A Blackpilled Guide to Voting

Pascal's Wager for the conspiracy purist.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before:

Donald Trump is a Deep State Plant.

He is a PSYOP. A paid actor. He’s all-in on the globalist plot. He has been a controlled asset for many decades, and possibly since birth.

His initial rise to power was crafted by Hollywood wizards behind the scenes, as was his temporary defeat. Even the recent “assassination” attempts were carefully scripted media events, designed to lull sheep into a false sense of security. It’s a classic three-act structure, which ends in the hollow “victory” of 2024.

Meanwhile, everything that he says and does has been engineered far in advance by Kalergian elites, who seek nothing short of global domination. He is Fenrir, the most dangerous wolf of all, who will usher forth apocalypse and the age of eternal slavery to follow.

Now: is this a possibility?

Yes.

Do I think it’s true?

No. I have many reasons to think it’s not, which would require their own article to explain. But that doesn’t mean I swallow the opposite, superheroic narrative whole. My opinion of Trump is complicated, and in many ways similar to my opinion of his new best friend, Elon Musk. I sense that Trump isn’t exactly what he seems to be at the surface level, for good and for ill. On the other hand, that describes all human beings with worldly ambitions.

But as far as Donald Trump being a fully contained and controlled Blob asset, who was deployed to secretly facilitate the globalist agenda? No, I don’t think that’s an accurate depiction of what we’re seeing. That said, I’ve witnessed too many games-within-games and layered deceptions to rule the theory out entirely.

In fact, a few nights ago, for the sake of this Voter’s Guide, I went much further.

To prepare myself to write it, I broke into the local Pharmacy of Doom, cracked open every bottle of blackpills and nopeium in stock, gargled down the contents with a magnum of liquified Dread, and topped it off with 4,000 cc’s of Magic Probability Juice. I’ve been on the wagon for quite some time, but a job’s a job.

While I still had presence of mind, I doused the joint in gasoline and torched it, then staggered back out into the parking lot.

The Dark Mark Awakens

As I gazed into a starless midnight sky, I could feel dark wisdom coursing through my veins, all lights within me cooling to spent embers. And when the last red cinder fizzled, I saw the horrible truth.

The creature we know as “Donald Trump” is in fact a larval brain slug from Ceti Alpha V, retrieved from a radioactive meteorite in the Sargasso Sea, gestated in a vat next to Hitler’s frozen brain, installed into the body of a soulless child, conceived on a Tinder date with Legion, raised by a coven of black lesbian Disney diversity hires, programmed to enslave the whole of humanity via a sophisticated pyramid scheme that involves a network of Tartarian wi-fi towers, forty trillion unused Marlboro Miles, and a lost episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, in which the eponymous character murders his brother’s clone, dissects its corpse in his garage, then hides the remains in his mom’s lasagna to dispose of the evidence.

A dramatic reenactment of Trump’s initiation rite (updated for diverse modern audiences).

I was now 99.9999% sure that this is Donald Trump’s true origin story, replete with hopelessness and unholy dread. He was not Nemesis, summoned forth as a golem of righteous vengeance. He was 666, the Beast of Revelation, molded from orange Play-Doh and hair transplants.

And it was in this punchdrunk state of Lovecraftian catharsis that a funny thought occurred to me:

I should still vote for Trump.

Confused? Let me explain.

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1. The Free Bet

I’ve been working on a longer piece that involves Pascal’s Wager. The context of that article is very different, but I think the same experiment is applicable here. If you’re unfamiliar with the bet, it goes a little something like this:

• God is, or God is not. Reason cannot decide between the two alternatives

• A game is being played... where heads or tails will turn up

• You must wager on the result (it is not optional)

• Let us weigh the gain and the loss in wagering that God is. Let us estimate these two chances. If you gain, you gain all; if you lose, you lose nothing

• Wager, then, without hesitation that He is. There is here an infinity of an infinitely happy life to gain, a chance of gain against a finite number of chances of loss, and what you stake is finite. And so our proposition is of infinite force when there is the finite to stake in a game where there are equal risks of gain and of loss, and the infinite to gain.

The most common misunderstanding of this thought experiment is that it’s in any way a functional wager, pertaining to how we gamble in the real world. For starters, “belief” is not a choice that a mind can actually make, but rather a state we may or may not be in when considering a proposition.

There are many other problems with it, and with the field of probability pseudoscience it promoted.¹ But the point Pascal is making isn’t about God at all, but rather about stakes. He argues that when we wager on a binary outcome with zero useful information (in his case, God/Not-God), there are still rational and irrational ways to place your bet. For instance, you should absolutely bet a penny for the chance to win a million bucks, and you should absolutely not bet a million bucks for the chance to win a penny.

In the upcoming election, our binary bet isn’t Trump/Harris, but Trump/Not-Trump. Even the Democratic party and their sycophants frame the bet this way — just as they did in 2020, and in 2016 as well. This stands to reason: they aren’t exactly an imaginative bunch, and have been digging deep into the back bench to field their players lately.

Note: If you are seriously considering voting for Kamala Harris, this Voter’s Guide is not for you. Neither are sharp scissors, hot stoves, shoes with laces, or anything more demanding than a government job.

We are explicitly talking about people who are planning to bet Not-Trump by voting against him, or refusing to vote at all, because he is a satanic meat-puppet possessed by an alien eel (or some less dramatic version of the same). If your plan is to abstain, your Not-Trump bet might be construed as something along the lines of Tim Leary’s old advice:

Stay home,
        Buy guns,
                Drop out.

Or maybe you have some other plan, which nevertheless involves a Not-Trump bet. Maybe you’re one of those accelerationists who thinks Harris will hasten collapse, or the kind of scamp who pencils in “Donald Duck” if your district allows it. The point of this version of the Wager is that we have no third option. Imagine the biggest pistol in the world pointed at our heads, cocked and loaded. It is voting for Trump versus literally any other course of action (or inaction).

So what’s our bet, my fellow blackpilled purists?

“Well, that depends,” we might reasonably ask. What are we staking as potential losses, and what are the potential gains for guessing right?

I posit that our stakes at the Trump/Not-Trump table are virtually zero. It’s a free bet.

That’s certainly the case financially. Whether we mail-in our ballots or show up at the polls, we will not be risking one thin dime, because voting in the United States of America is free of charge. We could argue about whether or not it should be (and we often do), but that’s the world in which we currently reside. If we want to dither about marginal costs like gas money, fine: let’s price that in. But we’re still looking at virtually negligible stakes (fully fungible ones, too, unless we plan to do literally nothing else during that open window of spacetime before the polls close).

A pair of bills from my Dust Collection. Don’t bet two of these to win one of these (not due to any gambling math, but because I’m fairly certain they are haunted).

Perhaps you’re now thinking about how corrupt U.S. elections are, and that your vote may not be as “anonymous” as the regime-faithful claim. A Trump bet would then be costly, as it would launch a signal flare at your position.

In that case, I have good news and bad news for you: Thanks to our voluntary participation in experimental surveillance technologies, the regime already knows who we will cast our votes for. The only open questions for them are if, when, and how we will do that.

Disregard what Twitter looks like on the outside — that endless rugby scrum of hyperventilating egos and ids. Instead, think of Twitter purely in data form: a vast nexus of demographic stats, political affinities, influence spheres, known associates, enemies lists, writing styles, personal photos/videos, interest groups, shopping habits, geolocation coordinates, time preferences and much, much more. Every time you use Twitter, a kind of digital portrait of you is gradually being drawn…

The final product is a unit of mind that is easily stratified and digestible — not only by other human minds, but by non-human AIs as well.

Mmmm… volunteering intel on yourself. That’s quite the juicy black pill, eh? But black, white, red or blue, don’t kid yourself: They know. Therefore, no losses there. They’ll send the death squads to your doorstep either way, if that’s their plan.

If you’re still uncomfortable with the notion of a “free” wager, let’s stipulate that our net losses for betting incorrectly are equivalent to a penny. But that still doesn’t resolve Pascal’s question, because if the potential gains are a penny or less then we should indeed sit this hand out, secure in the knowledge that our Trump votes were ultimately meaningless.

Or mostly secure, anyway. Even with our gift of dark vision, there’s still that 0.00001% chance we will blow the call, and that our Not-Trump bet will help lead to significantly worse outcomes in the long run.

So the question then becomes, “What are our potential gains for correctly guessing Not-Trump?”

Zero. Zilch. Donut holes.

Apart from any microscopic savings in time and money for betting Not-Trump, you and I are, at best, in exactly the same position as before. The State is still Deep, the Blob is still gelatinous. Agendas 2030 and 2050 and all other dark schematics are still in play. Vee vill still eat zee bugs, still escape our 15-minute fishbowl cities, still run Red Dawn-style ops from our secret bases in the Rockies, and so forth.

Given that scenario, even a 0.00001% bet on Trump, however unlikely, emerges as the rational choice. We’d have to be wrong about many blackpilled theories, including the theory that our votes won’t count at all. But unless we are completely insane, the possibility we are wrong is not zero.

On the other hand, being incorrect about our Not-Trump bet will turn our penny stake into an all-in wager that wipes us out. The reason for this should be obvious to the conspiracy purist, but let’s have a look at it anyway…

2. Guaranteed Catastrophe

As with Pascal’s propositional “God”, our biggest problem is that we’re mostly betting the blinds. We may have our theories about Trump’s true (i.e. demonic) nature, but we cannot actually know. The line of consciousness isn’t just hard; it is an adamantine shield, penetrable only by God Himself, just as Michelangelo tried to remind us long ago:

Because of this impregnable boundary, even the evidence against Trump we’ve gathered might be poisoned fruit from a PSYOP tree. “Games within games” is how the Enemy plays it, after all, and that includes seeding the datasphere with propaganda and lies to muddy the waters. This is textbook misdirection, designed to lure investigators off the trail (if not into the pharmacy, or a madhouse).

But even leaving such tactics aside, there is always the possibility of double-agency, betrayal, or even The Big Flip to consider. As I’ve said before, it’s a great irony that our enemies seem to grasp this ultimately unpredictable aspect of the human condition better than many dissidents:

Even if some spooky Deep State warlock thinks he’s cracked or hacked the cipher, there’s always the chance that he hasn’t, because his target was secretly immune, or because his spell was later undone without his knowledge. That shadowlands is filled with paranoid maniacs for a reason. It’s the same reason they still go for old reliables like honeypots and extortion rackets, MKUltra and neural implants be damned.

In fact, they especially know there’s never such a thing as 100% confidence when it comes to a mind's secret contents, dwelling as they do in an underworld of double, triple and God knows how many -uple agents. You might call this knowledge the closest a spy will ever come to a Divine truth.

If you happen to be able to perfectly read the secret contents of other minds — even if you’ve only ever seen their owners on a screen! — you are hereby excused from the remainder of this guide. Get yourself to Vegas, my psychic friend, and win bigly at Texas Hold ‘Em or something.

As for the rest of us non-psychics, we must grapple with the fact that we’ll never be playing the game with complete information, and that the outcome of our bets might not come to fruition for years or decades.

Across that distance, the available data could get even noisier or more polluted than it is right now. The Enemy’s scams and sabotage plays are likely to continue, meanwhile, both on the stage and behind the scenes, until some Napier-type Chad sees fit to cut the shit and erect a gallows.

But, even with the paltry information we currently have in hand, we know of one data point that is unquestionably true.

Kamala Harris cannot be trusted.

“Get away from us, you bitch!” (Right Image: Getty)

Not with anything. Not as a government official. Not as a globalist figurehead. Not as your catsitter or dogwalker. You will come home to a dead cat, a lost dog, and an empty liquor cabinet. At best. Maybe it’s a Diddy freak-off, or a five-alarm fire.

In fact, her incompetence and untrustworthiness is so profound, she may even manage to fuck up the Deep State’s plans for the worse, and much faster than we can adapt to the resultant chaos. I know that’s hard for many of us to imagine, but we’re talking about Kommie Kackles, here. A skyline full of mushroom clouds might be the least of our worries.

“What’s this button do?” (Last recorded words of President Kamala Harris)

There may be other data points to consider. But Kamala Harris — a woman so stupid she might not know how to pronounce her own name — is the closest thing we have to a known quantity. And if you think Donald Trump is a deliberately engineered Kalergi construct, have a peek at what

Mathew Crawford

exposed about Harris’ own lineage and rearing.

• Might Kamala Harris be a Manchurian Candidate?

• Kamala Harris as Social Engineering Project, Part 2

I suspect their Harris project was a bust, ultimately producing an unlovable, mentally challenged mutant who proved useless for her designed purpose. You can’t win ‘em all in the monster-making biz. Just ask Freddy Frankenstein.

In a sense, a vote for Harris is actually a vote for those Jung Frankensteins who brought her to life, and the incompetent DEIgors who helped to cement her intellectual and moral impairments. She rose to prominence on a fartcloud of identity politics and its obsequious See No Retard enablers, who wouldn’t dare question the competence of those with the preferred set of innate characteristics (i.e. tan vagina).

Perverse incentives and participation trophies don’t begin to describe this creature’s malignant pedigree, so let’s have a look at their results in action:

This is horror-comedy at its finest, folks.

But no matter how we perceive Kamala Harris, the guarantee of catastrophic loss for her victory might even give a dyed-in-the-wool accelerationist pause. Just how fast do you want to hit that cliff jump, Mr. Knievel, with an alcoholic mongoloid whore riding shotgun? Same question to all my prepper brothers out there: you sure we couldn’t use another year or so to stock up and fortify? Or to reverse the matter, why not vote for Trump, if you think that he will accelerate the end, or force a conflict at a more advantageous moment?

Of course, I am unmoved by such questions, given my current blackpilled stupor. After all, the selection of Drunk Tan Ho could easily be explained as a strategic ploy to elevate Fat Orange Felon. It’s the old switcheroo; Trump thundering back into office would enable his puppeteers to credibly guide the Titanic Ship of State into the iceberg, while leaving no fingerprints behind.

Such a disaster on Trump’s watch would leave his fans on the Right utterly discredited and demoralized, and his detractors on the Left even more bloodthirsty and mindlessly vengeful than before. Moreover, we’d all be too broke to resist the benevolent global tyranny they extend. Vee vill eat zee bugs and live in their 15-minute prisons, because that’s all we can afford.

They are both monsters, in other words. But Trump is the deadlier monster, the secret weapon who can actually fulfill his designated role…

Damn! These pills are potent!

And yet — as one of our gang’s resident monsterologists — this theory puts me in mind of a bit of old research from my youth…

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3. 怪獣総進撃!

(Destroy All Monsters!)

If you’re unfamiliar with the plot of this incredible film, here’s the gist:

A bunch of government scientists and their giant monster captives have become the mind-controlled slaves of an all-female alien race called the Kilaaks. Under the direction of these space bitches, the monsters escape their island prison and wreak havoc around the world.

How much you wanna bet they’ve got Anime dangerhair under those skullcaps?

Meeting with little opposition, the interstellar hoes grow overconfident and arrogant, allowing Earth’s heroes the opportunity to mount a secret counteroffensive. Having recovered the monsters’ external mind control transmitters, they discover the signals are coming from a secret moonbase. The humans promptly blow it up and gain control over the monsters, who they send to attack the aliens’ Earth-based mountain fortress.

There’s a big dragon fight, then a bigger dragon fight, and so on. Suddenly, the Earth Dragon Godzilla decides he’s had enough, and trashes the Kilaak’s castle worse than an 80’s era hairband’s hotel room.

Amid all this monster infighting and chaos, our hero pilot goes full Bard on the Alien Smaug and saves the fucking day. Roll credits.

Great movie? Arguably.

Predictive Programming? My blackened mind roars, “All except for the happy ending, suckers,” because our real Enemy is omnipotent, and its dragons are indestructible.

But whatever you make of this old rubber monster flick, there’s at least a few strategic truths embedded here. One is this: Whenever your enemies are busy fighting each other, opportunities arise.

And so it goes for our humanoid monsters, as personified by Alien Earworm Trumpzilla, Kilaak Kween Kamala, and the field of of lesser bugbears and hobgoblins that surround them.

Even from our current blackpilled, noped-up perspective, these monsters clearly are at war over… something.

Or rather, whatever forces and interests are behind them are obviously at war. Even if what we’re witnessing is merely an internal power struggle over who gets to rule the puny humans, it couldn’t be more obvious that a brawl much more violent than the standard Uniparty kayfabe has broken out. There’s at least one shoot in progress here, and likely several.

This is very difficult for non-suckers like us to accept. The foundations of the “paid actors” theory is the belief that our enemies are somehow all unified, as if there exists some binding form of trust, honor, or even loyalty among them.

Unfortunately for us, this is never the case.

No matter the nature of their shared enterprise — a spy ring, a pirate gang, a mafia — selection precludes these and other virtues, and guarantees schismatic warfare somewhere down the line. Consider how even the Church of Satan eventually splintered, with one of its high priests running off to start his own dumb church (and to sell books on psychological warfare and infernal geometry and such as a side racket, natch).

You know black pill prices are crashing when even these colossal cocksuckers can’t get along.

But you don’t need to even study criminal organizations, pathocratic governments, or cults in detail to grasp this principle, because it conforms to simple observation and logic. Bad guys fight other bad guys for the same reason they fight anybody else (greed, lust, vanity, blah, blah, blah).

An observer who has followed the events of the past four-to-eight years and believes there’s absolutely no power struggle of any kind taking place — that Trump and Harris are merely acting out a script penned in the same writers’ room — would then need to explain why the production team would bother to hold an election at all?

Whatever else they may be, elections are expensive, exhausting, and unnecessarily risky affairs. They drain resources and increase opportunity costs, consuming time and attention that the production team would much prefer spending on snorting coke and molesting kids. And don’t forget that “sloth” is a deadly sin for a reason. These fuckers are lazy. The fact that they’re putting on a show at all should raise an eyebrow.

More to the point: If our enemies already hold all the cards, possess all the superweapons and doomsday devices, and are literally all on the same team, then the drama unfolding would probably be much less… dramatic. For instance, they could’ve picked a more credible puppet than Harris by chucking darts blindfolded at a Congressional map, if not a gay bar down on Christopher Street (Hell, they might even skewer the same puppets).

We wouldn’t see Trumpzilla hopping around on stage dodging bullets, either. Why risk sliding a wildcard joker into an already stacked deck? The smart move would probably be Romneybot v3.0, or even Low Energy Jeb, or Little Marco! After all, “designated loser” has been the Republican party’s brand for going on eighty years. Why tamper with that formula now, and mess around with such a volatile substance as The Donald?

But the real kicker is this:

If you were dead set on elevating a populist/nationalist Fall Guy to discredit the Right, then why would you ever choose a twice-divorced, celeb-friendly, lifelong liberal Democrat and billionaire as your avatar? Mike Huckabee is sitting right there, for Pete’s sake, and could be leveraged to discredit hard work, Christian faith, and meritocracy as well. If we consider such a clean sweep to be our Enemy’s ultimate goal, why rest your evil hopes on a guy who — at best — seems to be wearing a cheap Halloween costume of the Right?

Lest ye forget, all you groypers, pro-lifers and “defense of marriage” types: Donald Trump has been credibly accused of having an affair with this lady newscritter (who, rumor has it, aborted their love-child).

That is why we should bet Trump. His faction, no matter how sinister, is obviously the rebel upstart and the underdog in this civil war. If Scylla goes to war with Charybdis, and we see the tides turning in her favor (so to speak), do we not then bolster Charybdis if we can, to extend the battle and wear both monsters down while we plot a course around them?

Wait. Don’t answer that.

If I know my blackpilled conspiracy purists, many of you probably already have a dozen clever answers, locked and loaded. Thanks to my heroic dose of the Black Stuff, I have those too, and more.

Which brings me to our fourth and final slice of voting advice…

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4. “Joy”

I know what you’re thinking.

The j-word tastes like ashes in your mouth. To even imply the possibility of joyfulness is a blasphemy, here in our Church of the Bottomless Black Rabbit Hole.

Never fear, doomy gloomers. The medications are working just fine. Dark Bisone is still in the driver’s seat, and so he does not mean that kind of joy.

I refer instead to Der Schadenfreude: the Black Joy of Black Forests and barbarian raiders. The joy of watching your enemies suffer.

And that, my lugubrious friends, is our last (and blackest) reason to bet Trump.

If his first victory brought forth a rich bounty of delicious tears, a second will summon a flood beyond all reckoning. Your enemies will not only be driven before you, but off a cliff, into a pit of gibbering madness and humiliated, suicidal despair. Many of them may indeed chase after poor Ophelia, preferring the solace of death to the Orange Oaf’s smirking, victorious visage filling every screen.

And the lamentations of their women?

Those will soar to deafening new heights, the convulsed shrieking of mortally wounded foxes and sacrificial virgins chained to pyres, punctuated by spluttering paeans to the Phoni and the Androktasia and other elder imps of murder and slaughter. They will wail and plead of these demons to deliver them from psychological decapitation, tear their scalps bald as they watch Super Hitler ascend his bloodstained Fourth Reich throne.

In this scenario, it matters not at all that Trump is secretly the greater devil, selected for his role in immanentizing the evil eschaton. As we both know, that result is inevitable.

So, why not feast?

Why should we refrain from one last, glorious banquet, here at the end of all softness and leisure?

Yes, we know that our “joy” will be a temporary reprieve, for a “victory” that is almost certainly an illusion. So, while the hopeful, dimwitted fools toast their glasses to a sunlit future, we shall glower knowingly at the storm on the horizon, sprinkle our cups with salt and sulfur to remind us of all the nasty business to come.

Yet drink and revel we shall.

We may think of it as the blót before the grand decisive battle, or as one last frenzied raid at the edge of empire, to count coup and invigorate our Braves. Or think of it as your last meal before the gallows, if you must. But savor that meal, you will.

I do not speak out of school, fellow gloom-gourmets and melancholy-connoisseurs. For I was recently granted an hors d'oeuvre, a taste of the feast on order.

This Sunday past, I found myself perambulating the streets near Madison Square Garden. I wanted to sample the festive atmosphere laugh at all those rubes and suckers, those redcapped monkeys dancing jigs around the Ochre Orangutan’s latest circus tent.

At some point in the afternoon, I grew weary of all these friendly countrymen and their beautiful families smiling dolts And so I began scouring the pavement for their antagonists, those Enemy hordes of discount orcs and lumpen, slackjawed harpies. I wanted to hear them chant their singsong sluagh-ghairms, watch them hurl their mostly-peaceful Molotovs. Surely, their riots would be ten times the size and ferocity they were back in 2020, during the “Summer of Floyd.”

But upon finally locating their camp, here is what I found:

What I failed to mention was a distinct prickling sensation I felt in their presence. No, not monkeypox. Not fear, either. Or not my fear, at least. It was like walking among rusted floodgates and sewer mains, feeling the vibrations of systems on the verge of collapse.

Now imagine all those timorous floodgates bursting open, their pent up anguish and demented outrage gushing forth in tsunamis of maladaptive emotional chaos. And then afterwards, all those sleepless nights to come, checking under their beds for fascists, or in their closets for -ists and -phobes.

We will drink to these well-deserved agonies, and to each other. Yes, even to the sheeple being led to their slaughter. Drink up, buckaroos, for tomorrow you may will die.

In fact, we may even decide to lay off our meds for the evening. To sip those poisoned nectars of Hope and Possibility with the redhat monkeys, and with other fools and rubes gathered round our meadhalls.

And maybe…

Just maybe we would even…

Feel the touch of…

Crap. I think those pills are wearing off.

I can see the Light again, peering over the lid of the black firmament, like the Sun upon the sea.

Before that Great Light envelopes me again, and reminds me of God’s everlasting love and mercy, I will leave you all with one last black mote of wisdom.

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There. Now that that’s out of my system, do me a favor:

Quit your bellyaching about Donald Trump.

I keep hearing all these brilliant rationales for inaction, of the same kind that ultimately killed Hamlet, fucked Denmark, and led us to this dire place of choosing to begin with.

Yes, Trump is a salesman, and one who packs quite a bit of snake oil in the trunk of his car. Yes, his comments on everything from Israel to his “beautiful vaccines” are often infuriatingly stupid and suspicious. On the other hand, remember all that snake oil, and the unscalable wall of mind. For all we know, he’s just saying what he needs to say to make the sale.

Or maybe he just disagrees with us about certain topics, and can be brought into the fold of reason about these and other issues. I never thought I’d see Captain McDonald’s make common cause with The Health Hippie, but it’s been that kind of year.

Trump is far from perfect, but he is the only rational bet in town. If you don’t want to cast your vote “for” him, then cast it for his voters. You will energize them, and simultaneously put our desperate, flailing enemies on notice. Even if the Blob rigs it hard for Harris, and even if they hide the true vote counts from the public afterwards, they will know those numbers, and that knowledge will quietly terrify them.

And suppose Trump turns out to be the “demon” you suspect he is?

Well then, if he wins, either fraudulently or by legitimate consent, he will be righteously terrified too.

There are no excuses left, and no time to conjure up new ones. So flush your remaining pill supply, and burn that prescription. Go cold turkey, if only for the next six days. You can nosedive off the wagon afterwards if you want, but this is no time to be comfortably numb. And on the oh-so-slender chance you’re proven wrong about your Not-Trump instincts, and Trump delivers even a third of what he promises, then it will be the sweetest error you’ve ever made.

We have a fight on our hands. And because our Enemy has grown so weak and stupid, we can actually win it this time. I saw the proof on the streets of New York City, the lungs or spleen of Mordor if not its beating heart. They are demoralized, outwitted, outmanned, outgunned. They barely even showed up, and would’ve been mortified by what they saw there if they did.

Nobody screamed and spat on Trump fans, and it wasn’t due to increased police presence, I can tell you that! In fact, I can show you, once I finish putting together my footage. The cops were fairly sparse and relaxed, especially considering the Left’s past tantrums about the guy. It was fun.

That doesn’t mean we go back to sleep. If and when Trump’s victory is secured, we must watch him like a hawk, and hold him to account. Barring one exception for artistic purposes, I’m not in the business of peddling or swallowing pills, including white ones. He may surprise us, for good or for ill. We shall see.

But first, he must win.

Bet Trump…

…then let the chips fall where they may.

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And Now a Word to Our Non-Sponsors…

As long as I have your attention, might I trouble you for a paid subscription? For the low, low cost of $0.23 per day for a monthly subscription (or $0.16/day yearly), you can help save The Cat that was Never Found from extinction.

Kidding aside, my family could really use your help at the moment. It’s been a tough year for us. I’m guessing many of you are in the same boat, and that adding another monthly commitment isn’t justifiable. I get it and can obviously sympathize. In fact, I was considering cutting this sales pitch out of the article entirely.

But then, something very interesting happened.

As I was sitting down to write about “free bets” and whatnot, Substack shot me a message about a current promotion they are running called “Substack-funded gifts.” You can read all about it here, but the gist is this:

YOU CAN GIVE ME $7 FOR FREE.

Or — technically speaking — you can force Substack to give me seven dollars, at no cost to yourself.

If you’re a regular reader who doesn’t currently have the Substack App installed, all you’ll need to do is this:

• Keep an eye out for either a banner on this blog or an email from Substack that says “Claim Your Gift Subscription” (or something to that effect).

• If you click “Claim Gift” Substack will pay me $7 to cover your 30-day subscription!

That’s all there is to it. Your subscription will automatically end 30 days after you claim it. None of those dirty tricks, like charging your card for forgetting to cancel your subscription. You can see the proof of this below:

(from the linked article, “What are Substack-funded gifts?”)

So if you’ve ever wanted to support my work but could never justify the expense on paper, this is your opportunity to do it, cost-free and with no commitment.

I am praying many of you will take that opportunity and help the Bisones for literally $0.00 a day. Even Sally Struthers would be amazed if you turned that deal down.

Okay. Enough of the (non-)sales pitch. Just do me a favor and keep and eye out for that email.

God Bless you all,
— Mark

P.S. If you found any of this valuable (and can spare any change), consider dropping a tip in the cup for ya boy. It will also grant you access to my new “Posts” section on the site, which includes some special paywalled Substack content. Thanks in advance.

1. I myself fall off that wagon from time to time. Many thanks to

William M Briggs

for helping to keep me on the straight and narrow.