Waltzpilled
On the bright side of commie pedo valor thieves.
So, I just had a chat with
of . One of the subjects that came up was the ascension of Timmy “Wascally Wabbit” Walz into the national spotlight.Boasting an impressive CV that includes Liar, Big Fat Fucking Liar, Fake Warfighter, Baby Assassin, Nero Fiddler, and probable Kiddie Diddler, Walz waltzed into our lives to the music of cringetastic Dad Energy memes and bewildered cries of “Who dat?”
While the ClownForce is clearly strong with this one, Juicy, Trishton, and Fani ain’t got shit to worry about. This Great White Dope poses no threat to their mascot status, because the motherfucker is down on the field, in the Big Game! For some reason.
Anyway, that’s what Danny and I were trying to deduce: What possible strategic purpose could there be for elevating this cretin into the public reticule? Our memelords are having their say, and God Bless ‘em for it.
They’re even partially correct, in my opinion. Clownworld’s hiring policies and procedures stipulate that C’s hire D’s, and D’s hire F’s.
But therein lies the rub:
What the F do F’s hire?
But hey, those are just gaffes. No big deal. Could happen to anybody, really. Especially to someone accustomed to having inappropriate relationships with minors.
In fact, I think we put far too much emphasis on speaking coherently and forthrightly about trivial subjects like the mass murder of children by Big Pharma lab rats drugged into states of demonic psychosis (AKA “Papa Tim’s little buddies”). We really should climb down off our high horses, and consider lowering our stratospheric expectations to the Limbo Line standards of the day.
After all, we recently watched the current, sitting President of the United States say this:
And that’s just a few months after watching what's of left of this guy’s brain melt out of his ears on live TV, like some horror movie Cronenberg forgot to shoot.
“This guy.”
Sorry, sorry. I meant THE CURRENT, SITTING PRESIDENT OF THE U-S-FUCKIN-A. I keep forgetting to respect the dignity of the office. For some reason.
Let’s skip right past Kamala. If you ask me, Chuckles McBlackface already gets way more ink than warranted. “Ink” as in press mentions, I mean. Not, like, in her own actual pens. Perhaps those dirty Republicans shut down the federal office supplies budget. Racism strikes again.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh yeah! Tim “Who da hell him?” Walz.
How did that happen? No sane Scotsman believes that Kommie Khamaleon actually picked him, right? The Blob picks. I imagine their selection process is similar to the papal enclave, except the child molestation is mandatory, and the black smoke signals emanate from their victims’ barbequed femurs.
No, no. Something as important as Guy Who Gets Paid To Do Jack Shit for Four Years can’t be left up to democratically chosen primary candidates, or even to Kamala. But still… why’d they pick him?
So me and Danny ran through the usual arguments. Maybe his selection was part of some esoteric humiliation ritual? But if so, who was the target? The American electorate? The DNC? Madam Joy? Walz himself? We figured it could even be all of the above, and more. Timmy seems like the kinda guy who could bring shame upon the whole of humanity, if handed the opportunity.
Next, we discussed the inverse-competence hierarchy, also known as gato’s postulate:
a democratic government powerful enough to dictate that which is bought and sold will inevitably devolve into rule by rube.
—
By this theory, a Tim Walz is merely the end product of a perverse, devolutionary process. The people who chose him did so for sincere reasons, because they’ve regressed into a bunch of psuedo-sentient protohumans just a few ticks above “shaved monkey hucking turds” on the Darwin chart. Much like the Soviet Union towards the end, the strings have been cut, but the Marxian puppets are still dancing (and no longer even realize they’re in a puppet show).
Now, I know I promised y’all some good news, but this explanation strikes me as almost too optimistic. It suggests that even the most minimally competent version of the Blob is long dead, and so all we need to do now is mop up the clipped soyboys and genderfluxed Animaidens of their marketing and HR departments. In that case, the climax of our final battle would make Grenada look like Operation Overlord.
But sadly no. The Blob has a bit of life left in it yet — or undeath, or whatever Satan’s favorite buttmonkeys are calling it these days. It won’t be as easy as sending out a mass “You’re fired” Tweet.
That said, I offer you the next best thing. Let’s call it a hybrid theory.
My grandpappy used to tell me a story.
It was the final days of Iwo Jima. With the island’s topside secured, all that was left to do was clear the tunnels of the few remaining holdouts. Patrols fanned out, scouring for points of ingress in the crags.
Every so often, his group would happen upon one of those holes, and a Jap would pop out. Instead of surrendering, he’d start running towards them, screaming and waving a sword, at which point they’d casually gun him down. It was like an oracular precursor to that scene in Raiders, where Indy shoots Turban Guy.
Afterwards, they’d go and check out the body. No ammo. These Pop-Tart Samurais of the Rising Sun weren’t exactly choosing to die some romantically absurd death. They were out of options. The only functional weapons they had left were their katanas.
The Blob ain’t dead, but it has been weakened. Drained. It’s down to its last ammunition, politically speaking, and running out of hidey holes.
Their Rule-by-Retard middle management strategy hasn’t helped. Gato’s postulate has taken its toll, as has decades of internal brain-drain via a couple generations of turnover, retirement, and -ahem- "retirement". If any “old, steady hands” remain from Bush Sr’s NWO heyday, they might already be experiencing the the early symptoms of Souphead Syndrome, if not fully converted into sorta-walking, sorta-talking Halloween decorations like Scranton Joe.
And even if their brain scans don’t resemble an abandoned Sunday Times crossword puzzle, they’ve had to adapt to all the same social viruses and techno-shocks as the rest of us. Smarter than the puppets? Sure, sure. More effectively evil? Perhaps. But they’re getting long in the tooth, and their newfangled Palantirs require constant IT support from Hadji down the hall.
Plus, what’s up with these orcs, lately?
How in Beelzebub’s name do you miss at 164 yards?
Why Walz?
Occam’s razor suggests they have no choice. They’re just shit out of options.
A Tim Walz-tier bobblehead doll isn’t what they wanted for Christmas. That’s just the lump of coal they got stuck with, all that remains at the bottom of that dessicated barrel. Everyone else refused to pick up the phone, or are too busy frantically googling “countries with no US extradition treaties.”
Many of the rats are already in the water. The ones still on the boat, meanwhile, are starting to lose whatever’s left of their minds.
Some are busily stabbing each other in the back, as their ratty nature compels them. My town’s own popinjay mayor and his minions are getting the Red Wedding treatment as we speak. Or Blue Wedding, I suppose, where everyone involved is a clone of Joffrey Baratheon. My theory is that they think a little intramural bloodshed will provide political cover for when Captain Kangaroo sentences Trump to ten million-billion years of hard labor.
But in any case, Mayor “100 Blacks in Law Enforcement” is getting the prison shiv, good and hard, and to the surprise of absolutely no one. It’s a New York tradition at this point, as regular as All Souls Day.
Meanwhile other rats are busy hurling all the deck chairs overboard, so they don’t have to be the last one seated when the music stops. And that music is gonna stop, kiddos. The musicians are chowing down cyanide capsules like M&Ms, having recalled their deedies at Diddy’s last “freak off” party in the Hamptons.
So who do you pick?
Who among these vermin will park his porcine derriere on one of those last few empty seats? Who would be stupid enough, deranged enough, corrupt enough, and compromised enough, to pick up that phone when it rings?
And when I say “compromised” I mean in its foulest, most more hideous form. The kind of blackmail material that guarantees your puppet will do and say literally anything to avoid exposure. The kind of horrific crime that haunts professions where adults have regular, unsupervised access to kids. Professions like teacher and coach, for example.
As
put it so eloquently in Winds of Destiny:1The Governor’s head was round and white every moment it wasn’t throbbing like a red blister. His middle section was as round and jovial as his head, and the folds of his ample gut guffawed in unison with the jubilant barks from his babyish mouth and self-applauding jowls. When he laughed, he gave the impression of being able to chew his own head like bubble gum: heaving and contracting in a mucussy-sweet goo.
He had been known as a “moderate” when he represented a rural district in the Federal Congress, but only chortled now when you confronted him over his often-fascistic voting record. He was a true Party Man: Resilient against Opposition propaganda, optimistic against untoward facts, proud and unconcerned with the doings of his subordinates, and avuncular with cultivated gibbering. Men would insult him to his face and he would laugh and clap, gobbling up the insult with his big open mouth. One of his opponents claimed he was wallowing like a pig in the mire of Federal handouts. At his next campaign event, his supporters had begun shouting, “Wallow, pig!” and he had chortled and sung. Some grammar experts on Public Radio said it was the first time in History “wallow” had been used in the imperative during a political event. I am the Happyman! he proclaimed with every gumless guffaw. One could cite crime statistics at him for hours and he would purr, or relay the murder of six immigrant children in a tenement house only to see him hold his head back cheerfully and vanquish the crime with a joyous snort. Hatred itself cowered before his mirth, good feelings, and the force of his love. He shook his head. Love wins, he said. One could hate him no more than one could hate a baby. Would you call a baby an embezzler? He dared you to ask. He was a brilliant politician.
Walz is the leftovers. A slurried dog’s breakfast of a man who knows nothing, thinks nothing, produces nothing, believes in nothing. He’s an exercise in self-parody, an animate pork barrel that gets restuffed full of regurgitated spam each election cycle.
He’s also the fat, clueless clown they squeeze out of the spider hole, to be popped like a pimple at the marksman’s leisure. When even the farthuffing imperial toadies of the Grey Jezebel agree to notice you lost a “debate” rigged harder than a Globetrotters-Generals game, you know that something’s gone horribly awry.
Or you would know, if you weren’t Tim Walz. If the image below didn’t so effortlessly capture the gestalt.
The game’s not hardly over. But the momentum is changing, and the Visitors are starting to get nervous. They are digging deep in the bench to dredge up these cretins. “They’re not sending their best,” as Trump would say. Take heart in that, if nothing else.
In fact, take heart regardless, whoever or whatever they decide to send in next.
We will win.
Thanks as usual for putting up with my shenanigans. On a more serious note, flood victims could use a hand, and the Feds are MIA. I have some thoughts about this situation, which I will release later in the week (one thing that’s been on my mind lately is that I wish I spent less time drawing pictures to help sell corporate garbage, and more time learning how to pilot helicopters).
In the meantime, a boots-on-the-ground Substacker who goes by the handle
has put together a list of charitable and rescue organizations you can donate to.
She is also providing updated information on her blog. Consider giving her a subscription and a follow.
May God bless her, and may God bless all of my mountain brothers and sisters. We will not abandon you.
The Cat Was Never Found is a reader-supported blog. I don’t publish much paywalled content, so your generous patronage is very much appreciated. As a reminder, a paid subscription will also grant you access to Deimos Station; the happiest place in cyberspace!
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 “Posts” section on the donation site, which includes some special paywalled Substack content. Thanks in advance.
Thanks, Mark. I found this encouraging and that's always a good thing. I lean toward they're just showing us they can put anyone they want in office and there's not a damn thing we can do about it. But of late it has begun to feel like we are winning. I really hope so.
The American franchise operators are running out of minor leaguers to call up. Now they're sending out a benchwarmer from the special olympics softball team as their closer. Definitely a promising sign!
(Also, thanks for the mention, although I think you give me more credit than I deserve!)