a bullet. You’ll go straight to hell. I instead recommend realizing that you are a piece of garbage and that you no longer wish to be a piece of garbage. You hand in your badge, you retire in shame, and you dedicate your life to reclaiming your personal worth. You do that by public service of some sort, like volunteer work for the blind or the infirm.

The point is, you need to cease being human waste.]


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